Three other people, two women and a man, stood a short distance away. One woman held a small black Chihuahua. Its loud bark grated on my ears.
I strode over to them, my boots pressing against the dry earth. “Which one of you is Dr. May?” I asked even though I already knew the answer.
A woman stepped forward to greet me. She was short, maybe a hair over five feet tall. Her body was wiry and dark-skinned. Her hair, black as tar, was tied back in a ponytail. She emitted a prickly, snobbish vibe and I was nearly certain she’d been the one to lob the grave robber insult.
“Call me Miranda,” she replied. “I’m leading this dig.”
“Cy Reed.” My heart raced as I shook her hand. “I’ve read your books on the Classic Maya Collapse.”
“Really?”
Despite my best efforts, she awed the hell out of me. I’d read her name hundreds of times over the last several years. She’d been interviewed on television and praised in newspapers. Countless media outlets had cited her work as gospel. She was famous, as close to a celebrity as one could find in the archaeological world.
“You make an excellent case for the mega-drought theory.”
A confident smile formed on her lips. “Thank you.”
My brain churned as I tried to think of an appropriate response. I wasn’t an expert. But I knew the Classic Maya society had sprung up around 200 AD. It quickly became one of the most advanced civilizations in the world, showing renowned expertise in architecture, sculpture, painting, pottery, and astronomy.
Sometime after 800 AD, the Classic Maya mysteriously vanished from the southern Maya lowlands, abandoning great cities in the process. Close to one hundred theories had been proposed to explain the Classic Maya Collapse, including war, revolts, and disease. But Miranda’s extensive work on the subject had convinced most people that human-induced climate change was the primary culprit.
Still, I didn’t want to just parrot her opinions. I wanted her to know I could think for myself. “I’m not convinced though,” I replied. “If mega-droughts caused the collapse, why didn’t the Mayas abandon their northern cities too?”
“Most of those cities were close to the coast and had access to seafood. So, they weren’t as dependent on agriculture as their southern counterparts.”
“I guess that makes sense. But the mega-drought theory is still hard to imagine. The southern lowlands get so much more rain than the northern ones.”
“That’s because you’re looking at it through modern lenses. The climate was very different back then.” She gave me a superior look. “It’s very simple. My work proves that one of the most severe droughts of all time plagued the southern lowlands for roughly two hundred years beginning around 800 AD. At the same time, the Mayas were cutting down the jungle to make room for buildings and crops. Deforestation meant less water was transferred back into the atmosphere. This exacerbated the drought and crop yields decreased. The Mayas tore down more trees to plant more crops. And a vicious cycle commenced.”
“Okay.” I held up my hands. “You win.”
“I don’t mean to come off as rude. But I take this subject seriously. There’s much that modern society needs to learn from the Mayas. Otherwise, we’ll repeat their mistakes.” She forced a smile. “Well, did you have any trouble getting here?”
“Our boat nearly capsized halfway down the Candelaria River.”
She cringed. “That’s too bad.”
I’d only spent a few minutes with her, but I’d already noticed something curious. Despite her reputation as an environmental guru, she seemed somehow out of place in the jungle.
“Well, we’re obviously the salvage experts.” I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. “That’s Beverly Ginger. The older gentleman—and I use that term loosely—is Dutch Graham.”
She nodded at each of us in turn. “I know you don’t do this type of work anymore. So, thank you for making an exception in our case.”
For the last couple of years, I’d worked as a treasure hunter and salvage expert. But four months ago, I’d quietly pulled myself out of the field.
“No problem,” I replied.
“Do you have anything you need me to sign?”
“Not unless we accept the job.”
“I thought you’d already accepted it.”
“You thought wrong.”
“But you came here. We paid your way.”
“And I appreciate that. But I’m not going to accept your job until I see it with my own eyes.”
“I guess I can understand that.” She put her hands on her hips. “Well, what do you need from me?”
“Do you have your INAH paperwork?”
All excavations on Mexican soil required permission from the INAH, or the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. Most archaeologists praised the organization for protecting Mexico’s many unexcavated ruins. But having run afoul of it in the past, I saw things a little differently.
The INAH provided a favored group of people—professional archaeologists—with a monopoly on dig sites. Everyone else was left out in the cold. Even landowners weren’t allowed to excavate their own properties.
But while I didn’t care for the INAH, I wasn’t about to cross it. The punishment for doing so was steep, up to twelve years in prison.
“Yes,” she said. “Everything is in order.”
“Good.” I nodded at her two comrades. “Who are they?”
“Rigoberta Canul and Jacinto Pacho. They’ve worked with me for years. If this site bears fruit, they’ll be responsible for the actual excavation.”
Miranda was the archaeological equivalent of Alexander Dumas. Dumas had employed a team of assistants to help write most of his works. In fact, The Count of Monte Cristo, one of his most famous creations, was actually the brainchild of Auguste Maquet.
Like Dumas, Miranda employed assistants. They managed her various excavations throughout Central America. When she wasn’t writing books or giving interviews, she traveled back and forth between her excavations, providing management and oversight.
I turned toward Rigoberta. She was well nourished, but not fat. Her smooth complexion gave her a youthful appearance, but her demeanor and slow reflexes suggested an older age.
I shook her hand. “And who is this?” I asked with a nod at the tiny Chihuahua cradled in her arms.
“Yohl Ik’nal,” she replied happily. “She’s named after the first known female ruler in Maya history.”
Pacho was much younger, probably in his late twenties. Thick glasses obscured his hazel eyes. His face was etched in a permanent scowl.
He shook my hand with a firm grip. “That’s not the only dog around here.”
I followed his gaze to a large tree. An old American foxhound napped beneath it. His coat was a fine mixture of black, white, and bronze. “What’s his name?” I asked.
“Alonzo.”
“He looks tired.”
“Nah. He’s just lazy.”
A few voices drifted into my ears. My gaze shifted to three people standing about twenty feet away from Alonzo. One man stared into the jungle. Meanwhile, the second man and a woman argued loudly. “Who’s the loner?” I asked.
“Carlos Tum,” Miranda said. “He’s sort of an archaeologist.”
“Sort of?”
“He doesn’t have a degree. But he knows this jungle and its ruins better than anyone. We actually grew up together. I left to pursue archaeology. He stayed behind in order to master the family business.”
“What kind of business?”
“Shamanism.”
My eyes widened.
“Do they always fight like that?”
“Pretty much.”
I studied the clearing. A single dome-shaped tent with multiple openings occupied one end of it. It housed a long table as well as two racks of shovels, trowels, and other tools. A large yello
w tractor was parked nearby.
“So, when did the flooding start?” I asked.
“Eighteen hours ago. The tomb has held up so far, but I don’t think it’ll last much longer.”
“Show me.”
She walked to the dig site. It had been sectioned off into a neat grid. A single layer of topsoil had been stripped from the earth and placed into metal buckets. Those buckets now sat under the dome tent, waiting to be sifted.
Miranda was one of the most celebrated archaeologists in the world. But since she split her time between multiple dig sites, I’d wondered about the quality of her work. I was pleased to see the site was in excellent shape and the excavation appeared to be proceeding in an efficient manner.
She stopped next to a large breach in the ground. A thick slab of weathered rock, ten feet square, rested just outside the site. “It’s a tomb,” she said. “Based on some of the markings we’ve uncovered as well as the initial stratigraphy tests—”
I held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not here for a lecture. I’m here to see if I can help you. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“But—”
“Just tell me about the layout.”
Miranda sighed, clearly frustrated. She was used to dealing with careful, methodical people. People who took weeks to make decisions, months to act on them. That wasn’t me.
Not in the least bit.
“We used ground penetrating radar to map the subsurface,” she said after a moment. “This shaft goes down about twenty feet. The ruins of a stone staircase occupy one side of it. At the bottom, a tunnel branches off to the east. It leads to a large chamber.”
“What’s inside the chamber?”
She hesitated.
“I need to know what’s at risk.”
“The tomb is of Maya origin. But its exact contents are a mystery.”
I nodded. “Tell me about the cave-in.”
She pointed at the slab. “Until eighteen hours ago, that rock covered the shaft. We thought it was just a normal part of the tomb.”
“What happened when you removed it?”
“Stale air rushed out of the interior. We heard gushing sounds. Then water appeared and flooded everything. So, we lowered Pacho on a rope to check it out. He reported a collapsed wall inside the tunnel.” Miranda stared into the shaft. “We’ve done our best to monitor the situation since then. Based on the rate of deterioration, I figure we’ve only got a few more hours before the whole thing collapses.”
I glanced into the shaft. Water shimmered and flashed in the blazing sunlight. I was tempted to dive in, anything to relieve the heat. “Why us?”
“Who else was I going to call?” She shrugged helplessly. “We’re not trained for this type of work. And our civil servants are inept. Not to mention poorly equipped and greedy. Even if they got here in time, they’d either destroy the tomb or loot it.”
I arched an eyebrow.
“Anyway the fewer people who know about this site, the better. This part of Mexico is mired in poverty. Thieves are a major risk.”
“I understand why you didn’t want to hire anyone else,” I said. “But why call us?”
“Dominga Hoil recommended you.”
I winced.
“She said you were a treasure hunter. But a good treasure hunter. A man who could recover anything from anywhere under any conditions.”
“Did she tell you what happened?”
“Four months ago, she was excavating a small cave in the Maya Mountains,” Miranda replied. “A minor earthquake struck the region, causing a partial collapse of her dig site. She said you managed to save some fine examples of Preclassic Maya pottery.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean. Those deaths weren’t your fault.”
“Agreed. But they still happened.”
“Dominga told me you saved her life and her dig. Votan would’ve killed her and everyone else if you hadn’t stopped him.”
Votan was the moniker adopted by a ruthless treasure hunter. For the last six years, he’d ambushed remote archaeological digs throughout Central America, stripping them of valuable artifacts. Other than his name etched on rock, he left nothing behind.
Including survivors.
Until four months ago, just one individual had managed to flee his wrath. That person had reported extensive details to the media. So, when the black helicopter had opened fire on Dominga’s dig site, we’d known it was Votan. Before we could react, he’d slaughtered two of her workers. We’d fought back, gunning down several of his men. Eventually, Votan had chosen to retreat.
Miranda gave me a hopeful look. “Will you help me?”
I glanced into the shaft again. After receiving her initial call, I’d thought about turning her down. For all intents and purposes, I’d retired from treasure hunting and salvage work.
And yet, here I was.
“Yeah,” I said after a moment. “We’ll take the job.”
*****
To read the rest of this Cy Reed adventure, purchase a copy of Torrent today!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Meyer is an adventurer and international bestselling author. His books take readers across the globe, from New York’s lost subway tunnels to forgotten laboratories buried deep beneath Antarctica’s frozen tundra. To find out more about David, his adventures, and his creative universes, please visit David Meyer Creations.
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Works by David Meyer
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Table of Contents
Vapor
Vapor Copyright © 2015 by David MeyerGuerrilla Explorer Publishing
DedicationTo H.J.J.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
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Read on for an excerpt from Torrent by David Meyer …Chapter 1
About the Author