Havana Storm Read online

  Summer sat stoically, anger showing only in the creases of her eyelids. As the lake vanished in a swirl of dust behind them, she could only pray silently for her brother’s safety.

  18

  It was a small clay bowl that saved Dirk’s life.

  He had left the float bag in place while he swam into the cave to retrieve Summer’s underwater camera. He found it next to the fire pit. As he reached to grab it, his hand dipped into the silt and brushed something smooth and round. Finding a grip, he pulled free a small pottery bowl with the faint image of a snake carved on the bottom.

  Slipping the bowl into a pocket on his BC, he probed for more artifacts. He felt nothing but ooze. As a grinding rumble sounded overhead, he glanced toward the cave entrance in time to see its blue glow turn dark. Seconds later, he was enveloped in a cloud of murky water.

  Dirk swam blindly to the entrance, feeling his way along the cave floor until colliding with a large rock that blocked his way. As the sediment began to settle, he saw a gap of light to one side. He moved to the opening as a second rumble sounded above him. He considered darting out but hesitated when he heard a large splash. Shining his light through the opening, he saw a cascade of rocks tumble onto the ledge before a new cloud of sediment snuffed out his view.

  Dirk could feel the vibration through the rocks as they piled up. It was several seconds before the slide subsided. The rocks from the ridge had knocked loose a large subsurface outcropping, which dumped even more tons of debris onto the ledge. Buried under the avalanche, the cave’s tiny entrance was completely sealed.

  Dirk backed away from the entrance and examined his air pressure gauge. The needle hovered just above the red low-air warning marker. He had five, maybe ten minutes of air left.

  Trapped in an underwater cave with little air, it would have been a perfect time to panic. But Dirk suppressed any such fears and took a calm breath of air, assessing the situation.

  His initial urge was to attack the rock pile and try to dig free. Perhaps Summer was already preparing to dig on the other side. But logic told him he would never make it. The thundering avalanche had dropped so much rock, he would exhaust his air supply long before tunneling out.

  If that was his only option, so be it. Then he looked up. The cave ceiling rose in twin fissures that angled up nearly twenty feet. He decided to take a quick look.

  Gripping his flashlight, he kicked upward, following the first fissure until it converged in a narrow, jagged point. He backtracked and swam up the second fissure, finding a similar cathedral peak. The walls and fissure appeared to be solid rock. He turned and descended, almost missing it. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught a tiny speck of light.

  Swimming closer, he found its source, a small pinhole in the rock wall leading to the lake. He pulled out a Randall dive knife strapped to his thigh and poked the tip into the hole. The light expanded as a small chunk of rock flaked away. Dirk began jamming the knife into the hole, gradually increasing its diameter to the size of a softball.

  It was a way out, he knew, but he faced the same dilemma. Could he excavate a large enough hole before his air ran out? He had already used three minutes’ worth. With limited time, the knife alone wouldn’t do the job. He’d need more leverage.

  He swam down to the cave floor, approached the ore pile, and searched for a stone he could use as a hammer. He spotted one with a blunt side and plucked it from the pile. Beneath it was a green rock with a near-perfect wedge shape. Intrigued by the shape, he picked it up, then realized that it wasn’t a rock. It was too heavy for its size and had a perfectly round hole in its underside.

  Dirk held it close to his mask and recognized it as an oxidized copper ax head used to chip ore from the cave walls. The Aztec had been skilled stone carvers, he recalled, crafting statues and temples from the local basalt. Neighboring Mixtec craftsmen in Oaxaca, advanced in the skill of metallurgy, would have traded copper-based tools with the Aztecs. Though the wood handle had disintegrated, the copper head of the ancient ax was still solid.

  He quickly swam back to the fissure and put both objects to work. Placing the business end of the ax head next to the opening, he struck the blunt side with the round stone. Muffled by the water, the impact registered as a loud click. Dirk struck it again and a chunk of rock broke away from the opening. The ancient Mixtec metallurgists had mixed tin with the copper when they forged the ax, producing a hard bronze-like metal that was surprisingly effective at cutting stone.

  Feeling resistance from the air drawn through his regulator, he began pounding madly at the copper chisel. He didn’t have to check his pressure gauge to know he was drawing on his final air reserves. Striking hard caused the rock wall to stubbornly break away in fist-sized pieces. Pulling the loose rock away revealed a hole that was a foot in diameter.

  Dirk took a breath and nothing came through the regulator. His tank was completely dry.

  Without hesitating, he pounded the chisel as hard as he could. More fragments fell away, but the opening was still too small. His lungs tightened as a pounding in his head mimicked his banging on the rock. Through the vibrating ax head, he could feel a slight give in the rock wall. But the small, ancient ax felt like a ball-peen hammer tapping against the Hoover Dam.

  He dismissed the fear of drowning, slipped off his BC, and removed the steel air tank. Grasping it by the neck, he smashed the bottom against the rock. The wall vibrated but nothing more. He smashed it again. And again. The tank collided with a clatter as Dirk released what little air he had left in his lungs. With a desperate plunge, he tried once more, summoning every ounce of strength.

  This time, a small crack appeared—then suddenly a three-foot chunk of wall fell away.

  Almost too shocked to react, Dirk let go of the tank and kicked through the hole. The surface was only ten feet away. He stroked upward and broke into the blinding sunlight with a rush, gasping and sucking at the fresh air. He floated in the water for nearly a minute before the oxygen was replenished in his blood and his breathing eased. Trying to relax, he stared at an empty sky, ignoring something in the water that brushed at his side. When his breathing slowed, he turned to see what was nudging him.

  It was the body of Dr. Torres.

  19

  Dirk reacted quickly, swimming to a small rock outcropping and towing Torres’s body behind him. Once on land, he noted the three bullet wounds in the professor’s chest.

  Dirk looked up toward the van and shouted Summer’s name. There was no reply. Then he saw a small cloud of dust wafting over the ridge. He ditched his mask and fins, fumbled through Torres’s pockets for the keys, and sprinted up the hill. He saw the frayed rope tied to the vehicle and knew someone had come for the stone. Glancing with fear at the water below, he saw no sign of Summer’s body. She must have been abducted.

  Disregarding its four flat tires, Dirk started the van, turned it around, and mashed on the gas. The van lurched ahead, its flattened tires thumping against the wheel wells. Despite the uneven traction, Dirk coaxed the vehicle to the top of the ridgeline. Far below, he spotted a white Jeep driving north on the old dirt road.

  He fought the urge to turn down the ridge and follow the Jeep. It would be impossible to catch it in the van’s disabled state. He’d already lost one of its shredded tires. Assuming the van reached the road, the many patches of soft sand would surely snare it for good.

  From his review of the topo map, Dirk knew the road wound around several hills along the base of Lomo del Torro before curving west and leading across the Zimapán Dam. The dam spanned a narrow gorge at the ridge’s far end. If he could coax the van along the top of the ridgeline, he would cut off a mile or two and possibly catch the Jeep before it crossed the dam.

  He punched the accelerator and rumbled across the ridge’s rounded peak. One by one, the remaining tires shredded off. The steel wheels let out a grinding wail, and every bump and dip rattled throug
h the chassis. Dirk felt like he was riding a jackhammer. In the side mirrors, he could see a trail of sparks erupt whenever the wheels scraped over solid rock.

  The ridgeline gradually narrowed, forcing Dirk onto a side ledge that held level for a short distance. The ledge narrowed, then vanished altogether in a jumble of small boulders. Dirk swerved up the slope but struck a patch of soft sand. Feeling the rear wheels start to bog down, he had no choice but to turn downhill to maintain momentum. Narrowly missing one boulder, he slid into a tight ravine. The van heeled to its side, nearly toppling over before an opposing rut rocked it back upright. The van thumped over some smaller rocks, then again found even ground.

  Dirk feathered the throttle as the ridge began to taper. Ahead and below him, he could discern the narrow Zimapán Dam. He drove hard down the increasingly steep slope, then slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel. The bent and pitted wheels skidded, digging ruts through the hard-packed surface before the van rocked to a halt. Dirk climbed out and peeked past the hood.

  Just three feet in front of the van, the ridgeline dropped away in a sheer cliff. A hundred feet below was the dam’s western approach. An aged asphalt road ran across the top of the concrete structure, curving up another ridge on the opposite side. It was easy to see why the dam had been built here. The steep, narrow gorge was easily obstructed.

  The thought was of little consequence as his eyes followed the road to the east. The white Jeep was just seconds away.

  20

  Summer sat still in the backseat, but behind her back her hands worked furiously. The rope around her wrists was still damp from immersion in the lake. The moisture lubricated her wrists while making the rope more tensile. With every bounce of the Jeep, she flexed and pulled, stretching the binding a millimeter at a time.

  Already growing tired of guarding her, Summer’s backseat captor reached over and locked her door and then holstered his gun. Nevertheless, he stared at her with suspicion, or perhaps it was attraction. She countered with a verbal bombardment of questions. From the obvious—“Where are you taking me?”—to the frivolous—“Where did you buy that scarf?”—she harangued the guard. Each query was met with stony silence. The chattering worked as he ultimately turned his head away from her and stared out the window.

  Summer eased back the commentary. No point pushing her luck. The gunmen hadn’t hesitated to kill Torres and easily could do the same to her. She was encouraged that the three thieves still kept their faces masked despite the heat. If she could stay calm until they reached a town, maybe she could leap from the car and find refuge. But first she’d have to work free of the rope binding.

  Her wishes came true sooner than she hoped. The road gradually improved until the Jeep’s tires met pavement. They’d arrived at the dam, where the road narrowed as it wound across the top of the structure. The driver sped up, then suddenly cursed and stood on the brakes.

  As the Jeep shuddered across the pavement, all four occupants shot forward. The hard braking worked in Summer’s favor. Her left hand slipped loose, and as she fell back into her seat, she quickly worked the rope off both wrists. She hadn’t seen the reason for the sudden stop. As she peered out the side window, she gaped in horror.

  The green university van had shot off the side of the cliff directly overhead and was descending toward them like a Tomahawk missile. The van arced past the Jeep, striking the edge of the road ten feet ahead, where it smashed nose-first before tumbling hard onto its roof. The compressed vehicle slid another dozen feet before coming to a rest—blocking the roadway—amid a pool of leaking engine fluids.

  The Jeep was still skidding when Summer unlocked her door and flung herself out. She hit the pavement running and sprinted to the van, shouting her brother’s name. As she approached the flattened vehicle, her stomach clenched in a knot. Nobody inside could have survived the impact.

  She approached the inverted driver’s-side window and crouched to peer inside. There was no one to be seen. The knot in her stomach instantly released.

  She had no time to react as she felt the van move. The Jeep had pulled up and the driver was attempting to nudge the wreck aside. Summer stood as the van slid a few inches past her only to find her backseat companion approaching with his gun drawn.

  She meekly raised her hands while scanning for signs of Dirk. The sun was in her eyes, but the cliff looked too steep for someone to descend. Seeing no movement on the road they had taken, she glanced in the opposite direction.

  They were positioned atop the dam, the reservoir’s blue waters lapping at its concrete face twenty feet below her. Oddly, the terrain on the other side of the high, narrow dam appeared completely dry. There was no powerhouse or any sign of water releases into the steep, tight gorge called El Infiernillo Cañones.

  Summer looked back at the guard. With an angered expression, he motioned for her to return to the Jeep. She nodded and took a half step forward when an impulse for survival kicked in. It may not have been her best chance at escape, and perhaps it was no chance at all, but she went for it all the same. With a quick sidestep, she lunged to the guardrail and leaped. The guard reacted instantly. Reluctant to fire his weapon after his earlier tongue-lashing, he grabbed at her with his free hand, just snaring the cuff of her pants. Caught off balance, he was pulled to the rail. He refused to let go of her but couldn’t halt her momentum with his faint grip. As his legs clipped the rail, he plunged over the side.

  They tumbled and hit the water together with a loud splash. Summer tried to swim deep, kicking away from the guard. But he maintained his grip on her leg while using his other hand to swing the butt of his pistol at her. She felt like she was in an underwater wrestling match. Figuring that she was the better swimmer, she stroked deeper while kicking to break free of his grasp.

  Her hand slapped against the dam and she felt the concrete surface skim across her fingers. The movement was faster than she expected. They were being pulled by a strong underwater current. As the water rapidly darkened, she realized they were being drawn down toward the base of the dam.

  A new worry filled her senses. What was causing the undertow? There was no powerhouse or external water flow out the back side of the dam. Absent a spillway, there should have been nothing dangerous about diving down the dam’s interior face.

  The fear of drowning overtook her fear of the guard. She relaxed in his grip and then aligned with his efforts to kick to the surface. But the water turned darker, and an increasing pressure in her ears told her they were being drawn deeper into the lake.

  Through the murky water, Summer detected a circular opening, about fifteen feet in diameter, that was sucking them toward it. She realized it was a spillway, cut through the base of the dam. The Zimapán Dam had in fact been built to generate hydroelectric power, only its generating station was located at the end of a tunnel some thirteen miles downstream.

  The spillway inlet had a grate to keep out large debris, but years of neglect had left it mangled. Nearly half of the grate had been battered inward, allowing an unfettered flow of water.

  Summer and the guard saw what was coming and fought to swim clear. But the suction grew stronger, pulling them faster to the opening. Abandoning her instincts, Summer did the unthinkable. She swam toward the inlet.

  The guard glanced at her in disbelief, panic filling his eyes as he fought the relentless pull. Too late, he realized Summer had made the smart move. Swimming hard with the flow, she angled across the current just enough to reach the intact section of grating. She snared a metal crossmember and yanked her body toward it.

  She slammed against the grate, nearly knocking the last breath from her lungs. The water pressure pinned her alongside some logs, a tire, and other debris. She turned her head as the guard came hurtling past. His scarf and sunglasses had long since been ripped away, and Summer saw the stark terror in his eyes as he failed to break free of the suction. In an instant he was gone, sucked down t
he black hole where the swirling waters drowned his final screams.

  At least someone will be able to recover my body, Summer thought as a yearning for air overpowered her senses.

  Clinging to the grate in final desperation, she wondered what was happening atop the dam and if her brother was still alive.

  21

  Dirk was very much alive, despite a pounding heart and aching lungs. More by luck than ballistic trajectory, he had launched the van off the bluff and onto the path of the fleeing Jeep, aided by a rock on the accelerator and a rope holding the steering wheel. He didn’t wait for the dust to settle before sprinting downhill in pursuit.

  He had to backtrack a hundred yards to find a path to the road below. The gradient would have been precarious for someone in hiking boots but was borderline suicidal for someone at a full run wearing water shoes. Several times Dirk lost his footing, tumbling and sliding down the loose terrain. Only his wetsuit protected him from serious injury.

  During his descent, he could not see the dam and could only hope the Jeep would still be there. Not that he had a plan of any sort. Weaponless against armed men, he had little hope of stopping them. But he had to find out if Summer was with the men—and still alive.

  As he neared the bottom of the cliff, he caught sight of the dam and nearly froze. Summer was standing near the crumpled van. Suddenly she leaped into the lake with a gunman in tow. Distracted by the sight, Dirk lost his footing and fell hard down the hillside.

  The tumble cost him valuable seconds. By the time he regained his footing, the Jeep had squeezed past the overturned van. The driver stopped and peered into the water. He stared a moment, then shook his head. Seconds later, the tires spun and the Jeep shot across the dam, its rear end weighed down by the stolen artifact.

  Finally reaching the road, Dirk raced to the dam. Blocked by the battered van, the Jeep’s driver never noticed him in his mirror as he drove up the hill. At the smashed vehicle, Dirk peered into the water. Calm and flat, it gave no indication of the human turmoil below.