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A Killmaster Spy Chiller
EARTH SHAKER
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ARTH SHAKER
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PROLOGUE
In the gray early dawn, Mexico City began stirring.
The slumbering giant stretched out its invisible arms,
getting the circulation flowing once again along the
mighty thoroughfares that comprised its arteries. Taxi
drivers began racing at breakneck speeds along the
Paseo de la Reforma, hunting for their first fares of the
day. Merchants began pulling back iron grates from
storefronts. Dogs barked. Chickens squawked and
clawed nervously. Pigeons took wing, leaving behind the
awakening, unsuspecting city.
The shock wave approached Mexico City at seven
thousand miles an hour. The ground swelled pre-
cipitously. The bowels of the planet belched. Seconds
later, the earthquake struck.
Mexico City sits in the middle of a giant lake, a
swamp, on uneasy, spongy ground. The earthquake
opened like a mighty hand beneath the city, then closed
and squeezed, and shook for what seemed like forever.
Tall buildings began swaying with an eerie limberness,
defying the breaking strengths of steel and glass. The
streets buckled, opened to gaping pits, swallowed
screaming men and women, children and dogs, cars and
entire dwellings. Sulfurous fumes bellowed upward as
the vibration of the ground toppled people like tenpins.
Church bells rang, but not in the sonorous tones the
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populace of Mexico City had become accustomed to
over long years. The bells clanged wildly, without hu-
man hands pulling their ropes, without human ap-
proval.
In the midst of the destruction, death, and noisy con-
fusion, came a small band of men on foot. They stum-
bled and fell as a sharp, potent aftershock hit, but they
recovered quickly and confidently. Out of all the people
in the huge city, they alone knew what to expect. They
made their way toward the Paseo de la Reforma and the
myriad stores along its three-mile length. One of the
masked men slipped into the Banco Nacional to emerge
a few minutes later dragging a ponderous, peso-laden
bag. The alarm systems throughout the city had gone
berserk. The guards inside the bank were disorganized
and in a panic from the earthquake. Robbing the bank
vault had been a simple matter. Others moved swiftly to
jewelry stores. The finest gems vanished into velvet-lined
bags.
Two of the masked men threaded their way through
the debris of burning cars, broken water mains, and rup-
tured gas lines to the Museo de Mexico. The vast halls
of the museum were deserted at this early hour, and
signs of the earthquake's devastation were evident in ev-
ery direction.
Glass cases had shattered, spewing out vitreous
shards onto the floor. Displays had toppled. Priceless
paintings had fallen from the walls. The thieves ignored
loot worth millions of dollars—mere money was for oth-
ers to gather up. They had a mission. They ran on silent
feet to the room containing the pre-Columbian art ex-
hibits. Ugly, squat stone statues were quickly placed on
a large blanket spread on the floor. Mayan jade knives
slipped into knapsacks slung on broad, strong backs.
Sure hands dropped the rarest of the pre-Colombian
treasures onto the pile.
A quick nod, a fleeting smile, then both men tugged at
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the edges of the blanket, pulling their crude sled of price-
less Mayan art behind them.
"Hola!" came a distant cry. "Qué pasa acqui? Who's
"A guard," muttered one of the men. The other drew
a long-barreled pistol. The first gave a curt nod.
As the museum guard thrashed through the debris un-
derfoot, the barrel of the thief's weapon rose, leveled,
centered. A finger squeezed on a hair-trigger. The small
'caliber gun coughed. The guard screamed once and
died. The two looters vanished long before the last
echoes of the guard's death cries had faded to stillness.
Mexico City moaned and stirred painfully under the
destruction wrought by the earthquake. Compared to its
damage, the thieves seemed to have taken little from the
city.
The pigeons in St. Peter's Square stirred nervously,
then fell silent. As if a telepathic communication passed
between each feathered creature, they gave out a unani-
mous soul-shaking squawk and flapped aloft. Dogs
roaming the alleys of Rome started barking for no ap-
parent reason. The Italians, noisily attending to their
business, stopped along the bustling streets, perplexed.
An electric tension mounted. An inexplicable feeling of
uneasiness demanded their full attention.
The earth beneath their feet shuddered, as if shrug-
ging off a heavy load. Then the earthquake hit with full
force.
In spite of shock waves shaking the city like a terrier
shakes a captured rat, a small group of masked men
made their way toward the Vatican. They passed within
feet of a police car containing four officers. The poliziot-
to behind the wheel of the Fiat turned and stared at the
men, his eyes glazed and unseeing. It was as if he refused
to see the destruction wrought on his city, the Eternal
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City, the city of the Seven Hills. The leader of the clan-
destine band moved quickly down an alley, away from
the policemen. He dared not assume their shock would
be permanent. They were very close to their goal, and if
he and his men failed their Ab Puch, their Lord of
Death, his wrath would be unquenchable. No mere po-
liceman could stand between them and their mission.
The man shivered at the idea of offending Ab Puch. His
hand unconsciously rose to his chest to feel his throb-
bing heart hidden beneath coppery flesh and a black
wool sweater.
' 'Con quidado! With care now," he hissed to his men.
"The explosive goes here. " His finger stabbed out to in-
dicate a chalk mark on the wall, a mark placed there
almost a month ago.
Ab Puch's planning was meticulous.
The shaped charges were molded against the wall and
electrical detonator lines were connected to them. A
small whumph! barely louder than the sound of a clos-
ing door, and the brick wall vanished, In the confusion
caused by the earthquake, the sound and minor destruc-
tion went unnoticed by the people thronging the streets
just a few feet away.
The leader gestured his men forward. They entered
the Vatican archives, ignoring the ruin brought to entire
shelves of priceless tomes gathered throughout the long
history of the Church. The last man in hesitated, crossed
himself with a shaking hand, then heaved a deep, steady-
ing sigh. Ab Puch would rip his heart out for that
momentary lapse back to an ingrained childhood re-
ligious gesture; now he must prove himself even more
worthy because of that momentary lapse. He raced after
the others, kicking fallen books out of his way.
Their leader stopped, oriented himself in the maze of
the vast library, then unerringly headed for the stairs
leading to the subterranean room containing the wealth
of knowledge painstakingly accumulated in the New
World. The man boldly walked in, Its floorplan was
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EARTH SHAKER
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identical to the one fanatically etched into his mind. He
ran to a case containing accounts of the Roman Catho-
lic Church in the New World—records of Bishoö Diego
de Landa, the Spanish Inquisition, the New World, the
'Mayas.
"These, " he hissed, pointing to yellowed, brittle docu-
-ments. "Even ones by Christopher Columbus. Take
.them all. All!" His voice rose to a shrill scream. One
thief crossed himself again, then hurriedly stowed away
-the fragile documents into specially-prepared carrying
cases.
Ab Puch thought of everything.
Ab Puch knew everything.
They vanished from the catacombs of the Vatican and
hreaded their way through earthquake-wracked Rome,
ready for their triumphant journey home to the
Yucatan.
The earthquake struck Madrid shortly after noon.
News of the earthquakes in Mexico City and Rome had
featured prominently that morning on the Spanish state-
controlled radio. Deep sympathy was extended to those
unfortunate countries enduring such misery and death.
The Museum of Archeology and History was filled
with turistas when the devastation occurred. The only
warning was the baleful ringing of distant church bells,
bells rung with no human guidance. The museum's staff
panicked as cases, displays, and entire walls collapsed.
But they quickly recovered. They knew their duty and
they performed it well. Aiding fallen tourists, helping
the injured, and hurrying out those still ambulant were
the priorities. No one could predict if a second earth-
quake would strike; if it did, the entire vault of the
museum's massive entranceway might cave in. Dozens
of lives could be lost. Safety lay outside.in the open,
away from the massive stone columns and vaulted
arches inside.
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"Hurry, please, hurry out. This door," ordered the
captain of the museum guard. He had retired from the
Guardia Civil and was accustomed to giving orders and
being obeyed, The steel edge in his voice added an extra
urgency to the staggering flight of dazed tourists stum-
bling from the ruined interior of the museum.
The building was deserted except for three men
dressed in black sweaters. They watched in silence, wait-
ing, biding their time. They had not anticipated any of
the museum staff being so fully in control of the situ-
ation this early. Ab Puch would not be pleased.
"Out, you three, get out of here. Do you wish to be
caught if there is a second quake?" cried the guard cap-
tain.
"There will be no second quake," said their leader.
"There will be only the one. "
"What? Madre de Dios, a fool!" cried the guard. "Are
you granted audience with all the saints that you are so
sure? Out!"
"Ab Puch has caused only the one earthquake this
time."
The guard captain stood, staring. In spite of his take-
charge demeanor, he too was dazed and shaken. It took
long seconds for him to realize that these men were
masked—and there was something about the shapes of
their heads beneath the ski masks that seemed peculiar.
"Is the Codex Tro-Cortesianus still in the room at the
end of that hallway?" The masked leaderpointed behind
the guard to a corridor now filled with dust and debris.
"What?" the confused guard captain asked. He felt he
should respond in some more positive fashion. These
men asked questions; they did not obey his commands
as the turistas did. And the questions were so odd!
"The book containing the history of our astrology,
fool!" hissed the masked man on the left. Then the
guard's fugue state of shock and confusion broke. He
reached for the Llama pistol holstered at his side. The
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usual tourist didn't wear a ski mask. Not on a day like
this. Not after an earthquake.
Three sharp reports barked, echoed, died. The guard's
face became a mask of confusion and pain as he
straightened, then collapsed into a lifeless heap on the
floor.
"The Codex. We must hurry or Ab Puch will be angry
Mith us."
The three men dashed down the plaster-littered cor-
ridor, found the ancient Mayan text, and took ite With
the Dresden Codex, already stolen, they would relearn
the astronomy of their ancestors and become greater for
it.
Ab Puch, their Lord of Death, assured them of this.
Paris, the City of Lights, the city of arbor. In time-
honored tradition, lovers strolled along the banks of the
Seine, lost in one another's rapturous gaze. News of the
earthquakes in Mexico City, Rome, and Madrid hardly
seemed to matter. More important concerns occupied
the Parisians' time.
Amoun The life-long pursuit of all true Frenchmen.
That was most important—not dreary news of death
and misfortune in other parts orthe world.
The earthquake struck Paris at rush hour.
A solitary man sat on a park bench outside the
Bibliotheque Nationale du Paris, his arms wrapped
around the metal supports as the tremor built, shook the
city, then died. He checked the intricate watch on his
thick wrist, stood, brushed lank black hair back up the
peculiar slope of his forehead, glanced up and down the
avenue, then sedately walked up the broad white marble
steps of the library.
A young, pale , shaking woman moaned just inside the
two-story oak doors leading into the library. Blood
streamed down her face, blinding her. A portion of the
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plaster on the wall had sliced through her forehead, giv-
ing her a bloody but minor cut. The slope-headed man
stopped when he saw her and stood there contemplating
his next move. He checked his watch and decided he had
time. Then he knelt beside her.
"Senorita, may I be of assistance?" He pulled her
hand away so that he could better examine her wound.
When she looked up into his crossed eyes, she shrieked
as if possessed by a demon. The woman kicked out fran-
tically, wriggled through the glass and debris on the
floor, got to her feet, and bolted out the door, running
for her life. The man stood, smiled crookedly, and
turned back to the matter at hand. He had been wrong,
wasting this precious time.
He lifted his chin, closed his crossed eyes and turned
slowly as if scenting the wind for spoor.
"Yes, the Codex Peresianus is nearby. I feel it. I defi-
nitely feel it."
He stumbled once on a wood beam that had been torn
out of the wall by the force of the earthquake. He
blinked rapidly, his crossed eyes seeing the obstruction
for the first time. He was so intent on his goal that he'd
failed to see the beam. Then his strange eyes focused on
a shattered case at the end of the room.
The Codex.
He brushed away the glass with a tender motion, as if
he were stroking the head of a small child. He gazed
down at the cartouches—uniquely Mayan in origin. The
crabbed circles and dots rolling across the fragile yel-
lowed pages of the book held his imagination. He found
himself slowly and assuredly deciphering the cryptic
writing.
"So lovely, so lovely. And undamaged. Again my cal-
culations have proven to be exact. And the precious
Codex is now complete!" ,
A small bag appeared as if by magic from a pocket.
The Mayan book of deities and religious ceremonies
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slipped inside and vanished. To go to such effort only to
damage the book now would be unthinkable. After
meticulously storing the book and placing it in an in-
terior jacket pocket, he intimately studied the huge,
complex watch on his wrist. Dials moved; hands jerked
in precise second-counts; immense amounts of time data
assaulted him. Time worked against him. He must
hurry. He turned to leave.
"Halt, thief!" cried the policeman, his gun drawn and
leveled. The woman with the cut on her forehead stood
timidly behind the uniformed minion of the law. She
pointed around his shoulder and muttered something in
the policeman's ear. He nodded briskly.
"I believe you have a mistaken impression of what is
occurring," said the slope-headed, cross-eyed man. His
voice was level„ soft, mellifluous.
"I am no common
thief. I steal nothing. "
"l saw him put something into a bag!" the young
woman •cried. "He stole something from this very
"I stole nothing," he repeated. "Rather, I have re-
gained property of mine that was stolen in 1562."
Without seeming to hurry, he reached beneath his
jacket and pulled out the black silk bag containing the
Codex. The woman calmed down at the sight. The po-
liceman relaxed, the bore of his pistol drifting slightly
off target.
Ab Puch fired the small caliber gun he held hidden
under the silk bag, His bullet entered the policeman's
heart and killed him instantly. The woman took a half
step forward. Then her head snapped back forcefully, a
new wound appearing between her eyes.
"A pity to kill one so lovely," he said, peering down
at her fallen form. He dropped to one knee, his hand
reaching out for the neckline of her tattered and dirty
blouse. A savage jerk ripped the cloth and exposed her
chest. His hand cupped her left breast, then tightened.
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No telltale heartbeat reached his sensitive fingers. "A
true waste. The gods would have been pleased to accept
your heart in sacrifice. Such a waste," he muttered as he
turned and walked off, never looking back at the cooling
bodies.
The Lord of Death had a tight timetable to meet. He
must hurry.
"The sea bottom is more than twenty-four hundred
fathoms down at this point, sir," the captain of the navy
destroyer told his small, heavy-set civilian companion.
The stout man leaned heavily against the railing on the
bridge and shifted the end of a well-chewed cigar from
one side of his mouth to the other.
"What do the seismic readings tell you?" the civilian
finally asked. He spat out the cigar butt. It made a wet
splat on the polished deck plates, The captain visibly
cringed and made a minute gesture to his second in com-
mand. A seaman hurried over to wipe up the mess
David Hawk had created.
Hawk was oblivious to the small flurry of activity
around him—his mind was on the ocean floor far below.
They were less than five hundred miles from Hawaii, he
thought. More precisely, Oahu, the most heavily popu-
lated of the Hawaiian Islands.
"Nothing on seismic, sir," came the crisp report from
the other side of the bridge. "But sonar is picking up
something. Might be a submarine. But it's not like any
sub I ever saw."
"One of the Russian Alpha class?" asked the captain
eagerly. To be the first to spot this Russian speedster in
the Pacific would be a feather in his cap. To hell with the
mission that this odious bureaucrat from Washington
had dumped in his lap.
"No, sir. Too quiet. Strange return, too. Might be one
of their Typhoon class subs, though."
"Impossible," snorted Hawk. He looked up into the
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suntanned captain's surprised face, then added, "I get
reports. This isn't one of them. I guarantee it."
"Yes, sir," said the captain. He didn't enjoy a mission
like this. He was a captain in the U.S. Navy, dammit. He
didn't take orders from a civilian aboard his own ship.
Unless ordered by3dmiral Tackett himself, which he
had been.
"Tell me more about the sonar pickup," asked David
Hawk in his deceptively mild voice. The captain had
seen men like this before. He had a touch of it, too. A
softly-spoken velvet word, followed by stainless steel, if
needed. David Hawk was used to command; he com-
manded and others obeyed. Even a captain in the U.S.
Navy.
"Beats me, sir," came the sonarman's reply. "But I'm
getting a twitch on our seismic detector down on the
ocean floor."
"How big?" Sharp, quick, his stainless steel edge
razored forth now.
"Not much. Less than one percent of full-scale-de-
flection. This is weird—now I've lost sonar on the sub-—
if that's what it was."
Hawk pushed past the captain to the radio. He
grabbed the microphone and pressed the button.
"Omega station, come in, Omega station. "
"Omega station, aye," came the quick reply.
"Condition Red, I say again, Condition Red. Total
evacuation of the beach area. Repeating, Condition
Red."
There was no reply from Omega station. None was
needed. Hawk only gave final confirmation of what
' they'd known would happen.
The captain caught Hawk's attention and asked,
"What's going on? Ever since we left Pearl, you've been
keeping me in the dark. Drop seismic buoys, put down
sonar heads, do this, do that. If the Admiral hadn't told
Ime to. .
"Feel it?" asked Hawk suddenly.
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NICK CARTER
"Feel what, dammit? This is . . . oh, my God"'
The seismic probe, dropped almost fifteen thousand
feet down on the floor of the ocean, had been destroyed
by one convulsive gulp of the seabed. The small rise had
been recorded aboard the destroyer. A small rise in the
ocean floor, but one containing more power than a
thousand hydrogen bombs. The undersea quake rippled
earth and water, sending the shock wave racing toward
the distant coast of Hawaii.
The captain stared out at the once-tranquil ocean in
disbelief. The swell rising up from the depths was prodi-
gious. He had ridden out hurricanes, typhoons, storms
of all kinds. He had never seen a wall of water building
to a height of almost three hundred feet before.
"Full speed ahead. Full speed!" he barked out.
"I think we're far enough from the epicenter so that
we'll miss the worst," said Hawk quietly: He watched
the impossible wall of water race by twenty times faster
than was possible for any surface craft. By positioning
the destroyer exactly where he'd been told, he had es-
caped death,
"Hawaii!" gasped the captain, realizing the full im-
port of the moving wall of water. The tidal wave would
hit an unsuspecting island and kill thousands.
"Evacuation of all affected areas began soon after we
left port, Captain," said David Hawk. "Omega station
will see that the last of our personnel will be inland and
safe by the time it arrives. The property loss will be in
the millions, but no one will die." He watched the im-
placable tidal wave vanishing toward the horizon as he
silently added, "This time. "
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ONE
There's something exciting about looking down at the
world from three hundred feet in the air—and only
being supported by a thin wing made of plastic and
aluminum struts. I pulled hard and kicked out with my
feet to put the hang glider into a shallow bank. The
Mediterranean swelled blue and gentle below me. I
banked more steeply and pulled out to see the vari-
colored wing that Terri was flying soar upwards on a
thermal and vanish from sight in a split second.
I dived, caught the same therma, then followed her
up. Her slender sun-bronzed legs kicked as she worked
to keep her fragile hang glider in the strong updraft of
warm air rushing away from the sea so far below.
' "Terri, you'll burn your wings off like Icarus!" I cried
out to her. She turned her brown oval face toward me,
smiled, and revealed twin rows of perfect white teeth.
Perversely, I wondered how much the orthodontist had
gotten paid for that job. Whatever it was, Terri De-
Iadrier could afford it. She was young and beautiful and
rich---a perfect combination to qualify for membership
in the jet set.
It struck me as sheer luck that someone in my line of
work could ever have met her in the first place, much
less hit it off so well that we'd become lovers this past
month.
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NICK CARTER
I was scarred, healing from wounds given me by an
Arab intent on splitting me apart with a wicked ten-inch
knife, and I couldn't have cared about the money.
All I cared about was doing my job. I'm Nick Carter,
agent N3, Killmaster for the super secret organization
I'd been recuperating on the Cote d'Azur for three
days when I met Terri at the Casino Monte Carlo. Coin-
cidence had it that we were both staying at the Hotel de
Paris and her Ferrari had broken down. I'd given her a
lift back to the hotel in my rented Mercedes 450 SLC
And I'd stayed the night in her suite, passionately strug-
gling with her between satin sheets while a cool night
wind blew in through open French doors that looked
out over the city.
Since then, it was everything a man could want. She
was lithe, eager, knowledgable, and had a yen for dan-
gerous sports that sometimes made even me hesitate. We
had raced along the Middle Corniche at speeds so dan-
gerous no Formula III race driver would have con-
sidered it. Then we raced back along the coast at speeds
even greater. Nice, Antibes, Cannes, St. Tropez and
Toulön all blurred together as we sped through, wheel
to wheel, side by side, the wind ripping through our hair,
the constant hammer of air in our faces causing tears to
flow.
And this morning she'd insisted we go hang gliding.
Terri had a knack for choosing the right sport for the
right moment. The sight of her slender body dangling
under the brightly-colored plastic wing was like an
aphrodisiac for me—as if I needed one when I was with
her. She laughed and called out something I missed. I
swooped, feeling the freedom of flight as only a bird
can.
I wasn't Icarus. I was Daedalus. I would succeed in
challenging the fiery sun and escape to fly another time.
"Down!" she cried again, motioning below. I glanced
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I toward the blue of the water and saw a craggy point
jutting up. A small island, hardly more than a fly-speck
•on a map and probably not even named, provided a
small hill and a wonderfully white beach.At least that's
i the way it looked from five hundred feet.
- "How do we get back to Monaco?" I shouted, but the
' words were ripped away by the thermal. Terri was al-
ready on her way down. Such minor items as how to
return after we'd landed never intruded on her enjoy-
I ment. She truly lived for the day.
And I wanted to share it with her.
Banking, I put the hang glider into a breath-taking
stall. I plummeted downward and felt a surge of
adrenaline. Death would greet me with extended arms if
miscalculated the slightest bit. Beside me, not twenty
! feet away, Terri prodded, turned and kicked in her har-
I ness to augment her deadly descent. She wasn't going to
! let me beat her down.
Challenged, I went into a direct dive. I glanced toward
her and saw she'd done the same. We weren't in free fall
but we came close. The sharp wind in her face pulled her
golden hair back in a cascade of honey. The sun momen-
tarily silhouetted her curvaceous form. It was almost as
, if she were nude, though the swimsuit she wore was
chaste by French Riviera standards.
I turned my attention back to landing in one piece.
The snowy white beach was less than twenty feet away.
I pulled hard on the bar, my muscles straining. I felt the
tendons in my right arm pop with the exertion. The
long, barely-healed scar across my abdomen felt like it
would rupture open and spill my guts out once again.
But I again cheated the Arab who'd knifed me. I jerked
on the steering bar at the last possible instant, got my
: feet under me, and felt the warm white sand crunch as I
landed running.
Terri landed seconds later.
Laughing, she got out of her harness and came over to
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NICK CARTER
where I had grounded my hang glider. Just the sight Of
her walking turned me on. She wore a yellow, orange
and blue swim suit pulled up demurely between her
lissome legs, over her ample breasts, then tied behind
her neck, Her sleek flanks were bare and bronzed by the
sun, and every single movement threatened to send her
breasts spilling forth. It didn't happen. She'd paid five
hundred dollars for that suit; the Parisian haute couture
designer had earned his money. The suit was pro-
vocative but not revealing.
"0h, Nick, you always beat me," she said, her arms
going around my thick neck.
"Only when you've done something to deserve it." I
gave her behind a quick whack that made her jump and
squeal with mock indignation. It also caused her to
move even closer until her breasts rubbed seductively
against my bare chest. I felt the hard points of her nip-
ples through the softness of the lycra swimsuit.
"Did I do something to deserve it just now?" she
asked softly, her green eyes peering up into mine. "I
hope," she added.
I kissed her.
Our lips crushed together passionately. I felt my heart
begin to race as my desire for this wondrous creature
mounted. The adrenaline from the hang gliding and the
dangerous landing still pumped through my body, Every
nerve in my body hummed and sang. Terri pressing hot-
ly against me made it perfect.
My hands began slipping down her sweat-glazed up-
per arms and then found her naked flanks. My fingers
wiggled up under the edge of her colorful swim suit and
cupped trembling, muscled, womanly buttocks. I tensed
and felt her entire body strain in anticipation. She was as
high-strung as I was from the hang gliding and the
promise of what was to come,
"Here, Nick, take me here," she said, breaking off
from the kiss. She was beautiful. Her lips were bright red
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from being pressed so intimately into mine. Her green
eyes blazed like emeralds in the sunlight, And the lust on
her oval face was unmistakable.
It matched mine.
I said nothing. My hands parted the meaty globes of
her behind and pulled. She surged up against me again.
This time her hand reached between us. She pressed her
nimble fingers into the mound growing so boldly at my
groin. I gasped as she tightened her grip on that bulge to
match the way I was squeezing her.
"Here, Nick, right now. No more of this. I want you
more than anything else in the whole world!"
She was surging inside like the pounding ocean surf.
The way her breasts heaved told me she was taut, under
high tension, and ready to explode in all directions like
a released spring. And I knew the exact way of tapping
all that fantastic sexual energy,
Reluctantly I left the satiny curves of her bottom to
work up her back. I gently and expertly traced out each
and every bone in her curving spine with my dancing
fingertips. When I reached the point of her slender neck
where the swimsuit fastened, I undid the single knot. In
spite of myself, I sucked in my breath in delight at what
happened. It was as if a long-desired Christmas present
was unwrapping itself in front of my very eyes.
The orange and blue ties fell forward. Her breasts,
now unfettered, swayed gently. The pointed brown nip-
ples cresting each tanned peak pulsed with Terri's every
heartbeat. The suit began to fall even lower, unwrapping
her even more.
She parted her slender thighs enough to allow the suit
to drop down. The honey-blonde mound of crinkly fur
that nested between her legs had never seemed more in-
viting. I almost ripped the dangling swim suit from the
rest of her willing, wanton young body.
- "You like what you see?" she teased. With a quick
movement, she twisted from my groping arms and lithe-
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NICK CARTER
ly danced out onto the sun-baked white beach sand. To-
tally nude, she pirouetted for my solitary approval. She
got it.
Striking a pose, she added, "Come, come, Nick dar-
ling, in France no one wears that much on the beach. If
you want to go native, you have to look native." She
pointed to the swim briefs I wore.
Getting out of them pleased me as much as it did
Terri. Already I was beginning to feel the constricting
strain caused by that brief swatch of fiery red cloth. I
kicked free of its encumbrance and was as naked as
Terri. But with a difference.
She laughed and pointed. "Oh, Nick darling, you are
so obviously a prude! I can tell you always wear a suit in
the sun. Such ugly white flesh. Like the belly of a
bloated fish!"
The band of white around my middle was hardly the
width of my hand, but she had a point. Her own body
was a uniform golden. She sunbathed nude—and it had
turned her into a goddess,
The sun. The sand. The blue waters of the lapping
Mediterranean just a few paces away. The adrenaline
surged inside me again. This time it wasn't from the dan-
ger and delight of hang gliding. This time it was sheer,
stark, naked lust for a lovely woman.
She turned to run, but I caught her in a few paces.
Laughing, we sank down to the hot sand. It must have
burned at her back and shoulders, but Terri never said
a word about it. She was too busy fumbling at my crotch
to find the thick pillar of my manhood and to guide it
into her hot, damp center.
We both gasped as I sank to the hilt in her trembling,
aroused body. For a moment, I supported myself on my
hands, my elbows locked straight. Then I sank down so
that my chest dragged over the lush mounds of her
breasts. I felt them sway to and fro every time I thrust
into her. When her legs came up and rubbed on either
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-19
side of my body; it was impossible to control myself.
Pistoning harder and faster with age-old rhythm, I
plunged deeper until she let out a tiny trapped animal
sound. I felt her entire body tense. Fingernails raked at
my upper arms, but I hardly noticed. My own passion
soared.
"Oh, yes, Nick, yes. This is it. Oh, yes, in me, yes, it's
so damn good!"
Soon she was incoherent with lust. And I found
speech impossible. The words jumbled up in my
tightened throat. My hips did the communicating for
me. I showed her how much I enjoyed her, the beach, and
making love. She sobbed out again, tensed again, her
crotch grinding powerfully into mine, then started to re-
lax.
I didn't allow it. My own desires were at the breaking
point. I felt like a pressure cooker inside, a pressure
cooker with only one safety valve. My hips flew, sending
my meaty erection deeper and deeper between her wide-
spread legs. I vanished into the crinkly nest of honey-
blonde fur and then felt her clamp down powerfully all
along my length. I lost control. we climaxed together,
rolling 'over and over on the sandy beach and not stop-
ping until the cool water of the Mediterranean threat-
ened to drown us both.
Laughing, Terri disengaged herself and sat up in the
surf.
"You're fantastic, Nick darling." Then an odd ex-
preesion crossed her face—one of calculation mixed
with confusion. "I just wish I understood you, knew
more about you."
"So what do you want to know?" I asked, hoping I
sounded casual.
"Everything," she said eagerly. I didn't like her tone
now. She was going to pry. "You said you're in import-
export but you never said what you ship."
I could hardly tell her I dealt in death and secrets with
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NICK CARTER
the scum of the international underworld.
"Would it bother you if I told you I was a gun
runner?"
"You're not," she said positively. "I've known men
who dealt in arms. You're not like them at all. "
"Okay, I'll tell you. But you have to keep it a secret."
"Tell me!"
"I smuggle water fountains to the Arabs."
"It's dry out in the middle of the Arabian desert. I
steal water fountains from countries where there's plen-
ty of water and then sell them to the Arabs."
"Oh, Nick, you can be such a drag." Terri leaned
back in the surf, as naked as Venus on the halfshell, and
trailed her long blonde hair in the water. Her breasts
seemed to float on the frothed white surface as each in-
coming wave surrounded her lush body. I felt desire ris-
ing in me again. That might be the way to stop her ask-
ing questions I didn't dare answer.
"Let me get my sunglasses. This bright Mediterranean
light's making my eyes burn." I went back to my hang
glider and pulled my sunglasses loose from the
aluminum frame where I'd wedged them. The instant I
put them on I knew I'd made a mistake. A message was
coming through a hidden microphone hidden in the
shafts on my sunglasses, and I heard David Hawk repeat
several times, "N3, you're needed. Top priority."
The message had been transmitted from one of AXE's
communications satellites and had found the miniscule
receiver in my sunglasses. AXE scientists delighted in
advanced communications gear. Now I cursed them for
being able to find me so easily.
I looked back at Terri, naked and frolicking like a seal
in the surf. The sun glinted off her bronzed flesh in a
totally arousing fashion. I reached up and twisted the
left shaft. A tiny signal squirted in a microsecond pulse
to the orbiting satellite. I'd notified David Hawk of my
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EARTH SHAKER
21
hereabouts. In less than ten minutes a helicopter
would come to take me away from this small island—
and Terri.
Being Nick Carter, Killmaster, can be hell sometimes.
The helicopter cruised three hundred miles east from
the tiny island where I'd left Terri and landed on the
'road deck of the USS Enterprise amid the rush of F—15s
caking off and landing. I watched the most powerful
Fighters in the world and shook my head. They con-
zained more electronics and gadgetry than the two pre-
dious models—and this made them the most deadly and
:omplex warplane ever constructed. For every fifteen
ninutes they were aloft and deadly, they required an
•our's maintenance on the ground—or aboard ship.
rhey were deadly, yes, and the pricetag was ex-
--raordinarily high.
I fought a war, too, but a secret one, one hidden from
-he bright light of day. My simple weapons were
;heathed close to my body where they could be seized
And used at an instant's notice. Wilhelmina, my Luger,
-ested comfortably in her shoulder holster. Her compan-
on, my stiletto, Hugo, was cradled in a spring sheath on
my right forearm. I understood them; they had never let
ne down. Simple weapons of death, not multimillion
-lollar ones like the jet fighters all around me. Best of all,
-'hey didn't require time-consuming maintenance after
use. A quick swipe to remove the blood, then a
ittle oil sufficed for thirsty Hugo. Regular, easy clean-
I-ng was all Wilhelmina asked in return for 9mm death.
I allowed the navy flight chief to usher me down to a
ward-room. David Hawk was already inside. I'd ex-
jected it. He seldom left his desk in Washington, but
when he did it meant trouble. Serious trouble.
"Sit down, N3," he greeted. Hawk spat out his cigar
stub and began working on a new one. I think he bought
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NICK CARTER
them already smoked down. Never had I seen him ac-
tually light up a fresh one.
"It'd better be good," I said, still thinking of Terri.
The precipitous way I'd left her stranded on the island
would make her mad, And there wasn't any way in hell
I could ever make her understand what had happened.
This deadly, demanding business I was in played hob
with my personal life.
Hawk didn't even deign to answer that, Anything
AXE asked of us—either of us—was important. I knew
it and he knew it. I was just letting off steam.
Instead he said, "Look." The lights in the ward-room
dimmed and a hidden slide projector started. I studied
the screen intently. Hawk wasn't showing pictures of his
vacation. At first there didn't seem to be anything else in
them. I recognized Mexico City, Rome, Paris—but so
what?
I soon saw. Every picture added to the slide show gave
a different view of destruction. The earthquakes hadn't
done much damage, not as much as they might have, but
it was still pretty bad. Finally, after witnessing what
seemed an unending parade of death and destruction,
the projector winked off and the lights came up.
"Now, N3, what do you think?"
"The world's getting wobbly. I didn't follow the de-
tails, but all those quakes happened within a couple Of
days."
"They occurred within a twelve-hour period.
I said nothing. Hawk was leading up to this in his own
way.
"And," he continued, worrying at his cigar stub,
"there was another one five hundred miles off the south-
eastern coast of Hawaii. It produced a three-hundred-
foot wall of water. I was aboard a destroyer and
watched it form."
"How did you know where to look?" I felt my insides
turning cold. Hawk was a born actor and knew how to
string along an audience for maximum effect. In this
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EARTH SHAKER
case, he built the tension too well to suit me.
23
• "We were warned about Mexico City and Rome and
Chose to ignore it. We thought this Lord of Death, as he
calls himself, was a crank. When we received word of a
Paris quake, and it too was right on the predicted time,
,Washington decided to investigate more carefully."
"And you took the warning to heart when it came
concerning Hawaii?"
"Exactly. It saved hundreds, perhaps thousands, of
lives. This so-called Lord of Death can deliver a quake
when he calls it—on the button."
"Any chance he's only figured out how to predict
where a quake will occur and is bluffing about causing
- "No."
I didn't ask further. I didn't need to know what this
Lord of Death had done to convince Hawk. That David
Hawk was convinced was enough for me,
"With a weapon as powerful as this, he wants some-
thing. What?" 1 asked.
"The last message requests one billion dollars in
diamonds and other precious gems."
"Or he sets Off the San Andreas fault. Our scientists
have flocked to the area in an attempt to discover how
this self-styled Lord of Death manages his feat. So far,
nothing. We made a short sonar contact prior to the
quake off Hawaii, but it wasn't a submarine. We have
no idea what it was."
"Have they found anything in California?" My mind
turned to the millions that might die in such a major
quake. Billions in property lost. The U.S. aerospace in-
dustry would suffer a severe setback. Silicon Valley
would be destroyed, and along with it our semi-
conductor industry. A lousy billion dollars worth of
crystallized carbon and alumina seemed a low price to
ay to protect all that.
"Unfortunately, yes. The Palmdale bulge is growing.
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NICK CARTER
There is a differential land rise of almost ten inches
along the seam. Strain gauges show growing energy in
the fault. Our scientists can't figure out what's causing
it. "
"It's not natural?"
"Who can say? This is a geologically unstable area.
Everyone jokes about California falling off into the
ocean, but this is more than a joke. This is real."
"Are you going to pay off this Lord of Death?"
"If we have to, to buy time. But you know that's not
the way to deal with a blackmailer. If he extorts money
from us once, he can do it again and again and again.
Nick, we've got to find him and stop him."
. . enemies don't get hold of the
"And make sure our .
secret. "
"We have no enemies, N3. You know that."
I sighed. Semantics. The Russians weren't our ene-
mies. We weren't at war with them, The Chinese weren't
our enemies. We weren't at war with them, either. Or
Cuba. Or a myriad of other countries around the world.
But they weren't our friends either.
"l understand," I said. I thought about the ransom
demand, then asked Hawk, "How much did our Lord of
Death ask for each of the cities he's already hit?"
"Nothing, That's the strange part. It's as if he prac-
ticed on Mexico City, Rome and Paris, and then used
Hawaii to get our attention for the big shakedown."
"Spain, France, and Italy would have paid to prevent
the destruction," I said, frowning. "A simple demon-
stration would have squeezed the money from all of
them. Why four trial runs? Is he so unsure of his equip-
ment—-or whatever he uses?"
"That's for you to discover, N3. The President de-
mands swift action on this." Hawk tapped a manila
folder with red and white stripes around its edges, in-
dicating a top secret file. "Codename: Earth Shaker. N3 ,
terminate Earth Shaker with prejudice and be sure his
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EARTH SHAKER
25
device is either successfully captured or completely de-
stroyed."
I nodded. Earth Shaker had been dealing with bu-
reaucrats up to this point. With my assignment officially
sanctioned now, N3, Killmaster, entered the equation.
The jet took me directly to Orly Airport outside of
Paris. Under different circumstances, a military jet land-
ing at an international—and civilian—airport would
have provoked comment and protest from the French
officials. The earthquake had changed all that. Now
they hardly seemed to notice the takeoffs and landings.
I found a car waiting for me. I squeezed my muscular
bulk into the impossibly small Simca and cursed the re-
quisitions people. But it might have been the best they
could do on such short notice. I'd heard that thousands
of cars had been destroyed in the French capital. It was
possible that not even one of those buglike Citroens was
available.
I putt-putted through the traffic toward the Louvre. A
little to the north of the museum, I turned east for the
Eiffel Tower. AXE reports showed that the epicenter for
the quake was very near that imposing iron tower. After
only two near accidents and a bout of curse-shouting
and fist-waving, I found a parking place on a sidewalk
for the blue Simca and walked to the Eiffel Tower.
Not trusting the elevator, I walked up. I figured the
tower itself was sturdy enough to withstand a quake, but
the elevators I didn't trust for an instant. Metal cables
frayed easily and strains went undetected—until a car
filled with people plunged downward. I trudged up
flight after flight of metal steps, firm steps, steps not
visibly affected by the quake. On the observation deck,
I peered out at the ruin spreading throughout the city.
There seemed a slight pattern to the destruction, but I
I hardly gave that credence. Control of a force such as an
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NICK CARTER
earthquake seemed unthinkable to me; I doubted even
our Earth Shaker could direct the earthquake after re-
leasing the geological energies.
Or could he?
My eyes traced the faint tracks arching out to con-
verge in the west. I pulled out a thick document com-
piled by the French police describing various deaths
caused by the quake and by the looting afterwards. A
quick reference to a tour map, another check with the
police report, and my brows came almost totally togeth-
er in a scowl.
Two people shot to death in the Bibliotheque Na-
tionale du Paris. A damned library. Expertly done. Im-
possible to determine if anything of value was taken
from the room. The report didn't say what room. But I
could see that the real or imagined lines of force left by
the earthquake headed for the Bibliotheque.
And so did I.
The white marble steps in front of the library and
museum had cracked in a thousand places. I stepped
through dust and rubble and made my way to the point
where the receptionist had once been. Studying the po-
lice report again, I read that Mademoiselle Claudine
Perrier had been shot once through the head, apparently
during a rape attempt. The report didn't elaborate.
However, the prior page had detailed the death of a po-
liceman, shot through the heart by the same weapon.
Shoddy work had failed to tie the murders together,
though I suspected some harried clerk figured the cop
had come upon the rape, been killed, then the rapist
killed his female victim and ran.
It made no sense.
I looked around and tried to find where the deaths
had occurred. Workmen disconsolately moved piles of
rubble all around me. A curator ran about, shrieking at
the workers to be careful but ignoring priceless volumes
under his own feet as he stumbled and ranted.
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EARTH SHAKER
27
Avoiding this distraction, I made my way down a side
corridor. Something clicked in my head when I came to
the end room. My French isn't perfect, but I was able to
translate the sign next to the door. Documents found in
the New World had once rested within.
I can't piece together what it was that made me so
sure that this was where the receptionist and policeman
had been killed. Mexico City. A room devoted to writ-
ten material from the pre-Columbian days. Tenuous,
but it seemed right.
Walking through the cluttered room produced no new
information. There wasn't any way I could tell what had
already been removed for protection and display
elsewhere. But the single case dominating the room had
once held a Mayan Codex, a book describing that an-
cient culture's astrology. Or so said the brass plate •on
the case.
"What do you want?" came a snappish question.
I turned and saw the nervous little curator in the
doorway, hands on hips, his upper lip quivering with ill-
suppressed rage. "What do you do in this room? Weware
not open to the public. Not after this this disgrace!"
He obviously took the earthquake's destruction as a
personal affront.
"Monsieur, I am with the United Nations," I lied.
"We are investigating earthquake relief funds. Where
and how to spend them. I have a personal interest in
preserving culture, books—our international heritage. I
need information for my report." I pulled out a small
black spiral notebook and began making pointless
squiggles in it, This impressed the little man.
s 'I am so sorry I yelled at you," he said, suddenly ef-
fusive. I liked him better when he thought I was an in-
truder.
"How much of this room's treasures have you re-
moved?" I asked.
" "But, monsieur, none. We work on the main portion
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NICK CARTER
of the library, the part containing France's artistic trea-
sures, These are thrilling, oui, but only of aboriginal in-
terest." He gave that elegant Gallic shrug that was so
expressive. He'd written all this worthless Mexican and
pre-Columbian junk off to, concentrate on France's
more important works.
I protested,
"But the Codex. Tro-Cortesianus!"
almost stumbling over the name as I read it off the case
again. "You mean it is gone? In the very room where
your employee and the policeman were killed?" That
was a shot in the dark. It paid off.
"So sad about Claudine, oui," he said, shaking his
head, "Imagine such uncontrolled passion—and during
an earthquake. "
"Could she and the officer have been attempting to
prevent the theft of the Codex?"
"Eh? Uh, I do not know. The police do not seem to
think so."
"But the Codex is gone," I pressed.
"Oui, it seems to be missing. But I know little of this
room. The French poets are my forte."
I'd already dismissed this pompous little man from
my thoughts, but my words kept flowing to mollify him,
to keep him from booting me out. My eyes worked over
the ruins of the room. No way even a potent earthquake
could throw the Codex from its once-sturdy case in such
a way that it wouldn't land in sight. I slowly examined
the case, then the wall, then turned to glance up at the
demolished camera dangling by a cord in one corner of
the room.
"Pardon, what's the purpose of that camera?" I asked
the fidgeting curator.
"It monitors the room constantly during day and
night. These are isolated rooms, monsieur. Our guards
can check against theft on those cameras. "
"Show me where the television screens are,"
"But why? What interest does the United Nations
have in
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EARTH SHAKER
"Show me."
29
Again he shrugged eloquently, and led me through the
iebris. I marvelled at the prissy way he walked, but he
got a speck of dust or plaster on his brilliantly-
)olished black wingtip shoes. I looked like I'd barely
;urvived a dust storm by the time we reached the small
guard room.
My heart almost jumped from my chest. This was one
the most modern surveillance systems in the world.
And it had a videotape capability. I quickly seated my-
If, hoping against hope that the earthquake hadn't de-
ktroyed it.
It hadn't. In fact, my luck was running on all cylin-
iers. The first shock had activated the videocamera.
"What is this?" the curator asked, peering over my
ahoulder. "But this is the room. During the earth-
I didn't answer. I was too intent on the screen. The
had knocked the camera off its base, and only a
.mall field of vision to one side of the door was record-
ed. Dim shadows fluttered across the screen, Then a
lash of brass buttons, I saw the policeman's arm, He
a gun.
"Is there any audio on this?" I asked, banging my fist
ngainst the panel.
"No, none."
My luck was running out. I had a small segment of the
cene within range—but it might have been a million
ight years distant, too. I didn't see the one thing I
meeded.
Until the end.
A shadowya shoulder, a face.
I froze inside with the horror of that face. The fore-
mead sloped back at an impossible angle and the eyes
'roduced a chill in the pit of my stomach. The eyes were
crossed. And as hard as flint chips.
- "Sacre bleu!" exclaimed the curator.
I had to agree.
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TWO
The Aeronaves jetliner from Paris to Mexico City had
developed a little engine trouble as we were arching over
Miami on our way down to Mexico. I may have been the
only one aboard the plane—including the pilots—to no-
-tice, At any rate, we arrived in Mexico City with only a
small amount of bumping. It felt good to get away from
the airplane in one piece.
As I stood waiting for my luggage to pass through
:customs, I adjusted the shaft of my sunglasses. I lightly
touched the left shaft of the sunglasses and heard
-Hawk's voice as clearly as if he had been standing beside
e.
"N3, we have heard from Earth Shaker."
"And?" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear. The only thing
ore appalling than a fanatic was a fanatic with real
wer. This Lord of Death, code name Earth Shaker,
ranked with the biggest on both counts. The power of an
earthquake is so phenomenal that to merely describe it
is inadequate. I'd been through one once outside of Cor-
inth in Greece. It had opened up a canyon almost a hun-
red feet deep, deposited an entire housing tract of
seventy houses in the bottom, then closed up and swal-
lowed everything without a trace. The earthquake then
prooted a fifty-foot tree and dropped it directly over
the spot, creating a grave for those houses--—and the
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NICK CARTER
hundreds of people in them.
And all this had been done in an offhand and indif-
ferent manner. The earth was a potent force, and not
one to be trifled with lightly.
Earth Shaker was doing more than trifling.
"He has given us only ten days to deliver the ransom
money. "
"Ten days? Counting today?" I asked.
"Counting today. He hasn't given us a specific time
for the earthquake, but we feel he will at some date
closer to the deadline. Psych Department says he's a
fairly typical meglomaniac, although he has certain
traits they don't understand. "
"Such as?"
"The point you brought up concerning the four earth-
quakes where no ransom was demanded. Hawaii fits the
megalomaniac pattern, Psych says, but not Paris, Rome,
Madrid, and Mexico City. Earth Shaker should have
been bragging about them to us to prove his prowess; he
hasn't even mentioned them, except in passing."
"He was responsible, though," I mused. He had to be
or my hunch was a dead end. Paris and the Mayan
Codex. Madrid and Rome and Mexico City probably
followed similar patterns, though it would take too long
for me to personally check to find out. I passed this in-
formation along to David Hawk for other operatives to
follow up. He'd probably farm this dogwork out to one
of the other, more visible agencies. It needed doing but
wasn't vital, and if I succeeded, it would allow the other
agencies to take credit for eliminating the menace.
AXE cared only about results. Kudos meant nothing
compared to success.
"I'll get someone on it. Do you need a cover, Nick?"
"I'll wing it. No time to do up a good one. I'm going
to be a graduate student from some obscure place in the
States. Make it New Mexico. It's close but not well
known."
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"University of New Mexico anthropology student,"
said Hawk, writing it down. "The papers will be there to
back up anything you say. Now get to work."
Once more the receiver became just an ordinary pair
of sunglasses. I wondered if anyone had noticed me lean-
ling against the wall talking to myself. If they had, I
would be written off as a crazy gringo who'd been out
too long in the bright sun of sprawling Mexico City,
Getting through customs posed no problem. All I
I brought through in the way of contraband were
Wilhelmina and Hugo in the false bottom of one of my
bags. Quickly leaving the customs area, I hailed a taxi
cab, dumped in my bags and quickly learned some new
and original ways of dying.
The cab driver invented several just pulling out into
I traffic. I had to check to be sure that we still carried the
original layer of paint by the time we flowed along with
the speeding traffic.
I leaned back and tried to relax. I couldn't do it.
When I realized my nerves were still taut and ready to
explode, I tried to explain it away by the man's driving.
That didn't work. He was an expert, possessing reflexes
as quick as any jungle cat. He used the horn more than
the brakes and had a large vocabulary of voluble curses
I that he freely expended on other drivers.
Something else caused my sixth sense to tingle.
I casually turned around and quickly glanced out the
rear window of the cab. Behind us was a battered 1964
Chevy. When we turned, it turned. When we raced
through an almost red light, it ran the red to keep up
with us. I pondered this. In the middle of Mexico City
traffic, not much was likely to happen. This tail was for
the sole purpose of finding out where I went.
I didn't like the idea that Earth Shaker had picked up
on my whereabouts so quickly, but it heartened me
nonetheless. It meant my hunch about Mexico City
being important had paid off. I may have losi my cover,
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but Earth Shaker was interested in me. That meant I
could find him easily by unraveling the men following
me.
And I would, when the time was right.
I settled back and tried to enjoy the blur of traffic
going in both directions, just inches away from the sides
of the cab.
Barely checking the room for bugs—either electronic
or the more ambulant type so numerous in other parts
of the hotel—I showered, changed and hurried out. I
was anxious to get into the cover I'd worked out. The
sooner I started talking and thinking like a graduate stu-
dent of anthropology, the sooner progress would be
made.
I hoped.
Pulling out the handy tour book detailing sights "not
to be missed , " I found the museums section. Many listed
here would have been important to visit if I'd really been
a graduate student. I glanced over the descriptions of
their holdings and went on until I came to the National
Museum of Archeology and History.
It boasted a large collection of pre-Columbian
artifacts. And I was willing to bet it had been partially
looted after the earthquake. I was about to find out.
The destruction to the museum's exterior was minor,
but just inside the doorway I found more extensive
damage. Even after four days of cleaning, debris still
lingered in dark corners, and broken glass made walking
on the once-gorgeous parquet floor hazardous. I began
wandering up and down, idly looking over displays un-
touched by the earthquake, wondering how much rear-
ranging had been done to cover the gaps that must sure-
ly exist.
"Perdön por favor," I called out to a corpulent man
trying valiantly to move one column of figures from one
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35
accounting book into another without falling alseep. His
dewlap trembled every time his head fell forward, sleep
•almost upon him. But duty—or the flies buzzing around
his head—kep! him at his thankless task.
"Si?" he responded, his head jerking up in surprise. I
might have been the only one to speak to him all day.
- "I'm down here on my spring break. From the Uni-
versity of New Mexico."
"Ah, Nuevo Mexico!" he exclaimed, but his eyes told
me he'd never been in Nuevo Mexico. He might not
.wen know where it was.
"I'm a grad student. Interested in the pre-Columbian
*hibits. I don't seem to be able to find them."
"Ah, such a pity. The said, gratefully
.:losing his records books. Sleep seemed to leave him as
le found a reason not to perform his creative account-
"I don't want to take you away from anything," I
;aid, indicating his books.
"De nada, it is nothing," he assured me. "So many
•orms to fill out. So much bookkeeping to do after the
I could tell he was glad to have an atten-
ive audience for his real passion—the museum.
"l especially wanted to see the jade knives used by the
ayas in their religious ceremonies," I told him. The
• our book had pictures of them. That was the full extent
my knowledge of pre-Columbian artifacts. The rest
gould have to be faked.
"So strange that you should mention this particular
hing. We had looting after the earthquake Much loot-
ng. And death. One of our guards, he was killed by the
•obbers, They took much of the finest in our pre-Colum-
'ian exhibits."
I frowned, "Did they take anything of Toltec or Aztec
"They fled before they could. But they gutted the
inest of our Mayan works. Statues that can never be
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replaced. The jadeite knives you mentioned. Certain
pieces of carved wood. Feathered headdresses worn by
the Mayan priests. A fortune."
"But nothing compared to what they might have got-
ten in so richly appointed a museum," I said, fishing. I
had no idea what really constituted wealth, but robbing
a museum seemed out of the pale for a mere crook, Only
a collector would appreciate such rarity. While some un-
scrupulous collectors existed that would purchase such
artifacts, taking the chance on finding one of that special
breed was a long shot compared to ripping off jewels
and even cash.
It wouldn't be a risk if that collector had given the
thieves a shopping list. It would be even less a risk if that
collector was the man I sought.
The man shrugged and said, "In a manner of speak-
ing, we archaeologists are all grave robbers, but this
form of robbery is alien to me. I prefer to go and dig up
ruins and steal bits of knowledge from the past. To steal
from a museum such as this is. . . criminal. It robs more
than just the museum. It robs the heritage of a great and
wonderful country."
I nodded sagely. But the man had obviously never
come in contact with the real world. He lived in his
museum. He lived for an occasional field trip to sift
through tons of soft dirt for an occasional trinket.
"Who would buy such stolen artifacts?" I asked di-
rectly.
Again the shrug. "I cannot say. No one of my ac-
quaintance, The people I deal with are all experts in pre-
Columbian works and donate freely of their time and
money—sometimes far in excess of all logic. They love
archaeology."
"But surely such men might covet a particular item
and want it for their private pleasure."
"These are strange questions from a student." His
dark eyes bored into me. I had pushed too hard, too
fast. He was becoming suspicious of me. These are para-
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'Oid times, and for good reason.
37
"My love for the field is great, too. I was only wonder-
ag—if such a thing might have happened—if you could
'Lit me onto that collector so I could
. view the
-rtifacts personally. It is a great disappointment for me
o come here and find them missing. "
"If I knew of any such collector, I would rip his heart
•ut. " The vehemence with which the curator spoke told
•xactly how truthful his words were. He couldn't have
'een actor enough to carry such conviction unless he felt
"If you will excuse me, senor," he finished, bowing
tiffly and turning to carry on his esoteric work.
I thanked him for his time and began randomly walk-
I tg through the partially-destroyed museum. It had been
gargantuan structure before the earthquake. Now tem-
orary plywood walls blocked off sections that had
ollapsed; what remained, while impressive, was only a
hadow of its former glory. It seemed such a pity to ruin
eauty like this. I shook myself out of that reverie. This
light happen to all of California, along the entire six
undred and fifty miles of the San Andreas fault.
I shivered at the prospect of everything from San
rancisco to Los Angeles being reduced to rubble.
As I entered a poorly lit section of the museum to-
•ard the rear of the main chamber, a specter danced
lomentarily, then flitted away. Hardly more than a
udow, it moved across the deserted corridor and
)omed upward on the wall. I sidled forward, ap-
rehension growing within me. Fear didn't describe my
ælings as much as my sixth sense warning of some true
vil nearby.
'I moved to get a better look at the shadow on the wall.
bad to be distorted by some quirk of sunlight. The
utline of a man's body was capped by a head so
ointed I wondered if the possessor might be a pinhead.
silently worked down the plaster strewn hallway and
eered into an alcove.
A high window that had contained elaborate stained
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NICK CARTER
glass before the earthquake now admitted the bright
rays of the sun. Standing between the window and the
doorway was a man, slightly hunched over. As he
straightened from his careful study of the pre-Columbi-
an artifacts in the case, I saw his head clearly.
The man's forehead sloped sharply backward from
the bony ridge just above his eyes. He wasn't a micro-
cephalic; some cruel force in childhood had flattened his
forehead into a skin and hair-covered plane. This de-
formed creature turned and stared directly at me.
His eyes were crossed.
I'd found the man whose picture had been left on the
videotape in the Paris library.
He rattled off a string of Spanish so fast I couldn't
follow. In my own halting, broken Spanish, I asked him
to repeat what he'd said more slowly.
"Ah, an American," he said in flawless English. If
anything, there was a slight touch of Oxford in his in-
flection. "Are you here to study the remains of this once
proud museum?" his sweeping hand indicating the
wreckage about him.
"I'm a student. Grad student," I said. I knew better
than to continue staring at his sloping forehead and
those crossed eyes, but I couldn't help myself, There was
a hypnotic quality about this man and his physical de-
formities that wouldn't easily release me.
"And you came at precisely the wrong time. A pity. "
"How do you mean wrong time?" I asked.
"The earthquake! It has destroyed so much around
us. The entire of Mexico City has been damaged ir-
reparably."
"I had counted on seeing some of the Mayan jade
knives," I said, allowing a touch of wistfulness into my
voice. "The curator tells me that they were lost or sto-
lent"
"Stolen, si," he said. His tone told of weariness with
such awful things in the world. His expression, while
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39
•izarre, told me that he was reveling in the idea of the
-heft.
"My trip is for nothing then. Can't even really enjoy
good vacation."
"Other students go to Mazatlan, but you come here to
;tudy our museums. It is unfortunate such pursuit of
Knowledge should not go unrewarded. Allow me to in-
croduce myself. I am Pedro Ortiz. " He clicked his heels
cogether like a Prussian general and bowed from the
waist before extending his hand.
' "Nick Carter," I said, taking his hand. I had figured
I hat his grip would be soft, weak. The calluses on his
land spoke of hard work, recent hard work, and his grip
natched mine. "You seem to know quite a lot about
miversities. Are you a professor?"
He laughed, his crossed eyes glinting with hidden hu-
-aor.
"I could teach. I know more about the pre-Columbi-
tn world than most of the professors at the University.
ey live in their ivory towers, never descending to do
•eal field work. I live in the midst of ruined glories so
.•ast they cannot even comprehend them. I attempt to
econstruct, to learn, to find out all possible about my
Incestors."
"Ancestors?"
"The Mayas," he said, a crooked grin warping his
hin lips into a grotesquerie. "Surely you have not
nissed the unique shaping of my head or the crossing of
ny eyes? Traits of the true Maya. My head was bound
*'ith a flat board when I was an infant. A small, shiny
'ead was dangled between my eyes to encourage their
rossing. I am an expert on the Mayas--—and I am a
Haya!"
"My trip isn't wasted at all," I said with feeling. "You
ould tell me more about that culture than I could ever
Niece together on my own sifting through . . . remains."
He glanced around the rubble in the room and shook
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NICK CARTER
his head. "That is not the attitude of a scholar. What I
would tell you is secondhand. You must examine for
yourself. You must come to your own conclusions. Only
then is knowledge truly your own."
"Hard to rummage around when so much is gone," I
said.
I moved past Ortiz to peer into the case he had been
examining. It contained drawings of John Lloyd Ste-
phens' first tentative examinations of the great ruins of
Palenque and Uxmal. The lock on the case hadn't been
disturbed. Ortiz had had plenty of time to rifle the dis-
play if that had been his intention. He'd only been study-
ing it as any dutiful scholar might.
"Fascinating, the explorations of Stephens and Cath-
erwood," said Ortiz in an offhand manner. "One day I
hope to read their records more carefully. "
S'I thought you were an expert on them," I asked.
"On the Mayas," he corrected forcefully. "The
greatest of all civilizations in the New World. I study
them, not the people who choose to study them. "
I nodded. "Go right to the source," I said, trying to
figure out something to keep Ortiz talking, I was
positive he was the one in the Paris library; he had killed
two people and stolen a valuable Codex. More impor-
tant, he might be the Lord of Death—Earth Shaker—or
at least someone able to lead me to him.
"I must go speak with Sehor Alvarez," said Ortiz.
'SPIease do not allow me to interrupt your examination
of these fine notebooks of Stephens'. "
"Thank you, Senor Ortiz. I hope we shall meet
again. "
"Shake on it, Sehor Carter?" he asked, thrusting out
his hand once again. I hesitated at his choice of words.
Either he played games with me or the expression came
innocently. Studying his face now left me no clues; he
might have been playing a high stakes poker game.
If this was the man I was after, we were both playing
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41
in the highest stakes game of the century. He controlled
power that made Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like pic-
nics.
- I watched Pedro Ortiz leave, then slipped to the
arched doorway and peered after him. He walked with
the easy grace of a dancer through the rubble and out
into the main chamber of the museum. I followed care-
fully, making certain I made no revealing noise. Just be-
fore entering the huge chamber, I stopped and listened.
By straining, I made out the rapid Spanish exchange be-
tween Ortiz and the curator, who was apparently the
"Senor Alvarez" mentioned.
I may not speak fluent Spanish but I understood it
better than Ortiz thought. Either that or he figured he
and Alvarez wouldn't be overheard. He questioned the
curator closely about me, asking after credentials and
other information I hadn't supplied, When Alvarez
failed to give the slope-headed Maya adequate data, he
quickly dropped that line of inquiry. He shifted over to
another, one I thought would prove productive in get-
ting information out of the curator—if Alvarez had tru-
ly known it.
"So, Sehor Alvarez," said Ortiz in a smooth, glib
Way. "The pre-Columbian works are looted, the heart of
the exhibit ripped out."
"A bloody way of describing it, Sefior Ortiz, but yes,
what you say is true. It will be many years before the
exhibit is as fine as it was before the earthquake and the
theft."
"My personal collection is extensive the man said, a
broad hint.
I dropped to my knees to look around the corner. The
expression on Alvarez' face was one of devotion for Or-
tiz—and a little fear.
"For the museum to display even a fraction of your
collection, Sefior Ortiz, it would be a fine thing."
"Perhaps this inquisitive Norteamericano graduate
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NICK CARTER
student might be interested in helping you establish such
a display?" asked Ortiz.
Alvarez sweated now. He knew what was being asked
and he didn't have the information.
"I have only met the young man, senor. I know noth-
ing of his techniques, his expertise. He seemed
shaken that so much of the pre-Columbian work is
gone. But then, are not all true scholars?"
"Sefior Alvarez, your dedication is amazing."
Ortiz said nothing more. He let Alvarez stew until the
curator broke down and began begging for some of the
pieces contained in the private collection.
"I will do anything to show the Quiche Popul Vuh or
anything from the Books of Chilam Balam which you
have in your collection."
"Such rare books require much insurance," said Ortiz
in an offhanded manner. I could tell he was playing with
Alvarez, dangling the promise of rare books over the
man's head in the same fashion a cat toys with a mouse.
Ortiz had to know by now that Alvarez knew nothing
about me that he hadn't already told; the cruel game
Ortiz now played was for sadistic pleasure, nothing
more.
I will obtain it. For such a display we can
charge admission. Gain some small revenue to help re-
store the entire museum."
"Hmmm, a good idea. Sehor Alvarez, you are a fine
curator. A fine one, si. "
"Your collection is the largest in all of the Yucatan—
perhaps the entire country—since we have had this . . .
misfortune."
"Consider the books yours for a year. Send the details
to my secretary. He will take care of such trifles as insur-
ance for you, senor. I have much else I wish to discuss
with you." Without another word, Pedro Ortiz turned
and took the curator by the arm, steering him to a small
office off the main foyer. They had vanished beyond the
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range of my hearing. I decided to leave, to see what was
waiting forme outside. I suspected it would be interest-
ing.
As I came up near the open door to Alvarez' office, I
heard him call out to me. "Ah, the student. You have
found something left to interest you ? " the curator asked.
"Many things, many things. Thanks."
"Please return when we are in better shape," he said.
I felt his hot gaze on my back as I left. He had to wonder
what a man like Ortiz saw in me. Ortiz himself was
seated, his back to the door. I felt better not having to
face those cross?d eyes and sloping head again.
Outside, in the harsh light of a setting Mexico City
sun, I felt both the heat and someone's presence. The
sun was obvious, and turning slightly, so was the dark
outline of a man on the marble steps. He'd hidden be-
hind one of the large stone pillars nearby and had for-
gotten to take his telltale shadow into account.
I smiled to myself. My tail was still following and it
was time for me to learn more about him.
Hailing a taxi would have been difficult from the front
of the museum, even if I'd wanted to try it. The earth-
quake had made getting around this portion of Mexico
City almost impossible; roads had buckled and the pave-
ment, never too good to begin with, had twisted into
improbable new asphalt artforms that made driving haz-
. ardous. Besides, I didn't want to lose the man who so
; assiduously but carelessly followed me. He had informa-
tion I wanted.
The easiest way of getting it was to ask.
I looked around and saw the direction I had to head.
The earthquake had chewed up the streets. Good. He'd
i have to follow me on foot through the barrio. I started
off at an easy gait and slowly picked up the pace. I never
once looked behind to see if he followed. I knew he did.
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NICK CARTER
The sound of a steam engine huffing and puffing told me
exactly where he was at all times. He obviously did not
keep in top physical form. Even better for me. I needed
to make progress on this mission as soon as possible.
Lives depended on it.
The slum area provided any number of excellent
places for me to waylay him. Dard, homeless people
still milled around the burned out husks that had been
their pitiful homes. The remains ot tarpaper roofs
smouldered and sent tiny black tendrils up into the sky.
My nostrils filled with an appalling stench that was
almost as bad as charred human flesh. I pushed down
my distaste and tried not to think too much.
This was only part of the sorrow Earth Shaker caused.
If he wasn't stopped soon, he'd lay waste to most of
California. The San Andreas fault would slip, and im-
mense portions of the state would cease to exist. Our
defense industry would be crippled—perhaps beyond re-
covery. This would open the way for Russian ex-
pansionism throughout the world. They didn't need
much of an opening; a devastating blow to our economy
such as an earthquake would cause might prove the trig-
ger for World War III. And no amount of pre-earth-
quake preparation would do much good, not in the face
of such awesome power.
My hands tightened into fists as I walked, but my
pace never slackened and I never looked back. This was
my game now, and I was playing it.
Starting up a steep hill, I surveyed the surroundings
for a likely place to take out my erstwhile shadow. The
people had all been evacuated from this area. Only
burned out remnants of houses remained. And a black-
ened shell of an old car. This was the spot.
Without breaking stride, I spun around and hunkered
down behind the frame of the car. My quarry came into
sight—an overweight Mexican with Pancho Villa han-
dlebar mustachios. All he needed was the huge som-
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EARTH SHAKER
45
brero to complete the movie stereotype. He grunted and
strained to match the pace I'd set. He hardly noticed
that I was no longer walking ahead of him. And that
-made it easy to wrap a strong forearm around his thick
neck as he passed my hiding spot.
I made one mistake that might have been fatal. I un-
derestimated an opponent. He might not tail well; he
might look like a fat slob unable to do anything more
strenuous than pushing himself away from the dinner
table; he might seem a simpleton—but he was none of
those things. Powerful muscles in his neck tensed and
robbed my choke of its power. A heavy elbow rocketed
back and landed in the middle of my stomach. I had
only a split second to tense up to resist.
It still knocked me backwards. I fell heavily when my
heel caught on one of the car's discarded wheels. The
man spun and would have been on me if I hadn't reacted
instinctively. I rolled and moved under the car, wiggling
and twisting to get away from him. He hadn't gotten a
good look at me. He might guess who his attacker was
but he couldn't know, not for certain.
I wanted to keep it that way. Confusion to my ene-
mies; let them have the same handicaps I operated un-
der.
He made a mistake then. He tried to follow me under
the car. With his bulk, only one thing could happen: he
got stuck. I came out from under on the far side of the
auto's frame and hurtled over the top to land behind
him before he successfully backed out. I coolly mea-
sured my blow. A karate chop to the side of his neck
dropped him like a gored ox.
But he was strong. I didn't dare underestimate him
again. J jabbed my fist directly for his exposed Adam's
apple. He made an ugly choking noise, then fell heavily
against the car, unconscious.
I let out a long sigh of relief. The adrenaline still
pumped through my body, but the strain was gone now.
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I dropped to my knees beside his limp form and
searched his pockets. I swore under my breath when I
pulled out a small brown leather case made in Oaxaca
containing an ID card and an impressive gold badge.
Mexican Secret Police.
I'd just coldcocked one of their undercover cops.
I peered at the name on the ID, but it meant nothing
to me. Jaime Esquibel. I put the case, ID, and badge into
my pocket, then pondered my next move. If I simply
walked off and left Senor Jaime Esquibel to regain con-
sciousness, he would see to it that I'd be deported from
Mexico before dawn. On the other hand, killing him
didn't seem to be in the best interests of cooperation
between the United States and Mexico. Foreign govern-
ments get upset easily when U.S. intelligence agents en-
tered their country and started eliminating their secret
police.
There seemed only one course of action open to me
and I took it. Stripping Esquibel of all his clothing and
leaving him naked would produce the desired results.
Esquibel would never be able to report this indignity to
his superiors; if he did, it would mean his job. He'd have
to steal some clothing on his own and report back that
he'd lost me—then make me his personal project. It was
dangerous having a secret policeman swear a vendetta
against me, but it would buy time I desperately needed.
After pocketing his car keys, I piled the man's
clothing in a small pit, then lit them using his cigarette
lighter. I watched as the flames slowly devoured the
clothing before I tossed the lighter in on top. When the
volatile fluid inside exploded, a fiery rain cascaded
around us, I was satisfied. Esquibel was in no position to
do me immediate harm.
I walked briskly back toward the museum. I hoped
that this little escapade hadn't allowed Ortiz to get
away.
Luck was with me again. Just as I came up to the
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47
buckled pavement in front of the museum, Ortiz and
Alvarez walked out onto the white marble steps. They
talked briefly—about Ortiz' loan to the museum, I
guessed from the way Alvarez smiled. They shook hands
and Ortiz started down the steps toward a black limo.
Esquibel's battered Chevy was parked nearby. I
fumbled out his car keys and got in. The engine didn't
want to start. The Mexican Secret Police don't maintain
their vehicles very well. I struggled with the damned en-
gine until it emitted a series of coughs that sounded seri-
ous, but the engine turned over and I managed to get the
car into gear in time to follow the sleek black chauffeur-
driven car of Sehor Pedro Ortiz.
I now felt as if everything moved with me. Progress
was being made.
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THREE
The car came directly at me. I swerved and felt metal
grinding harshly against metal. The side of the Chevy
gave a little, but the collision was minor. I swore under
my breath and honked the horn, and then I realized that
this was normal traffic in Mexico City. I rolled down the
window and cursed the other driver. It made me feel
better, and surprisingly, it seemed to relieve the other
man, too. But he knew how to react to the accident.
He shouted back a string of Spanish so rapid I
couldn't begin to follow it, but I could pick out certain
words here and there in his voluble tirade indicating that
my sexual preferences tended to animals and small boys
and that I had ridden my bicycle to my parents' wed-
ding. Then the flow of traffic separated us.
Driving in Mexico City convinced me that Jaime Es-
quibel had specifically asked his superiors in the Mexi-
can Secret Police for this battered car. He probably had
to pay for any damage done, so why not start off with a
wreck? This Chevy drove as if it had lost three demoli-
tion derbies. The brakes were nonexistent, but this
seemed endemic in the city. No one bothered to brake as
long as their horns worked. I tried mine out again as a
taxi cut in front of me, deftly gliding along my right
front fender. I gunned the straining engine, heard it pro-
I test asthmatically, then changed lanes just as the taxi
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driver had done—without looking.
Luck was with me. Not only did I miss being killed,
but Pedro Ortiz' chauffeured limo was still in sight, The
crush of the traffic made tailing him difficult, but
challenging. I felt for the first time that I was on the
right track, that I had accomplished something worth-
while.
The traffic thinned as we sped out of the city. I
dropped back half a mile to prevent the driver ahead
from noticing he had acquired a battered Chevy shad-
ow. The countryside around Mexico City was less
swampy and more scenic. The high plains provided
much vegetation and not a little bit of terrain that the
travel brochures would describe as "scenic." I leaned
back in the car, ignored the spring trying to poke
through the seat under me, and drove.
I continued past the ten-foot, walled mansion even
though I noticed Ortiz had turned in there. I wanted the
driver—and possibly Ortiz, if he'd noticed me—to think
I was just another car driving along the road. It also
gave me a chance to see past the iron gates and into the
enclosure.
David Hawk hadn't been able to find out much about
where Ortiz got his obviously large supply of money, If
it came strictly from dealing in pre-Columbian art trea-
sures, then the business paid better than I would have
thought possible. Inside the rock walls, the hacienda
reeked of money. A brief glance made me think the
Hearst castle at San Simeon was a slum in comparison.
Before I had much chance to sightsee, I'd passed the
gate and got only a view of an unadorned, ten-foot-high
rock wall. When I sighted a grove of jacaranda trees, I
pulled off the road and parked the Chevy. It died with a
terminal gasp that hinted that starting it again might
prove impossible. Even slamming the door shut as I got
out had an air of finality about it. The entire frame
seemed to shake, then sag in defeat. The Mexican Secret
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51
Police certainly didn't waste much of their budget on
fancy cars.
I spent over an hour circling the perimeter of that
mansion. Ortiz knew how to live, I'll give him that. And
he'd also hired some smart help to design the alarm sys-
tem for the place. I could get in, but it wouldn't be easy.
The entire mansion was wired up like a Christmas tree—
and the slightest mistake on my part would turn it into
the Fourth of July, complete with fireworks.
Hunkering down beside a tree across the road from
the main gate, I pulled my sunglasses from my pocket. If
anyone came by and happened to see me wearing them,
it might prove difficult explaining since it was now very
dark. Ortiz lived enough away from Mexico City that
the city lights didn't cause very much light pollution. In
fact, Ortiz lived far enough away to avoid almost any
pollution from the city.
I twisted the left shaft of the sunglasses to activate the
audio. I sent Hawk a signal and in seconds he came on.
"N3," he said without preamble. "I trust you have
progress to report. "
The chilly tone of his voice told me that I'd better
have progress to report—-or else. Something big had
happened and I didn't like waiting for Hawk to tell me
what it was.
"I've followed Pedro Ortiz. I need information on
him."
I heard Hawk begin punching the request into the hid-
den computer console in front of him on the broad oak
desk. Finally, he came back on and said, "Looks clean.
In fact, we can't find much of anything about him. Some
dustup with afl Arab sheik a couple of years ago. He
seemed to be the victim, however. A phony oil scam. No
personal data on him, which is odd. We'll continue to
check the files. "
I frowned. No data on Ortiz struck me as ominous.
AXE files are the most extensive in the world. Any crim-
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inal or anyone even dealing with a criminal ends up in
our files eventually. And we tap into all the other in-
telligence agencies' computer files, too—-sometimes
without them noticing or approving. Not finding any-
thing on Ortiz in the DIA, CIA, DNA, FBI and half a
dozen other alphabet-soup agencies' computers seemed
incredible. No one passed through this world ac-
cumulating the fortune Pedro Ortiz obviously had with-
out making a small ripple.
"Is he the one?" demanded Hawk. "Is he Earth-
"A good chance. I think he's the man I saw in the
Paris library videotape. Can't be sure."
"Be sure, N3. Earth Shaker must be eliminated quick-
ly."
"Why?" This was the question I hesitated to ask.
"Earth Shaker has given us a deadline. One week. We
must deliver the precious stones in seven days or he will
trigger the earthquake. "
"Are you going to pay it?"
"Stones are being prepared."
I didn't ask any more. That wasn't my mission. If I
failed, the ransom would be paid. It rankled me, think-
ing of a billion dollars worth of diamonds and other
jewels being extorted in this manner, but time had to be
bought. The matter vanished from my mind as Hawk
continued.
' 'We have a report on the metallic casing found off the
coast of Hawaii."
"How did you recover it? You said it was twenty-five
hundred fathoms down. "
"We borrowed the Glomar Challenger from the CIA
for the task."
I whistled. I was impressed. Hawk had pulled a lot of
strings to get the use of that salvage craft built by How-
ard Hughes for the CIA. It had successfully recovered a
disabled Russian nuclear submarine from the bottom of
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EARTH SHAKER
53
the Pacific and had provided us with much needed infor-
mation on the current status of Soviet underwater tech-
nology. To use a piece of equipment as expensive and as
jealousy guarded as this one indicated the President
might be the one giving direct orders.
"The metallic casing," Hawk went on, "is slightly ra-
dioactive. " He paused, waiting for my reaction. If noth-
ing else, Hawk was a showman, He liked to drop these
little bombshells and wait for the appropriate response,
I didn't fail him. "What type of radioactivity? Like
that from a nuclear device? Has our Earth Shaker built
his own atomic bombs to set off the earthquakes?"
"Our scientists say that not even an atomic device will
set off an earthquake. No, this is more puzzling,
Uranium hexafluoride gas seems to be the culprit. "
"I remember seeing somewhere that radioactive gases
are released by earthquakes. Could it be that the metal
casing you found was contaminated after the quake?"
"That seems to be the odds-on favorite explanation
because the casing came from an industrial continuous
wave laser."
"What?"
" "That puzzles our lab types, too. The scenario for
what occurred off Hawaii currently runs like this: An
unmanned torpedo-like object containing the laser was
directed to the spot on the ocean floor where the fault
line opened. The laser was somehow used to detonate or
trigger the earthquake. The radioactive gas was released
and contaminated the casing we found. We do not think
adioactive substances were used. "
"But we can't be certain."
Hawk grunted and kept on talking. He'd say this in
his own fashion and to hell with the field hands. "We are
currently checking out the model carbon dioxide con-
tinuous wave laser found, but it is not going to be an
easy chore. It's a popular piece of equipment used in
ost freshman college physics labs and it has even
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found its way down into high schools. Thousands are
sold every year. Without a serial number, finding the
point of sale for this particular laser is virtually im-
possible. We are having to check out all others, and
whichever ones cannot be accounted for will be
scrutinized further. "
I shook my head. That meant thousands of wasted
hours. A lucky break would be needed to make such a
procedure work.
"We will check out your Senor Ortiz and see if he has
purchased any lasers recently."
"What steps are being taken in California?"
"Hunting for a single gas laser in California is similar
to asking if there are automobiles there. This is a high
technology culture we live in, N3, and California is at
the cutting edge of it. "
"Have the museums and libraries in Madrid, Rome
and Paris been inventoried?"
"Hmmm, yes. Some slight discrepancy in Madrid.
Seems the curator declared more missing than actually
had been stolen. Or rather, he stole a good portion of
the museum's collection for his own uses. The only item
of any note that is definitely missing is one of those
Mayan Codexes. This strengthens the link you are fol-
lowing, N3."
I agreed. Ortiz felt guilty; my acute sixth sense for
these things told me so. But whether or not his guilt
extended to being Earth Shaker, the mysterious self-
styled Lord of Death, was something else.
Hawk signed off, but not before warning me to be
extremely careful. I went to work, vowing to earn my
salary. That seven day deadline provided a fine, if dead-
Iy, goad.
Hugo cut deeper into the mortar between the rocks. I
winced as the fine steel blade of my stiletto sent fat blue
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EARTH SHAKER
55
sparks flying off into the night. But the sharp point
found its target buried in the concrete. I teased out a
twisted pair of wires. One was red and white striped, the
other blue and white. How patriotic, I thought.
And if I cut the wrong one accidentally, alarms would
sound all over the mansion.
I scraped off the colored vinyl insulation to expose
bare copper. I hoped my guess about how the alarm sys-
tem on the top of the wall worked was right. If not, all
hell would be out for lunch in a few seconds, I quickly
cut the blue and white. A fifty-fifty chance—and a bit of
memory from an AXE course on alarm systems.
Nothing happened. Letting out a lungful of air I
hadn't realized I was holding, I wrapped one cut end
around the exposed length of wire from the red and
white insulated length. A little more cutting and twisting
and I had the alarm system shorted out so that I could
trip any of the wall alarms with impunity.
I hoped.
But another problem now presented itself. Scaling the
ten-foot wall. Ortiz had hired the best to design this se-
curity system. Every tree was carefully pruned back,
making it impossible to climb up and jump over the
wall. I'd have to find another way.
Protruding ends of rock provided an adequate, if
small, set of steps up the side. Clinging precariously with
coes and fingertips, I worked up the sheer face as if I was
•limbing the south face of Annapurna in Tibet. It wasn't
Class Six climb by any means, but it wasn't easy either.
When I reached the top, I found another charming
surprise waiting for me. Like most mansion owners in
„Mexico, Ortiz had chosen to litter the top with broken
•ottles. The sharp edges gleamed in the dimness of the
-light like a million saber-toothed mouths. From my
shaky perch, I couldn't get over the top without cutting
yself.
But every AXE agent has to make some sacrifice of
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NICK CARTER
blood occasionally. As long as it didn't mean my life,
what's a pint of blood here and there? I'd been injured
worse in the past.
I started to reach out when my sixth sense warned me
to check the surroundings first. Ortiz had gone a step
further. Not only had he embedded glass in the concrete
cap on the top of the wall, he had also hidden cunning
little mines. Waiting, just a few inches from my hand,
was a hair-thin wire trigger. If I'd brushed against it, the
resulting explosion would have killed or maimed me.
It was no wonder the pigeons didn't sit on this fence
top.
I checked, looking for a pattern to the tiny mines. A
trigger wire protruded from the grey, flaking concrete
every eighteen inches or so. While it might be possible to
get over the top without setting off one of the tiny
bombs, it didn't seem likely. The odds were against me
even thinking about it.
Muscles began to knot along my shoulders. Hanging
on to my precarious perch was taking its toll. I began
digging Hugo into the top of the wall, forming a tiny
shaft deep enough to hold about two inches of blade. I
used this as a handle but I didn't like the idea of ruining
the knife's cutting edge. My mind raced for a solution
but with my muscles screaming bloody murder, I gave in
and dropped back to the ground.
I retraced my steps to the battered Chevy and checked
the floormats. As I'd remembered, they were rubber and
had seen better days—ten years ago. Pulling the one on
the driver side out, I checked it for holes. There were at
least five large enough to swallow a fifty peso gold piece.
Perfect.
I lugged the floormat back to my spot on the wall and
with some difficulty, climbed back up.
At the top, the mat flopped upward and almost
landed on the wire trigger. My heart skipped a beat,
then resumed its regular lub-dubbing as I maneuvered
my rubber pad around. When one of the holes was posi-
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EARTH SHAKER
57
tioned directly over the wire trigger, I slowly lowered the
mat onto the broken glass, covering the dangerously
sharp glass shards.
So far, so good. I used the handle on Hugo to pull
myself onto the mat. Glass crunched beneath me and
cut through rubber, seeking flesh. I kept going, making
certain not to touch the wire sticking through the hole in
the mat. With a quick kick, I somersaulted forward and
down into the estate. My tensed muscles almost refused
to respond in time to turn like a cat and land on my feet.
The jolt rattled my teeth, but my knees bent properly
and I rolled, robbing the drop of some of its force. I
came to my feet behind a tree, hidden in shadow. Strain-
ing for the sound of any alarm and hearing none, I de-
cided I was safe.
For now.
Infiltration isn't easy. It has taken me years of diligent
. practice to learn how to fade into inky shadows, how to
move with a smooth, liquid motion that deludes any
watching eye. No dogs rushed out to greet me. For that
I mumbled a silent thank you. Even better, no electronic
alarms, triggered by infrared or ultrasound, turned on
spotlights or bells. Ortiz appeared to bet heavily on his
perimeter defenses and left the interior alone.
Scouting the grounds produced nothing remarkable.
The chauffeur Of the limo busily cleaned and waxed the
car near a massive six-car garage, From the dirty light
bulb dangling inside, I made out no fewer than four oth-
er cars, all big, all expensive, all ready to travel. Ortiz
obviously enjoyed the prerogatives of the rich.
The hacienda itself was even more posh than I'd
thought. Thick, expensive teakwood beams protruded
from the walls at regular intervals—vigas they were
called in Spanish—and casement windows revealed
sheer opulence. Oroz was more than rich. He was super
rich,
Playing the voyeur, I peeked in window after window
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and found only lavishly decorated, empty rooms. Work-
ing around the house, I took care to work out into the
grounds when I came to the front entryway. That way,
I avoided the three armed men lounging on the front
steps. They were neatly dressed in business suits, the
telltale bulges under their left arms told of holstered
pistols.
Instinctively, my hand lightly brushed over Wilhel-
mina. She hung quietly in her holster, waiting for ac-
tion.
Not yet. The time wasn't right to start a firefight. As
sure as I was that Pedro Ortiz was our Earth Shaker, I
had to gather conclusive evidence. He might be a big-
time criminal but have nothing to do with the threat
hanging over California like a monstrously deadly
sword. If I played my hand and lost the real Earth
Shaker, not only California and the United States would
suffer horribly, but the entire world as well. I had to be
positive, and then use decisive steps to stop him.
Soft, indistinct voices drifted from an opened win-
dow. I moved closer, then froze. My sixth sense warned
of someone nearby. Dropping to my belly, I wriggled
like a snake toward the cover of a low shrub. Peering
through the tangle of leaves and limbs, I spotted a dens-
er patch of shadow on the far side, I inhaled deeply and
caught a whiff of perfume. A woman. And she was
spying on Ortiz, too.
AXE wasn't the only group interested in Ortiz, then.
But who else? I might be able to discover much if I prop-
erly inquired.
I rolled over and came to my knees directly behind the
woman. She was intently staring into the room through
a small telescope hardly the size of a ballpoint pen, I
moved silently toward her.
As I covered her mouth to stifle any cry, I grabbed the
small telescope preventing it from hitting the ground
and rolling off to clatter and cause attention.
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"Don't try to cry out,"
I whispered into her ear.
"You'll be dead before any of the guards can reach
you."
I relaxed my grip on her mouth as Hugo moved
smoothly into my hand. She tried to turn and face me
but Hugo was pressed on her slender throat.
. you're spying on Ortiz, too!" she said in a
husky voice.
"That's my line," I answered. "What do you want
with him?"
"We can't talk here. Too dangerous. There's a tool
shed over there." As she turned to point, I tensed. But
her motion was innocent. I glanced hastily in the direc-
tion she'd indicated, identifying the small outbuilding.
Since information gathering was the reason I'd risked
so much to get in, I figured there wasn't anything to lose
by going along with her. She seemed to be in the same
position I was; we were both intruders.
"Careful," she warned in a hoarse whisper as we
slipped back from the open window. "There are alarms
scattered all over the grounds. And the patrol makes a
round every twenty minutes. The time's about right for
him to return. "
I'd missed the patrol entirely. Just as I began to think
she was trying to con me, I heard the steady crunch of
bootheels on the gravel path circling the house. Pulling
her down, we hid behind the shrub until the guard,
armed with a small submachine gun, passed our posi-
tion. I debated killing him, then decided he presented no
danger as long as I didn't tip my hand.
"The shed," she said urgently as soon as the guard
was out of earshot. I followed her, enjoying the sight of
her perky behind as it rolled inside her tight-fitting
jumpsuit like a pair of fleshy, well-oiled ball bearings.
She was not only a spy, she was a well-constructed one.
She hesitated for a moment, then entered the shed. I
tensed, knowing what was to come. Before she could
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turn, my arms wrapped around her sleek body and lifted
her off the ground. Taken by surprise, she squealed and
dropped the small .32 revolver she'd been pulling from
a zippered pocket in her jumpsuit. She wasn't truly pro-
fessional; the slight hesitation before entering the tool
shed had given her away.
I spun her around and tossed her against the rough-
hewn workbench at the side of the storage shed. She fell
forward, her hands groping for some weapon. She
caught up a three-pronged gardening tool and started to
turn to use it on me.
Wilhelmina centered directly between her eyes.
"Don't," I said quietly. She put down the tool and
sagged against the wood bench.
She wasn't bad looking. In fact, she might have been
beautiful under the dark sooty patches smeared over her
face to reduce reflection. Her long, black hair was
lustrous and her dark Latin eyes flashed at me boldly.
She wasn't afraid. I liked that, Most men begin to shake
when a 9mm Luger is pointed at them.
"Who are you?" I asked, not wanting a lot of silly
preliminaries.
She shook her head and crossed her arms over ample
breasts. I envied that jumpsuit. I wouldn't have minded
being as close to her fine form as it was. But business
dictated a no-nonsense approach.
"You're dead if you don't answer."
"I can show you," she said after a long pause. She'd
come to some sort of decision. Figuring out what it
meant to me wasn't going to be easy. Those liquid pools
of darkness that were her eyes hid emotion well.
"Slowly," I said, as she reached into another zippered
pocket. She pulled out a small leather case. I moaned
softly when I saw it. "That's not made in Oaxaca, is it?"
The question surprised her. She straightened and
looked dumbly at the case.
"Why, yes. But what does that mean to you?"
"It's got a gold badge inside it, too. Right?" I read
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.61
low right I was in her startled expression. She was the
econd Mexican Secret Police agent I'd run across to-
lay.
S' Who are you?" she demanded. "l am Consuela
vraria Gonzales, memberofthe . . ."
"Mexican Secret Police," I finished for her. She
cowled as she flipped open the case to reveal the shiny
;old shield. "This is going to take a bit of discussing to
get straight, Consuela," I said. "We're on the same side,
)elieve it or not. We're after Ortiz for different reasons,
-naybe, but we're after the same man. "
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Nick Carter," I said. But before I could go omto lie
•bout my interest in Ortiz, she held up a finger to her
ips. It wasn't needed. I'd heard the footsteps outside,
"We must have set off an alarm. A silent alarin,"
Jonsuela said.
"Pick up your gun. We've got to get out of here.
hey'll have us trapped in another couple of seconds."
didn't even consider getting back out the door. The
ft footsteps came from that direction. I rushed to the
ack of the shed, dropped to my knees, and dug my
tngers under the edge of the flimsy aluminum wall. I
. eaved, my muscles knotting with strain. For a moment,
ne wall resisted my efforts, but then it creaked and sud-
enly gave way. I tumbled back but a large opening had
.een ripped in the wall along the seams.
Consuela was already on her way out. I didn't hesitate
second in following her. And just in time. The door of
shed crashed down and bullets filled the tiny
nclosure. The thin aluminum walls did nothing to stop
bullets. Heavy slugs ripped outward and whined off
Ito the night. I stayed low and followed Consuela.
here wasn't any way we could get out the way I'd come
1. I hoped she knew a way to get us both outside in a
urry.
"There!" we both said at once. Wilhelmina spoke
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once and Consuela's tiny gun barked twice. The guard
dropped like a gored ox. I glanced behind us and saw the
guards rounding the shed. Four more heavy 9mm slugs
from Wilhelmina's barrel chased them away for the mo-
mente
Consuela and I ran like hell.
And smashed into the ten-foot-rock wall surrounding
the estate.
"How'd you get in?" I panted.
"In a bakery truck, I thought you'd have a way out."
The guards were cautious, moving slowly through the
darkness toward us. There wasn't any need for another
of them to get killed. They could trap us like rats, then
flush us out whenver they wanted. If we tried to get over
the rock wall by climbing, either the bombs on top of the
wall would finish us or the guards would see us and en-
joy a little target practice on our warm bodies.
"We are trapped," she said angrily. "l will die fight-
"Do it if you want. I'm leaving here alive," I said, as
I used Hugo to hack down a sapling near the wall. The
once sharp blade became duller and duller as limbs came
off in my frantic slashing. A pole eight feet long was my
reward.
"What are you doing?"
"Can you pole vault?" I asked. "If so, see you on the
other side. " I didn't wait. Chivalry isn't dead, but I con-
sidered both of us professionals, and I wanted to give
her an incentive. She would be forced to go over as I had
done. From a twenty foot start, I ran, planted the pole,
and arched upward. My feet rocketed over the wall. I
felt sharp splinters of glass slicing my flesh but it didn't
matter. I'd cleared the wall. I landed hard, the impact
jolting my teeth together.
I waited for Consuela on the other side.
I saw her dark-clad form arching upward, but she
didn't have the height I did. She brushed the glass,
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screamed in pain, then a powerful fist of exploding gas
shoved her outward. She'd triggered one of the small
bombs planted on the wall.
I tried to catch her and failed. The force of the ex-
plosion sent her out further than I'd landed. She crashed
hard to the ground and stirred feebly.
"Do you have a getaway car?" I demanded. Trying to
start up Jaime Esquibel's car would take the rest of the
evening. Seeing the bores of a dozen machine guns
thrusting through that battered Chevy's windows wasn't
high on my list of things to do.
"Yes, over there." She pointed and struggled to get to
her feet. I scooped her up over her protests and raced
off, lugging her in a fireman's carry. Behind us I heard
the metallic creaking of the front gate opening to pour
out a legion of death.
"Put me down, dammit!" she flared. When I saw her
getaway car, I did just that. I felt hollow inside. What
was wrong with the Mexican Secret Police? The KGB
supplied their agents with unobtrusive, but powerful
cars. Stealing one of them was a delight. But the Mexi-
can Secret Police saw fit to issue only decrepit machines
that had seen their best years when Lyndon Johnson was
still president.
"A VW?" 1 asked incredulously. "What year? 1965?"
"1968," she said in a defensive tone.
I held back my comment and shoved her into the pas-
senger side. By the time I'd slipped behind the wheel, she
had the keys in the ignition. At least this air-cooled Ger-
man bug started more smoothly than Esquibel's Ameri-
can made junk heap. Floorboarding the gas pedal, I
twisted and peeled out, kicking up a huge cloud of dust.
I didn't slow down or turn on the headlights until we
were far down the road. Not a single lead slug sought
our backs.
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"We've got to get off the road and hide," I said after
about five minutes. "By now, they've got their own cars
in gear. We can't match any of them. Not a one."
"I know. I saw them in the garage," she said. "It is
decadent to have so many autos."
I shook my head. I hoped she wasn't one of the neo-
Communists who abounded throughout Latin America.
My job was becoming more complex by the instant.
"There," she said. "A deserted farm. All of this land
is vacant. Ortiz has evicted most of the campesinos. "
Her bitterness told me she didn't care one whit for
Pedro Ortiz. That made life a little easier for me. Fabri-
cating a lie to assuage her fears was my first priority.
Then I could find out what Consuela Maria Gonzales of
the Mexican Secret Police knew about Ortiz and why
she was spying on him.
I wheeled the dusty VW in behind the barn, then
gunned it through the half-open door. Brakes squealing,
I skewed to a halt inside. Consuela was already out and
closing the damaged barn door to hide us.
When she returned, I stood half-propped against the
car's fender. My arms were crossed and my right hand
was only inches away from Wilhelmina. We'd gone back
to our cautious truce,
"Nick Carter, eh?" she said, turning and walking
seductively over to one of the deserted horse stalls. She
turned and made a production of pulling out her .32 and
putting it on a small box. Consuela dropped flat on her
back in the fragrant hay, well away from the weapon. It
was an overture I could respond to in kind. Wilhelmina
thunked down heavily beside her sister pistol and I
gratefully rested my tired body in the hay beside Con-
suela.
"Nick Carter," I confirmed. "With Interpol."
"Interpol?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "But you
are American. You speak passable Spanish, but your
accent is terrible."
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"American, yes, but Interpol hires many different na-
tionalities. Especially for specific cases."
"Specific cases?" Her brow furrowed even more.
"You are a mercenary hiring out to the highest bidder?"
"I do a job. Interpol is a good outfit to work for,
especially in matters of art theft."
"Ab Puch?" she asked.
"What?" Then I smiled slowly and nodded. "Ab
Puch," I agreed, my mind racing. The way she'd said it
made it sound like a name. But it wasn't Spanish. I
guessed it was Mayan. Mayan equalled Pedro Ortiz in
my equation.
"You are good. You've never heard of Ab Puch be-
fore. By that name." I admitted as much. She had
bought mystory about Interpol. Let the Mexican Secret
Police agent think she was catching me off base
elsewhere and she wouldn't question me too closely on
who I actually worked for.
"Does that translate as 'Lord of Death' from Maya?"
asked, taking a long shot. My mental algebra had cor-
ctly identified X the unknown. She nodded, confirm-
ing my guess.
"What is your interest in Ortiz?"
"We're not going to get anywhere asking questions
and not answering," I pointed out. "Look, I'll put my
cards on the table, Interpol is interested in Ortiz. He's
suspected of masterminding the theft of various pre-Co-
åumbian artifacts. This is international in scope. Valu-
able exhibits from Madrid, Paris, and Rome were taken
during the recent earthquakes. Interpol, through sources
[ can't divulge, thinks Ortiz is responsible. But I can't
get a handle on the man. Not even what he does for a
living. "
Consuela nodded, brushing back some of the dark
hair falling into her eyes. She watched me with intent,
intelligent eyes, then relaxed. She'd come to a conclu-
*ion about me.
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"He is a geophysicist. He works for Pemex and other
oil companies. The man is a devil, a genius. He finds oil,
then sells the information to my government." Pemex
was a nationalized oil company. If Ortiz desired
anonymity and requested it, the entire Mexican govern-
ment would do what it could to insure it. A hot
geophysicist meant billions for the economy.
"That explains why we can't find out anything about
him."
"He graduated from the Sorbonne. A genius. And a
devil," Consuela repeated.
"Yes, I know what you mean. That weird forehead
and the crossed eyes are a bit unsettling. "
"He is a full-blooded Maya. He has been deformed
according to ancient custom. But that is not what I
meant about him being a devil. It is his soul. Or the lack
of one. Nothing deters him once he's decided on a
course of action."
Consuela continued talking, but my attention was
elsewhere. I somehow couldn't concentrate on how the
Mexican Secret Police wanted Ortiz for smuggling when
Consuela's jumpsuit was unzipped far enough for me to
see the nut brown swell of her breasts. Her voice trailed
off and she rolled over so we were side by side. She
looked at me knowingly, business was forgotten in a
passionate kiss.
Lips crushed lips until we were both left gasping for
air. Then pur hands began working feverishly. Getting
naked seemed the most important thing at the moment.
My eyes never left Consuela as she skinned out of the
tight jumpsuit. She wasn't pretty—she was gorgeous.
Every curve was perfectly placed, every square inch of
naked flesh wondrously smooth and inviting.
I kissed her lips, then moved down the line of her jaw.
When I reached the hollow of her swanlike throat, she
was moaning in pleasure.
"Yes, Nick, yes. Démelo todo, give it all to me!"
Her legs parted in wanton invitation. I kissed lower,
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my tongue lightly teasing the flesh at the bottom of the
deep cleft between her firm young breasts. Her fingers
laced through my hair and tried to force my face lower,
down into the fragrant, fleecy, lust-dampened mound
between her legs. I resisted. I didn't want to miss any-
thing of her wonderful breasts.
I worked up one of the cones and found the hard little
brown bud pulsing hotly at the crest. She moaned and
writhed under me. Her arousal fed mine. My manhood
rose and hardened into an erection that hurt.
"Nick, hurry. In me. I need you in me!"
I couldn't resist that Siren's call any longer. Her legs
parted even wider, and I rolled between those smooth
brown thiéhs, Her nimble fingers gripped my hot, hard
length and pulled me directly into her moist, hot center.
We both gasped as I buried myself in her.
The world spun. I was surrounded, comforted,
aroused. My hips began grinding. I thrust deeply into
her soft, yielding body. She rose up to meet my passion-
ate strokes. Her crotch, wet and demanding, ground
into mine.
We soared, our bodies locked together in the most
intimate fashion humanly possible. She gasped, tensed
all over, and then cried out her need. The climax slowly
abated in Consuela's trim body, then I felt her gripping
down around me as if I'd thrust into a surgeon's glove
filled with lava.
"Fast, Nick, fast! And hard!" Her fingernails cut into
my flesh to urge me on to greater exertions. She didn't
have to; I had to possess her. My hips exploded in a
frenzy of movement. Trying to split her apart all the way
to the chin, I lost myself in her.
A climax rocketed through both of us as I spilled my
hot seed. We strained together for a few seconds more,
then sighed and collapsed, holding one another tightly.
"Danger always makes me need someone like you,
Nick," she said.
I softly agreed. The feelings I felt after a close scrape
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NICK CARTER
were similar. And my need was always great. Her hand
moved between our bodies and teased me erect again.
"We should allow them to search futilely for us," she
said in a sex-husky voice.
I knew just the way of passing the time, too. I kissed
her and moved back into position. The night passed de-
lightfully.
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FOUR
"Why did the Mexican Secret Police ever get called in
investigate Ortiz?" I asked as we drove along the road
'ward Mexico City the next morning. Being with Con-
aela the night before had allowed me to get my mind
ff the approaching deadline that Earth Shaker—Pedro
set for destroying California,
Six days. It could be an eternity or a microsecond.
"You mean why wasn't the local police allowed to
andle it?" She pursed her lips in a delightful manner,
aen continued. "They are not so very good in some
lings. They are able to hand out the occasional ticket
traffic violations, but little else. Nothing of this scale
permitted them. Ortiz is stealing our national heritage
ld smuggling it from the country. This cannot be
3rmitted to continue. Look at what has happened to
_gypt. She is stripped of her most valuable artifacts;
are in British museums. Pedro Ortiz is stealing our
easures and shipping them from Mexico. I will stop
m."
There was no denying Consuela's passion for the sub-
ct, but I wondered if my lovely companion and partner
this mission wasn't lying to me. The "Ab Puch" refer-
•Ice had been explained last night. Ab Puch meant Lord
Death in Mayan. The original warning to Hawaii had
ten signed by him: Earth Shaker was David Hawk's
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code name for this project. Was Consuela Maria
Gonzales lying about her involvement? I didn't doubt
she was with the Mexican Secret Police. But Latin
American countries don't trot out their Secret Police for
mere theft, or for paltry smuggling off the coast. If any-
thing, smuggling was almost a national sport. Except for
revolution, it was the main preoccupation of most Latin
American countries.
"Have you been able to figure out where Ortiz has
hidden the artifacts he's stolen?"
"All we know is that they are not here, not in Mexico
City. I feel that he has smuggled them to his villa in the
Yucatan. It is reputedly immense—so immense and re-
mote that an entire temple could be hidden there and no
one would be the wiser. It is good we work together
now. It will make finding those artifacts Interpol is in-
terested in and those we wish to recover that much eas-
ier."
"You wouldn't want to take all the pre-Columbian
goodies, would you? You mentioned Egypt. They've
gotten very nationalistic about their history. Do I have
any guarantee that the items Ortiz has stolen will be re-
turned to their proper museums and libraries?"
Frankly, I didn't care if they ever got back to Europe
or not. If anything, I felt they belonged in Mexico where
they had originated, but I had to play my role.
"We will see, But first, we must find those things Ortiz
has stolen. I am sure they are in the Yucatan, in his
pyramid."
The idea of an entire Mayan pyramid hidden away in
someone's backyard struck me as absurd until I remem-
bered the size of Ortiz' local estate. It made some of the
mansions in Beverly Hills look like tool sheds. It was
more than possible Ortiz had an even grander estate in
the jungles of the Yucatan.
If so, that was where I'd have to go to find the secret
Of his earthquake generator.
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"His wealth is above reproach," continued Consuela.
"The royalties he receives from Pemex and other large
oil producers are immense. He is a genius in discovering
oil. It is said no one knows what is beneath the surface
better than Pedro Ortiz."
"Does he travel outside the country much?" I probed.
"Has he heen to Europe recently?"
"Yes," Consuela said, nodding. A strand of her black
hair caught the sun and reflected back blue-black high-
lights. I wished I didn't have to concentrate so much on
work. She was beautiful. "He has been on an around-
the-world tour: Europe and the Middle East to discuss
oil explorations with an Arab sheik, then to Japan for
discussions with an oil firm there about drilling in the
Sea of Japan, and then to Hawaii."
She shrugged. "Vacation. Everyone needs one."
"Then he went to California and back down here," I
finished for her.
"You know. Or you guessed."
I guessed, but I couldn't tell her. That meant Ortiz
had already planted the earthquake generator. When-
ever he desired to shake up an entire state, all he had to
do was sit back and flip a switch. But what did this have
to do with the laser found off the coast of Hawaii?
"Does he know anything about laser technology?"
"Lasers? I do not know. Probably. He is very smart.
Even more than that. A brujo. He knows things that are
impossible for mere mortals to know. Why do you ask
about this?"
"Nothing, really. But there is one matter I have to ask
about. "
Consuela turned, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"What is that?"
"Do you know a'Jaime Esquibel?"
"Jaime? But of course. He is assigned to a different
" Her voice trailed off and
department. He follows .
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she looked at me more sharply. "Why do you ask?"
I explained about my encounter with Esquibel,
reached into my pocket, and tossed her the leather case
containing the gold badge and ID inside. Consuela took
it and studied the contents for a moment, then burst out
laughing.
"Jaime will kill you for that! He is so much the Plude.
Oh, Nick, you have made an enemy for life." She
laughed so hard tears ran down her cheeks.
"You sound awfully happy about it."
"He is such a . . . pato cojo. This will make him less
arrogant. But you must be careful with him. He is most
dangerous. "
I guessed as much. He looked fat but muscle layered
strong and firm underneath his flabby exterior. De-
termination coupled with skill could wreck my job. All
that remained was deciphering the half statements Con-
suela made concerning the man's mission with the Mexi-
can Secret Police. It sounded as if he trailed known
agents of foreign governments. Did Interpol count? I
doubted it. Interpol isn't an investigatory agency in the
strictest sense of the word; their purpose is information
gathering and collating, not active field work. Many had
heard of them but few knew their true purpose. This
made Interpol a handy alibi for me—and now it was
blown as far as Consuela was concerned.
She was smart. She'd probably guessed already what
my interest was in Ortiz. I figured hers was identical to
mine. The Mexican government couldn't allow a man
like Pedro Ortiz free rein for too long, With a billion
dollars in ransom money at his disposal, such an am-
bitious man might decide to form his own country.
If the Yucatan seceded from Mexico, it would be a
severe blow to their economy. With a billion in jewels
and the power of his earthquake manufacturing ma-
chine, Ortiz would be invincible.
"I have an idea. Far out, but it might work," I told
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she looked at me more sharply. "Why do you ask?"
I explained about my encounter with Esquibel,
reached into my pocket, and tossed her the leather case
containing the gold badge and ID inside. Consuela took
it and studied the contents for a moment, then burst out
laughing.
"Jaime will kill you for that! He is so much the Plude.
Oh, Nick, you have made an enemy for life." She
laughed so hard tears ran down her cheeks.
"You sound awfully happy about it."
"He is such a . . . pato cojo. This will make him less
arrogant. But you must be careful with him. He is most
dangerous. "
I guessed as much. He looked fat but muscle layered
strong and firm underneath his flabby exterior. De-
termination coupled with skill could wreck my job. All
that remained was deciphering the half statements Con-
suela made concerning the man's mission with the Mexi-
can Secret Police. It sounded as if he trailed known
agents of foreign governments. Did Interpol count? I
doubted it. Interpol isn't an investigatory agency in the
strictest sense of the word; their purpose is information
gathering and collating, not active field work. Many had
heard of them but few knew their true purpose. This
made Interpol a handy alibi for me—and now it was
blown as far as Consuela was concerned.
She was smart. She'd probably guessed already what
my interest was in Ortiz. I figured hers was identical to
mine. The Mexican government couldn't allow a man
like Pedro Ortiz free rein for too long, With a billion
dollars in ransom money at his disposal, such an am-
bitious man might decide to form his own country.
If the Yucatan seceded from Mexico, it would be a
severe blow to their economy. With a billion in jewels
and the power of his earthquake manufacturing ma-
chine, Ortiz would be invincible.
"I have an idea. Far out, but it might work," I told
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Consuela. "Why don't we try to get an invitation down
to Ortiz' estate in the Yucatan?"
She shrugged, "A pretty good idea—but how?"
"Sehor Alvarez, the curator at the museum," I told
her, turning the VW toward the National Museum of
Archeology and History. In less than an hour of nerve-
wracking driving through the fringes of Mexico City, we
arrived.
Inside, we found Alvarez still transfering endless
umbers from one book to another. He glanced up
hen he saw me, then smiled broadly, his white teeth
shining.
"Ah , the graduate student from Los Estados Unidos, "
he said. "You are back to study more of this poor
-museum?" He motioned about him. In the single day
since I'd been there, the place had been thoroughly
-.•leaned, but display cases still lay on their sides and the
Nhibits were scattered on the floor. It would be months
Defore the museum was back in order—if ever.
"And I am a friend of his," Consuela said quickly. "I
go to the University in Guadalajara." The way Alvarez
smiled at her told me she'd made an instant conquest.
He, would do anything for such a lovely lady, especially
;ince she shared his interest in archaeology.
"What is your area of specialization?" he asked.
Consuela began a long and learned discussion of some
•;oteric point of Mayan culture I didn't understand. All
knew was in the tour guide. My preparation for a mis-
'ion is usually more complete; Earth Shaker hadn't al-
owed me to do my homework before dragging me away
'rom the Cote d'Azur and my well-deserved vacation,
"So," she finished up, "we need to see the stelae. And
•eproductions of the murals at Bonampak would be
wen better. "
"An interesting problem. The stelae poseno problem.
I'he Mayas were obsessed with time and left those mea-
uring stick calendars everywhere. But the murals? Im-
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possible. The area is closed."
"I've heard Sefior Ortiz has reproductions at his es-
tate in the Yucatan," I interjected casually. "Do you
think he'd let us examine them?"
"Sehor Ortiz?" said Alvarez skeptically. But Con-
suela fluttered her eyelashes at the museum curator and
soon had him promising her the moon. I'd be satisfied if
he talked to Ortiz and allowed us to establish contact.
Back at my hotel, I wondered if David Hawk would
approve of my wild spending. I'd ordered room service
for Consuela and me and, after devouring a prodigious
meal, we'd gone to bed to work it off,
We made love until exhaustion set in. We slept, arms
locked around one another, until a knock at the door
pulled me back to the land of the living. I woke up in a
split second. Wilhelmina appeared in my hand. Con-
suela was only a fraction behind me with her own little
.32 calibeq pistol.
We glanced at one another, both naked, both holding
a gun, then laughed.
"This is a paranoid business," she said, sighing and
falling back onto the bed. She stuck her gun under the
pillow. I stared at her for a moment, allowing the sight
of her beauty to pour over my senses. Her dark hair
framed her brown face perfectly. She seemed more an
angel than an undercover agent of a Latin American
country. She chastely pulled the white linen sheet up
past the surge of her breasts. "Aren't you going to see
who it is?" she asked.
I nodded and got out of bed. I pulled my trousers on
as I went, then tucked Wilhelmina into the waistband in
back. I opened the door a half inch and peered out. A
bellhop stood in the hallway with a small box wrapped
in butcher paper and tied with string.
"Sehor Carter?" he asked. "A package."
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"I see that. Thanks." I tossed him a five peso piece
and took the box. It was a standard AXE product, easily
recognizable to an agent at a glance. If it had been tied
differently or had different paper, I'd have been rightly
suspicious. But not now.
"A present? From a lady?" demanded Consuela, com-
ing over tö see what I had. All modesty had fled again.
She stood unselfconsciously nude beside me, peeking
over my shoulder.
"Not a lady. This is just some stuff I bought earlier
and had delivered." She obviously didn't believe that,
Even though I had no idea what was inside, I knew it
was safe to open and study the contents. AXE had many
of its parcels to field agents intercepted and took pains
to make sure everything inside seemed innocuous.
All the box contained was another pair of sunglasses
and a sterling silver belt buckle with a flashy jade inset.
Consuela shrugged and said, "Let's go back to bed. I
am awake again and feel like. .
" She ran her hands
over my scarred body to make sure I knew exactly what
it was she felt like doing. Reluctantly, I put her off.
"Let me wash up first."
"Americans," she said in exasperation. "This cleanli-
ness fetish of yours will cause all your skin to peel up
and fall off. Too much soap and water is not good for
you."
"Still, I want to feel fresh. For you." I kissed her and
then went into the bathroom. Closing the door and turn-
ing on the water in the basin to cover my voice, I put on
' the sunglasses. Twisting the left shaft caused a tiny static
pop.
"Well, N3, progress?" he demanded.
"l made the preliminary contact. I'm working on
. creating a chance to examine Ortiz' estate in the
'Yucatan. If he's Earth Shaker, that's where his earth-
quake generator will be."
"The radio trigger, rather, N3. The generator itself is
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buried somewhere along the San Andreas fault. Our sci-
entists are sure of that now. We have many men out
looking for it."
That had to be worse than looking for the proverbial
needle in a haystack. A magnet will pull out the needle;
one small laser buried near the fault—and doing who
knows what—seemed a long shot.
"I got the new sunglasses. What's different about
them?" I asked.
"Turn the right shaft."
I did as told and yelped in pain. The intensity of light
coming through the bathroom window was reduced by
translucent glass, but turning the shaft had magnified
that dim light a thousandfold.
"They work very well after dark," Hawk said. "Not
as well as a Starlight scope, but good enough to allow
you to see adequately on a moonless night."
"Okay. What about the belt buckle." The Larry
Lightbulb types in AXE labs tend to send items out into
the field to be tested that have no real value. It doesn't
matter to them; they're simply interested in a few more
squiggles in a notebook. I never knew a single field agent
to get through to them that our lives depend on their
experiments.
"The green stone pulls off the buckle. It's filled with
a quick-drying epoxy glue."
"Use your imagination, N3. Use some of the glue as
surrogate handcuffs. Glue fingers together faster than
tying someone up. Glue doors shut if you don't want
them opened behind you, I'm told you can glue a car
bumper to a wall and prevent the car from moving."
"Great," I said. "Just what I need. Something to glue
my car to a fire plug." These gadgets seldom worked
right in a pinch. I relied heavily on Hugo and Wilhel-
mina. They were old, reliable friends that had never
failed me when the going got rough.
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"Sarcasm will not accomplish your mission, N3. We
have only six days left before Earth Shaker triggers his
earthquake. The President is becoming upset over our
lack of success to date. N3, you've got to come up with
something soon." With that the connection went dead.
"Nick," came Consuela's voice, "are you talking to
yourself in there?"
"Won't have to, if you'd join me," I said, opening the
bathroom door. She came in brown and naked and
warm, and pressed up close.
"Good. Sefior Alvarez just called. We have a meeting
•th Ortiz in one hour in the hotel restaurant."
"Great. Gives us time for a shower."
• 'Gives one of us time for a shower."
"Not if we both take it at the same time." Which is
what we did.
It takes a lot to make me nervous, but having Pedro
Ortiz stare at me with his crossed eyes over the rim of his
ine goblet did it. The sloping forehead and those pecu-
iar eyes sent shivers up and down my back. I felt
?onsuela's hot thigh pressing into mine under the table;
case of nerves was so great she was shaking.
"Your devotion to the study of pre-Columbian works
s admirable, Sefior Carter. If most students had found
»ut that the object of their search at the museum had
)een destroyed, they would have shrugged it off and
gone to the resort at Cozumel or Cabo San Lucas for a
But you? No. You pursue other artifacts. Such
levotion. " He sipped carefully at the amber liquid in his
!lass, then carefully set it down.
A huge watch gleamed on his wrist—but that time-
)iece wasn't* merely a watch. Chronometer fit it better.
iverything possible had been built into that single in-
trument. I restrained the wild impulse to ask if it told
Vhen the tides came in and the phase of the moon.
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"You notice my fine watch, eh?" Ortiz asked. "I have
had it specially made. As you must have guessed, I am
of Mayan descent. The Mayas were masters of time. No
other culture has come close to appreciating time in the
same way they did."
"Obsessed with time is the way one of my professors
put it," piped up Consuela.
"Obsessed? Perhaps. I think not. Vitally interested.
Intellectually stimulated. All that and more. They had
calendars far superior to anything in any part of the rest
of the world." As Ortiz talked, his right sleeve pulled
back. I couldn't hide my surprise. He wore a duplicate
of the watch on his left arm. He might rail against the
word "obsessed," but it hit right on the money. Who
else but someone totally consumed by time wore two
wristwatches?
"A duplicate, yes, Sehor Carter," he confirmed.
"They will even show the phase of the moon and the
state of the tide. Stopwatch capability, naturally, and
much more.
I studied a small red sweep hand slowly working its
way across the face of the nearest watch. The cold chill
I'd felt turned arctic. I couldn't be certain but it seemed
that this was a counter marking off the seconds to a time
five and a half days distant.
The time when Earth Shaker had promised to devas-
tate California.
I'd have killed Ortiz then and there but I needed more
information. Was his earthquake triggered by a timer? If
so, killing him wouldn't prevent the earthquake. I'd
have to find out from him where it was and disable the
machine.
"We would greatly appreciate the opportunity to
study your fine collection," said Consuela, turning on
the charm. Ortiz seemed impervious to it. I wondered if
the man were made of stainless steel.
I shuddered visibly when I considered the fact that
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Ortiz might find her ugly because her dark eyes weren't
crossed and that her forehead was rounded beautifully
instead of flattened.
"I owe Senor Alvarez much. He thinks highly of you
as students," said Ortiz, as if considering his decision.
We all knew he'd come to a decision long before this.
We played out the game, however. "I believe he is right
in his appraisal of your devotion to . . . your work," said
Ortiz. "Very well. You may view my collection in the
Yucatan. "
This worried me. Transportation inside Mexico is
sporadic at best. And it would appear too suspicious if
we showed up after only a few hours of transport by a
plane chartered by AXE. Still, time worked against us.
Five and a half days—less now—and California would
be rubble. Spending a week travelling to the Yucatan
served no one.
"When can we see your pre-Columbian treasures?"
asked Consuela. "We are very eager, especially since our
vacations are soon at an end," I smiled in her direction,
silently thanking her for giving a reason for our haste.
"Be at the airport in one hour. I will fly you down in
my private plane. " Ortiz stood, bowed slightly from the
waist, turned, and left.
"He doesn't waste time," she said.
"You don't waste something you're obsessed with," I
said, finishing off my wine. It tasted like vinegar in my
I mouth. We were walking into a trap with our eyes wide
( open and there wasn't a damned thing we could do
about it—except go.
"I don't know what I expected," said Consuela, "but
this wasn't it."
She was right. Ortiz had one of the finest and newest
private jets in the world out on the tarmac, preparing for
takeoff. The Learjet Longhorn 50 had performance stats
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better than any jet fighter in the Korean War. It had a
greater altitude, higher speed, better maneuverability,
everything but the cannon on an old F-86 Saberjet. And
I wouldn't put it past Ortiz to have a .50 caliber machine
gun stashed away under one of those stubby wings.
"Welcome," he greeted us effusively. He threw his
arms around me in a manner more European than
Spanish. The way he moved told me this was a quick,
efficient frisking. He checked to see if I carried any
weapons. Both Hugo and Wilhelmina were safely
stashed where such a search wouldn't betray their pres-
ence. When he greeted Consuela in a similar fashion, I
wondered if he distrusted her, too, It might be an excuse
to hug a beautiful, sexy woman. Remembering his re-
sponses in the restaurant, it had to be the former.
"Allow my crewman to stow your bags."
Search them, then stow them, I thought. But I handed
them over, acting as docile as any lamb being led to the
slaughter.
"Such a fine example of craftsmanship," said Ortiz
suddenly, He bent down and myopically peered at my
sterling silver belt buckle with the lump of jade in the
center. "I have never seen one like it. Is it produced lo-
' 'A gift from an old girlfriend," I said. Consuela
elbowed me in the ribs.
"Excellent taste. But come, board my plane. We are
ready for departure."
The interior of the plane lived up to the pricetag.
Carpeting on the floor, delicate curtains over the win-
dows, seats more like those in a living room or den than
in an airplane, a wet bar on the front bulkhead—every
convenience.
Consuela and I sat side by side on what appeared to
be a loveseat with webbed seat belts. We buckled up as
the plane smoothly taxied out, the twin jet engines pow-
erfully whispering behind us.
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81
"We will be only two hours in flight," said Ortiz,
studying me with his crossed eyes. "Two hours to the
Yucatan."
"I'm excited about seeiwthe pyramid on your es-
tate," I said, more to cover my discomfort than anything
else. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was be-
tray my ignorance of the Mayas and their artifacts. I'd
also have to get used to his cross-eyed stare.
"So? It is only a small one. My estate is near Chichén
Itzå. In fact, it adjoins the city. I go there often to study
the ruins. "
"tell me, Sehor Ortiz, what do you think of the theo-
ry that the Egyptians travelled across the Atlantic and
'aught the Mayas how to build pyramids?" asked Con-
suela in a calm voice. She said it calmly, but the response
she received was anything but peaceful. I thought Ortiz
was going to leap up and rip out her throat. Only the
smooth acceleration of the takeoff held him pinned in
his seat. And even then I suspected willpower had con-
quered his insane rage.
"Ridiculous. What does this Heyerdahl know? No
Egyptian came to this country. The pyramids are vastly
different. Better. Look at them and see the differences.
Mayan structures have exterior steps. The burial
chamber is placed differently. They are masterpieces of
zonstruction, not trivial experiments of a petulant
Mayan pyramids are tributes to the gods, cele-
orations of a mighty culture."
Ortiz rattled on, his color slowly fading from red to
nis normal pale brown. But the way his eyes flashed told
e Consuela had touched a raw nerve. This was a dan-
•erous man.
As he talked on, I became aware of the content of his
words. He was advocating what I had momentarily con-
sidered. He spoke passionately of "freeing" the Yucatan
From the yoke of Mexican tyranny and restoring the
10ble Mayan state. I doubted he was even aware he
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mentioned those things; he was a true fanatic.
"Mayas are the true owners of 'this country. The
Spanish came later. They came and conquered with dis-
ease and superior weapons. We will regain our heritage!
We will!" Ortiz finished. He wiped the sweat off his
sloping forehead and leaned back in his seat.
I glanced at Consuela. She had blanched at his out-
burst. Her hand rested on her tooled leather purse; her
.32 was hidden inside. I shook my head slightly, We
were cruising at almost thirty thousand feet. A stray bul-
let puncturing the hull of the jet would explosively de-
compress the cabin. It might not kill us, but I didn't
want to find out,
"You feel strongly about this, don't you?" I asked in
order to break the tension.
"I do, Sefior, I do. Perhaps you, too, feel strongly.,
But that is of no consequence. Come, allow me to
apologize. Let us 'hake on our friendship." He thrust
out his hand for the second time in our acquaintance.
"Yes, let us shake."
The pun wasn't lost on me. California had five days
left.
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FIVE
The Learjet touched down smoothly on the runway. If
J hadn't been peering out the tiny port, watching the
ground rush up at me, I might not have even noticed the
change. The pilot was good; Ortiz bought the best. I
filed that away in the back of my mind. It was important
never to underestimate this peculiar looking man for an
instant. Simply because his forehead sloped back pre-
cipitously didn't mean that the brains inside the skull
had been squeezed, If anything, the cruel deformation
had intensified his mentality.
"My men will show you to your rooms in the hacien-
da," he said, standing. I glanced at him, wondering if he
prepared a trap for Consuela and me. There seemed lit-
tle doubt that he suspected us of being agents on his
trail. He was deadly, and took delight in this cat and
mouse game.
Then I decided he meant what he said. It was too easy
to simply have his men take us out into the jungle and
shoot us. Ortiz was more devious, more cunning, more
sadistic. Any man who could condemn thousands to
death and millions to ruin simply to obtain a few scraps
of a brittle pre-Columbian book was capable of any
cruelty.
"Where are you going?" asked Consuela.
"Certain business matters require my immediate at-
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FIVE
The Learjet touched down smoothly on the runway. If
J hadn't been peering out the tiny port, watching the
ground rush up at me, I might not have even noticed the
change. The pilot was good; Ortiz bought the best. I
filed that away in the back of my mind. It was important
never to underestimate this peculiar looking man for an
instant. Simply because his forehead sloped back pre-
cipitously didn't mean that the brains inside the skull
had been squeezed, If anything, the cruel deformation
had intensified his mentality.
"My men will show you to your rooms in the hacien-
da," he said, standing. I glanced at him, wondering if he
prepared a trap for Consuela and me. There seemed lit-
tle doubt that he suspected us of being agents on his
trail. He was deadly, and took delight in this cat and
mouse game.
Then I decided he meant what he said. It was too easy
to simply have his men take us out into the jungle and
shoot us. Ortiz was more devious, more cunning, more
sadistic. Any man who could condemn thousands to
death and millions to ruin simply to obtain a few scraps
of a brittle pre-Columbian book was capable of any
cruelty.
"Where are you going?" asked Consuela.
"Certain business matters require my immediate at-
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NICK CARTER
tention. They are nothing. I will join you for dinner and
then provide you with a tour of my collection. Adiös. "
With that, Ortiz swung down the short flight of steps
and walked off quickly into the humid jungle.
I pushed a handkerchief across my face, mopping up
sweat. It was quite a change going from an air condi-
tioned luxury jet to the intense atmosphere of the
Yucatan jungle. As soon as I stepped out, I looked
around, getting my bearings, trying to figure out where
Ortiz was headed. I urgently wanted to trail him. elhe
business that was so urgent had something to do with
the earthquake and the extortion demands—on that I'd
have bet any amount of money.
But his men efficiently herded us away from the plane
toward a waiting Mercedes 600. I hid my disgust at miss-
ing the chance to get Ortiz alone to squeeze the informa-
tion I needed from him, and instead relaxed in the air
conditioned luxury of the auto. It was a small reward for
failing to successfully end this mission once and for all.
It did no good trying to remember the route the car
took—it was little more than a tunnel through dense
jungle growth. Five feet off the road in either direction
would present incredible difficulties of movement. Con-
suela noticed this, too. She glanced toward me and then
squeezed my hand. For better or for worse, we were in
this together. Escape, if the mission turned sour, didn't
look too promising. It would take a full scale expedition
to get through this undergrowth. I didn't even want to
think about the animals, snakes, and insects waiting to
devour the unsuspecting.
But the mission had to succeed. There was no place or
show in this race. Succeed and kill Ortiz; capture or de-
stroy his earthquake machine. Fail and die and take
most of California with me.
"Madre de Dios, " whispered Consuela under her
breath.
I looked forward to see what had prompted this out-
burst. I sucked in my own breath and held it for a sec-
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85
ond. Ortiz' "hacienda" loomed ahead. It was so vast he
could have hidden one of the Mayan pyramids inside the
zourtyard and we'd never have guessed. His estate out-
side of Mexico City was incredible enough, but this one
defied description. Lavish beyond belief, the mansion
had to have cost several million dollars—even with
±heap labor. In the middle of the Yucatan jungle, its
grounds were impeccably tended. It looked more like a
golf course than an estate.
"I'm impressed," I said, meaning it.
"How can we fight a man who controls such wealth?"
murmured Consuela. She had a good point. It wouldn't
ne easy. But AXE doesn't assign its Killmaster to easy
obs.
The car glided to a porte cochere and stopped under it.
•Ve emerged from the cool interior of the car to the soft
-hadows cast by the roof, safe from the vicious sun that
oeat down around us. Quite a life Ortiz had here.
A butler came and bowed ceremoniously before
:aying, "Your bags have been taken to your rooms. Fol-
tow me, please."
Consuela and I exchanged looks again. Both of us had
.10ticed the plural on the word "room." Ortiz had split
up, but was it due to prudishness or a desire to reduce
our, effectiveness against him? There was nothing we
iould do but follow the lead set by our host and com-
sare notes later.
We went up a winding staircase. I couldn't help but
totice the teakwood stairs, the highly polished banister,
-nd the incredible works of pre-Columbian art gracing
he halls and virtually every table. The fat, squat, basalt
tatues weren't my idea of fine art, but then I'm not too
rig on anything prior to Frederic Remington. But I
ould appreciate the value and the care in choosing
hose Mayan relics.
"Sir, your room," said the butler. I went in, noticing
he heavy wooden door. If I happened to get locked in,
he old movie stunt of running a shoulder into the door
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would result only in pain and injury for me. It'd take
more than an ounce of plastic explosive to open that
door, if it "accidentally" locked.
I waited until the butler and Consuela were safely
down the hall before peering out. They entered a room
three doors down—nothing seemed locked arounq here.
That might suit Ortiz for the moment. But I had no
doubt that he was fully capable of imprisoning or killing
either of us whenever he desired. We'd walked into the
spider web and dutifully waited for the spider to come.
It wasn't a pleasant feeling.
My bags were carefully placed on the bed, opened,
and the contents unpacked in neat piles. I disregarded
my clothes for the time being. They had been intimately
searched before being refolded and put out for me.
Walking around the room proved an education in how
to jail someone in a cage of gold, The furnishings were
top rate. If David Hawk doubled my salary, it would
have taken a lifetime to pay off even half the value of the
ornately carved wooden chairs, the sumptuous sofa, the
intricately wrought wet bar, and the tables and mis-
cellaneous furnishings dotting the room. The rug on the
floor was of an unknown design; in this house, it could
only be Mayan. Small stone statues loomed fat and ugly
from tables, and four different clocks hung on each of
the walls. I felt as if I were trapped in a clock shop. At
least none was a cuckoo clock that chimed out at the
half hour.
Leading off to the right was a small, efficient bath-
room, The glass doors on another wall led out to a
balcony overlooking the central enclosed patio. I'd sur-
mised Ortiz would have a pyramid here; he fooled me.
Ari Olympic-size swimming pool dominated the area.
Small leafy trees and plants of species totally unknown
to me added a touch of green. Lounge chairs were posi-
tioned strategically to observe any activity in the pool
itself.
Not for the first time did the thought run through my
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87
mind that crime does pay. I sighed and leaned against
the wall for a moment. Crime did pay—and it was my
job to make sure that this time the payment would be
death.
Ortiz could lock nie in easily, except for the glass
doors. But checking them more closely showed they
were made from bulletproof glass. It'd take some doing
to get through them if the very efficient lock were
fastened. Examining it further, I discovered a small ra-
dio transmitter and motor arrangement; Ortiz could
lock the doors by remote control. I debated the pros and
cons of disabling the device, then decided to continue
playing the graduate student houseguest. The deception
wasn't believed, but it was all the cover I had.
Going to the bed, I idly flipped the snap lock on my
suitcase open and shut, as if I were developing a case of
nerves. This action activated an electronic gizmo hidden
in the suitcase that would detect any listening device hid-
den in the room. This was one of the few gadgets Special
Effects thought up that made sense. Pulling out a
metered device and peering at it is a dead giveaway—
sometimes literally—if anyone is watching. This detec-
tor reported back in a less obvious fashion. I felt the
latch on the left suitcase lock growing warmer and
warmer. Several bugs were planted. It figured, Ortiz
might not know who had sent me and he'd want to
know for sure. It would tickle his fancy knowing who
he'd vanquished.
Turning the suitcase on the bed intensified the
warmth and revealed the direction of the bugs. I found
three. One was directly over the bed, buried in the or-
nately carved headboard, Another one was above the
sliding glass doors leading out onto the balcony—prob-
ably placed to pick up sounds both inside the room and
on the balcony. The final one appeared to be in the bath-
room. Effective placement, I decided. Again, Ortiz had
hired the best.
Or had he done this himself? Simple electronic spy
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devices were easily within the ability of a topflight
geophysicist. After all, any man who could bollix to-
gether a device that created earthquakes could also build
a small microphone into a piece of furniture or a wall.
Satisfied I'd discovered all I could about the room, i
undressed and took a shower.
I wished Consuela had been with me to relieve the
mounting tension.
Dinner matched the surroundings: impeccable. I fin-
ished and settled back in a ponderous chair and studied
Ortiz. He seemed such an unlikely candidate to be so
wealthy. I corrected that slightly. It was possible Ortiz
had developed his incredible intellect as a result of the
way he looked. To be deformed in such a cruel fashion
had to twist a person's view of the world. He might be
overcompensating for what his parents had done to him.
It still didn't absolve him from the deaths he'd already
caused and the megadeaths he threatened.
"Sefior Carter, how long have you been a scholar of
the pre-Columbian era?" asked Ortiz, obviously enjoy-
ing this part of the deadly game we played.
"Not as long as I would've liked," I said candidly.
"My undergraduate major was in a different field entire-
ly. It's been only recently that the wonder of the ancient
world has come to my attention."
"The accomplishments of the Mayas were great.
Their astronotny was highly developed, both empirically
and theoretically. From my studies, the Mayas would
have developed an atomic theory within a few cen-
turies," he said.
"Are you telling me that they'd have been able to
build an atomic bomb?"
"A bomb? Hardly, Sefior. You Americans always
think in terms of bombs and war. There are many things
to be done with atomic energy that has never been tried.
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For instance, water is scarce in the Yucatan."
"In the jungle?"
89
"Yes, Nick," said Consuela. "That's one reason the
Mayas declined so rapidly. Their agriculture wasted the
arable land and there weren't adequate supplies of wa-
ter."
"On the contrary," said Ortiz. 'S They had a well-de-
veloped irrigation system, but as you pointed out, the
watersupply was inadequate. My theory is that a good
atomic pile could have been constructed by the tenth or
eleventh century—that would have solved the water
problem."
"How?" I was genuinely curious, even if Ortiz was a
madman.
"Simplicity, Senor Carter. Radioactive materials are
placed in pits or caverns. The heat generated is intense.
Pump in salt water, boil it, distill off the water, pump it
into the existing irrigation conduits. The only technolo-
gy required is the manufacture of the radioactive ele-
ments, and those occur naturally. "
"Such as the deposit in Africa that reached critical
mass naturally," I said without thinking.
"You are well informed in a field so divergent from
your studies," he said, his crossed eyes peering at me.
"I try to keep current."
"So I see. But I am fully confident that the Mayas
could have been the leading technological power in the
world if it had not been for the Spanish and their med-
dling in the New World."
Consuela visibly bristled at this.
"But isn't it true, Sehor Ortiz, that the peak of
Mayan culture and power came six centuries before Co-
lumbus? That they had virtually vanished by the time
Cortéz entered Mexico?"
"Come, let's look at my museum, especially the repro-
ductions of the murals at Bonampak that interest you
so," Ortiz said suddenly. He pushed back his massive
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chair and rose. I had the feeling of a devil rising from the
depths. What was it Consuela had called him? Brujo. A
male witch. It fit. He had appeared almost demonic in
his anger at her for challenging his pet theory.
Consuela and I trailed along behind him as he strode
down the long hallway to the far wing of the house. He
unlocked a door, and I noticed the intricate alarm sys-
tem on it. Even with a full burglar's kit, it would take me
an hour to get into this room. Ortiz smiled and ushered
us inside. I went into the darkened room, feeling as if I
walked into the open mouth of a giant monster.
The lights snapped on and I gasped. Surrounding us
on all sides were the most beautiful pre-Columbian
treasures imaginable. The majority of the statues I'd
seen elsewhere were less than attractive. Ortiz had saved
the finest for this room. Consuela knew far more about
the treasures than I and was even more impressed.
"Senor Ortiz, this is magnificent!" she exclaimed.
She walked into the room looking like a kid who'd just
found out Santa Claus did exist after all. "And the
murals. Look, Nick, the Bonampak purals!"
The walls were covered with intricate frescoes: danc-
ers in wildly exotic costumes, brown-skinned warriors
entangled in confused combat, lavishly adorned priests
and nobles conducting unknowable religious ceremo-
nies, processions of servants and warriors—all depicted
in incredibl€ detail.
"These are of the Yaxchilan style," said Ortiz proud-
ly. "Seldom do we find such graphic art. The norm is
abstract symbolism. Bonampak itself means "painted
walls." I wish I could possess the murals themselves.
These are only pale imitations, but the city itself is vir-
tually impossible to reach except by mule. If you have
the time, I will show you murals equal in quality to those
in Chichén Itzå."
"That's nearby, isn't it?" I asked.
"Less than an hour by jeep," said Ortiz, moving
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91
through the room. He hardly noticed Consuela and me.
He was lost in a world neither of us could share. Ortiz
relived past glories, and glories they were, too, but he
did so to the exclüsion of modern day reality.
"This is truly a fine exhibit," Consuela said, moving
to one of the glass cases under the mural. "Are these
replicas of the various Codexes in libraries around the
I saw Ortiz stiffen slightly. I went to Consuela's side
and stared down into the case. I suspected this was the
Codex taken from the Paris library. And the case beside
it held one that matched the description of the Codex
taken in Madrid. Here in front of us was evidence of
Ortiz' thievery. Was this accidental or just part of his
teasing game? Did he think we wouldn't recognize the
stolen pre-Columbian books?
"They are very costly," he said in a roundabout fash-
ion. "Bishop Diego de Landa ordered all Mayan books
burned. He paid for it by being put to the question by
his own Inquisition."
C' Those were brutal times," I said. "But today is hard-
•ly less dangerous. Look at the deaths caused by all those
warthquakes that have hit Europe recently."
"Yes," he said, drawing out the word into a hiss.
-'Most unfortunate, those earthquakes."
"Do you have this place earthquake-proofed? It
ould be criminal to lose such fine treasures to a quirk
nature."
"There is no need. This is not an earthquake zone,
nlike other parts of Latin America. For instance,
pakes have recently occurred in Colombia and Vene-
tuela. One is predicted in Panama."
"Predicted?" asked Consuela.
Ortiz shrugged and turned away. "I am a geologist,
'ut I know little of such things. It is possible, perhaps,
o predict such an event."
"By checking the radioactive gases being released
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near the fault line?" I suggested, probing to see if Ortiz
reacted, He didn't, so I pressed on. "I've heard that
uranium hexafluoride gas leaks from areas where a
quake is about to occur."
"That is one of the natural responses to an earth-
quake," Ortiz said carefully. "But it is minor—a mere
symptom of a more serious problem. But come , let's not
talk of such things. My collection is extensive. One room
will not hold all of it. Allow me to show you the other
wing, the one with the jade artifacts. You will be in-
terested in that, Sefior Carter," he said, his crossed eyes
again staring down at my belt buckle.
Ortiz walked off at a brisk pace, allowing the two of
us to follow. She whispered to me, "I know of quakes in
Q)lombia and Venezuela, but I have not heard of an
impending one in Panama. How has he heard?"
"How do you predict a quake?" I responded. Ortiz
worked many different games. The extortion for the
billion dollars in gems was only part of his scheme.
Something else happened in Panama. I shook my head.
If the Canal closed for any reason, it would be serious.
Serious, but not fatal. Airlifts could bring supplies to
places normally serviced by the Canal; in the United
States, transcontinental trucking and rail could be used
to take up the slack produced by the lack of shipping
from coast to coast.
An earthquake would destroy the Canal. The loss in
property alone could mount into the trillions. I didn't
even want to consider what it meant in terms of human
lives.
Pedro Ortiz played a big stakes game. The pot was
brimming with chips but I couldn't bluff. I had to call.
Ortiz had shown us the rest of his immense collection.
I wasn't sure how much it was worth, but it had to be in
the millions of dollars. When he had finished, he vir-
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93
tually ordered us to our rooms. The entire hacienda was
gearing down for the night, even though it was hardly
nine o'clock. I knew because every single clock in my
coom told me so.
I casually walked to the sliding glass door to the
)alcony. Without seeming to do so, I punched one of the
sashcords on the curtains that closed over the door. A
..-iny pop! was my reward. One bug was disabled. Now I
tould talk freely while out on the balcony.
Staying in the shadows for extra cover, I put on my
sunglasses. A touch to the left shaft brought sound.
rough the glasses filtered Hawk's gruff voice.
"Glad you reported in, N3," he said without pre-
unble. "You must terminate this mission as soon as
)ossible. "
"You said that last time. What's happened?"
"Earth Shaker is increasing the scope of his extor-
ion. "
"Let me guess. Venezuela and Colombia. "
Hawk rewarded me with a growl. I knew I'd upstaged
Aim. His dramatic sense had been thwarted—for a
vhile.
"Anything else you know, NY" he asked glumly.
"What's happening in Panama?"
"The extortion note there is specific. If a figurehead
,overnment is not immediately established, with several
aamed men pulling the strings, an earthquake will de-
troy the Canal."
"Let me guess. These men who'll be the real power are
II connected with Ortiz. "
"That's the irritating part. We can't find that out.
•s Earth Shaker is a crafty devil, Nick. You seem to
•e onto something. Is it Ortiz? Do you definitely know
"He knew about Panama's impending quake at din-
er. That clinches it as far as I'm concerned."
"With me, too. Terminate him immediately."
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"You've found the earthquake generator in Califor-
nia?" I read his silence perfectly. AXE had failed. David
Hawk was willing to trade millions of lives and trillions
of dollars in property loss for the assurance that it would
never happen again. "Look," I said, "give me another
day. We've still got four days till Earth Shaker pushes
the button. "
"His demands throughout Latin America are grow-
ing. He failed to receive one ton of pure cocaine from
Colombia. The demands from Venezuela were even
more absurd. He is no longer content to steal pre-Co-
lumbian artifacts. He is branching out into political
power, into organized drug smuggling, into virtually ev-
ery field imaginable. He must be stopped. Now."
I shook my head, even though Hawk couldn't see it.
"No, it's still too dangerous. He might have left notes or
a working model that someone else can find. Let me try
to get a handle on the device, what it is, what it looks
like."
"Okay, N3. Our scientists have failed. We've gone
through a dozen theories and nothing has panned out. "
"He sounds like he knows about radioactive sub-
stances. Any chance he's got an A-bomb stashed in the
San Andreas fault?"
"The probability of that is vanishingly small, N3.
We've compared it with the April 1968 Boxcar blast and
the thousands of mini-earthquakes it spawned. No di-
rect correlation. We then checked the December 1968
Benham test in Nevada. That underground test pro-
duced a quake a minute for the first two days and five
earthquakes per day—even after a full forty days. The
onset of each nuclear-spawned quake is different from
those already recorded. "
"What else can he use?"
"Quakes near Denver were caused by pumping liquid
waste into the ground. AXE scientists have dismissed
this, also. Too bulky, too cumbersome and obvious.
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Millions of gallons of waste liquid would be required."
I cursed under my breath. If I didn't know what I
soughty it might never be found, even if it was in plain
sight. This was at the cutting edge of science; even our
specialists in hidden laboratories outside Fort Meade
were in the dark.
"Ortiz is shrewd, I'll give him that. He might do
something obvious to hide the earthquake generator.
Haven't you found anything along the San Andreas?"
I grasped at straws and knew it.
"Nick," Hawk said tiredly, "that fault is six hundred
Land fifty miles long and thirty miles deep. To check ev-
ery square foot of the tectonic plate edge is a task that's
ätever been done, and probably impossible. Even if we
found the infernal machine , there's nothing to stop Ortiz
from planting several. If he succeeds, he can dictate
-erms to any country bordering the Ring of Fire."
The Ring of Fire. Ominous Sounding and rightly so. It
as the circling band Of volcanic activity in the Pacific
an. The places where volcanoes erupted tended to be
spots where the continent-sized plate tectonics moved,
ground together, rose up and caused earthquakes.
Japan. China. Latin America. The West Coast of the
nited States. All were prime targets for Ortiz. He had
wer, and like all those who had tasted this heady
Nine, he wanted more.
"Stop him, N3e Even if it means writing off half the
nited States."
"I understand." The sound coming from the sun-
31asses buzzed off with a static noise. I stood with my
'ack pressed into the coolness of Ortiz' wall for long
ninutes. David Hawk had written a death warrant for
countless thousands—-perhaps millions—of people.
The death warrant had been written, but only I could
iign it. The weight of such responsibility crashed heavily
jn my shoulders.
I turned and drifted as silent as a ghost into my dark-
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ened room, I touched the right shaft of my sunglasses
and the room sprang into brilliant illumination. The
light gathering capability of the treated glasses was fan-
tastic. This was one of the winners from the Special Ef-
fects Department.
No one patrolled the hall. I slipped out and went to-
ward Consuela's room. As I started to knock, I heard
muffled voices from inside. This surprised me. The
doors were thick enough to absorb any sound smaller,
than a scream. Indecision hit me. Should I barge in or
wait?
A vibration through the floor decided it for me. I
raced back to my room and closed the door until only a
fraction of an inch remained between door and jamb. I
saw Consuela being dragged out by three armed men.
She struggled feebly. One of them hit her. The bruises on
her face hadn't gotten there by a simple fall. They'd been
working her over. My hand instinctively went for
Wilhelmina. Only strong willpower on my part pre-
vented me from shooting the three men.
Consuela was being hurt and tortured—and I had to
let it happen in order to gain information. I hated it, but
there wasn't anything else to do. Information came first.
If David Hawk could write off a million people to stop
Ortiz, I couldn't allow my feelings to intrude now. Con-
suela was important to me; stopping Ortiz topped every
single list I had.
"Puta, " grumbled the one man half supporting, half
dragging her along. "A filthy Mexican Secret Police
agent. We should kill he! now."
"No!" came the sharp command from a fourth man,
one who had remained in Consuela's room to collect her
luggage. "Ab Puch does not want it. Not yet. She is to
be. . sacrified. "
' 'We sacrifice to Kukulcån! At last!" croaked one of
the Other men. His fanaticism made my finger tighten on
Wilhelmina's trigger. But I held back. I had a mission. I
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had to be willing to kill and also to sacrifice. Even Con-
suela.
When they vanished down the curving staircase, I
worked my way out into the hall. Deserted. I ran to the
head of the stairs and saw the three guards disappear
with Consuela out the front door. There were alarms all
over, I knew, but I couldn't be fussy about setting one
off. The most important thing was information about
the earthquake generator: how it was triggered, where it
was hidden, how to build it or stop it, whether or not
anyone besides Ortiz knew its secret.
Consuela had to be my catspaw to get what AXE
needed.
The grounds were pitch black. I tapped the right tem-
ple of my sunglasses and turned up the visual gain.
lawn appeared to be bathed in an eerie silver light, but
details popped into bold relief. Tiny metallic circles
dotted the lawn: under other circumstances I would've
thought them nothing more than sprinklers. Ortiz would
use them for alarms—or land mines. I scanned the area
and saw the tiny band of men shove Consuela into a
partly hidden building.
Working my way quickly across the lawn, I got into
position to spy. But the building had no windows, and I
had to depend on the partially opened door.
What I heard destroyed my plans.
Ortiz was saying, "We won't do anything with her
tonight. Tomorrow, when I have time. And mount a
guard tonight. All men in rotation. Carter is not to go
snooping around. If he does, kill him."
"ButAbPuch, you said . . g" began oneofthe guards.
"I said we must determine who he works for and what
they know of our plans. But he is to die if it appears he
is getting too close. We must find out about him, not the
other way around."
"Yes, Ab Puch," the man said contritely. I didn't
have to see him to know he was bowing his head and
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was on the verge of crying in panic. This Ab Puch, the
Lord of Death, wasn't anyone to fool around with. His
personal discipline appeared as strict as his dealings with
entire governments.
"Do not allow him out of his room. Watch him con-
stantly. Go check on him now. Obey!"
"Yes, Ab Puch, at once!" cried a half dozen voices.
Nothing more was to be gained snooping out here.
Consuela was relatively safe. I ran for the mansion. By
the time the door to my bedroom silently glided open
and a pair of crossed eyes peered in, I was hidden under
a pile of sheets, my hand cradling Wilhelmina.
For two cents I'd have put a 9mm Parabellum round
between those eyes. If they'd belonged to Ortiz I'd have
done it for nothing.
When I went down for breakfast the next morning, I
felt like a spring ready to explode in all directions. I saw
Ortiz slowly making his way around a buffet table laden
with fruits and other delectable items put out for our
morning meal. It took all my willpower not to test
Hugo's newly-honed edge against the man's neck. He
was a menace to the world and I was AXE's Killmaster.
But I needed information. Where was the earthquake
generator hidden? Could it be triggered by remote con-
trol? Those questions kept Ortiz alive.
"Buenos dias, " he greeted me, delicately nibbling at a
banana slice. "I trust you have a hearty appetite this
morning. We have an unexpected surplus of food."
"Why's that?"
"Senorita Gonzales has been called back to Mexico
City on urgent business. I find this most perplexing since
she said she was a student in Guadalajara. But it is of no
consequence. My private jet is even at this moment
winging her back to the hustle and bustle of Mexico
City."
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"She didn't even tell me goodbye," I said, trying to
take the sarcasm from my voice and put in a hurt tone.
I doubt if I succeeded, but we both now knew my act
didn't have to convince anyone,
"As I said, it was a most urgent message."
"How'd it arrive?"
"The message? Why, I have a complete radio setup
here. A satellite link with one of the Comstars hanging
over Ecuador. "
"I didn't see the dish. "
Ortiz tensed. Wherever he had the radio equipment,
complete with a three-meter communications micro-
wave receiver, he had other equipment too. Equipment
designed to produce earthquakes.
"l hide it," he said,
"Why's that?"
"The Mayas are my people. Such technology is out of
place in their universe. I separate the two as much as
possible. This is one reason the airstrip is located so far
off in the jungle."
"Afraid your people might be contaminated by
modern society?" I taunted. It was a stupid thing to do,
trying to anger Ortiz. I couldn't help myself, though.
Anger seethed inside me and had no real outlet. The
feeling of helplessness, of knowing that millions could
die at the push of a button by this man's crooked finger,
galled me.
"The Mayas did not develop such forms of transpor-
tation or communication. That is not to say they
couldn't have, given the time and need. "
"They were like the Incas," I said, sipping at a glass of
papaya juice. "They thought the wheel was a toy for
children. No culture can really progress without using
the basic tools. The wheel is vital for real civilization. "
"How can you say that?" flared the slope-headed
man. His crossed eyes glared across the table at me,
"The Mayas attained the highest civilization of any in
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the New World. The highest!"
"Which was low compared to European standards," I
added.
"They were denied their birthright by the Europeans.
They were imprisoned, enslaved, forced to abandon
their high culture. The Spanish practiced genocide.
Where are the Mayas today? I'll tell you! They are scat-
tered in tiny villages throughout Central America, their
spirit broken. That will change."
"Change how?" This felt like the payoff to me. He
was out of control. I'd managed to touch all the raw
nerves in this peculiar man's psyche. My hand drifted
under my jacket, fingers lightly brushing across the re-
assuring hardness of Wilhelmina's butt.
S' The Mayas were great sailors at one time. Our trad-
ing empire extended down into South America. Our
architecture was superb. Look at Chichén Itzå. A
masterpiece!"
"Chichén Itzå, yes, I remember," I said, as if think-
ing out loud. "That's where the human sacrifices were
conducted. Virgins were thrown into a well. While that's
less bloody than the Aztecs ripping out a still-beating
heart to offer to their Quetzalcoatl, it's still pretty
barbaric. Don't you agree?"
"All religions require sacrifice. If your belief is strong
enough, no sacrifice is too great."
"Tell that to the women who were tossed into a well
to drown."
s s They went happily, knowing their death was in ex-
change for a specific good for all their people."
"Fat lot of good it did the Mayas. As you said, they
were wiped out."
"Not wiped out. There are small villages of us in Cen-
tral America. We are slowly regaining our place. Soon
we will be a force to be reckoned with in world politics."
"You've done quite well for yourself."
"I will soon head the independent state of Yucatan,"
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Ortiz said proudly. ' '"Ihen the Mayan civilization will
start on another centuries-long rise."
"Independent state? I hadn't heard Mexico was allow-
ing you to secede."
"Mexico will have little choice. Our political power is
great and growing stronger daily. But the world will feel
the impact of the Maya. By the end of this century, it
will know we have come back to regain what is rightfully
ours."
"That's less than twenty years. A quick rise like that
makes enemies."
He blinked, his crossed eyes vanishing and reappear-
Ing with an eerie regularity. I hardly knew where to
tocus my own gaze. I shook my head when I felt my own
eyes slowly crossing in response.
"We use the Mayan calendar. It is only three years to
the turn Of our century. Remember, our system predates
yours and is vastly much more accurate."
"Well, that may be so. I know little about your stelae.
Do you have any in your collection? I'd like to see one
up close." Changing the topic seemed the only possible
course of action for me now. His anger had cooled and
had been replaced by a cold, calculating fire. This was
the man who would rule the world, given his earth-
quake-producing weapon. Somehow, the idea of a world
populated by slope-headed, cross-eyed rulers didn't sit
well with me.
I allowed him to show me the calendar stelae, all the
hile wishing I could sneak off and see if his men had
ollowed their Ab Puch's orders about not harming
nsuela.
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My nerves grew more and more taut. Ortiz played
with me in insulting ways and there wasn't a damn thing
I could do about it. I longed to do something actively
against him. This role of being the passive graduate stu-
dent, eagerly sucking up any knowledge dispensed by
the master, was growing intolerable. One swift draw
would pull Wilhelmina free and a single slug would fin-
iSh off Ab Puch. The self-styled Lord of Death would be
zone for good.
The only problem with that intensely satisfying
scheme was the possibility that I might not kill Ortiz
with my first shot. The way his guards hovered around,
tudying me with intent stares, attending to his every
him, meant that a second shot wouldn't be possible
fore my body was filled with a dozen slugs from the
guards' machine guns. I had to make certain I got him.
"Let's go and sit by the pool," he urged.
"Just sit," I agreed. "I'm not in the mood for a
swim." Besides that, I didn't want to put on swim
runks. It's hard to hide a Luger and a stiletto under a
iny piece of fabric.
"As you wish. But the cooling effect of the water is
most delightful on a humid, hot day such as this."
The thick, moist air outside hit me in the face like a
vonge. Sweat poured down my face. I twitched and
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began to shift in the nylon web lounge chair to make
certain I could reach Wilhelmina. The entire surround-
ings were so deceptively peaceful I wanted to scream.
And in spite of the tension hanging like fog in the air,
Ortiz sat across the small metal table from me in his
white linen suit, appearing as cool as if he'd just come
out of a freezer. His crossed eyes studied me like a bug
under a microscope until I had the urge to see how close
to his face he could focus on an incoming bullet.
"You should swim, Sehor Carter," he said again.
"You are overheated. It will do you good. One as fit as
you appear to be should enjoy the exercise. "
"Perhaps I will take a short swim, at that. Thanks for
the invitation. I'll go change." He smiled and rose with
me.
"I must see about some small disturbance on the
grounds. I will join you shortly. " Ortiz walked off, trail-
ing a couple of his guards. Another one stayed with me
as I went back into the hacienda and up the winding
staircase to my room.
As I walked I thought about Ortiz. He went to inter-
rogate Consuela, that seemed certain. I had to get out to
the building where she was being held not to rescue her,
but to get my information. As I reached the top step, my
toe caught the riser and I fell heavily. When I hit, I
snapped my forearms to the thick carpet as hard as
could to cause a sickening thud.
I lay still, waiting. When the guard rushed up to help,
I kicked his feet from under him and a quick choke hold
put him out. He passed out within seconds, before he
knew anything was wrong. I'd done the move perfectly
and he'd never know he didn't stumble and knock him-
self out. I left him where he lay, trusting that no one
would come along and disturb him. In my room, I re-
trieved a small bugging microphone that had been hid-
den in the suitcase hinge. The most dangerous part of
this little sortie remained: Getting out to the building
without being seen.
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Darting from one bush to another along the perimeter
of the house worked fine. Then I had a long stretch of
empty lawn to cover before the cloak of the jungle cov-
ered me. In spite of the feeling I was being watched, I
had to cross that green expanse. Settling my mind, I
summoned up all my physical prowess. I ran like hell.
No bullets crashed out. No alarms went off. I dived into
the undergrowth and felt its green, wet, slimy arms en-
fold me. NO one had been watching me, after all.
The building I sought lay only a dozen yards ahead. I
worked forward on my belly, seeking out the most likely
spot to plant my microphone. The bug was sensitive and
didn't require exact placement. If anything, it worked
best under adverse conditions. This was one of the Spe-
Cial Effects Department's best efforts. The aluminum
wall of the building proved a perfect spot to plant it. I
used a drop of the epoxy glue from the fake jade piece
set in my belt buékle to fasten the bug where it would
pick up best and never be seen—just below waist height
outside where a feathery fernlike plant hid it from view.
Stuck in place, the mike immediately began picking
up the voices inside. All that remained was for me to
collect my data and get the hell out of there. I twisted the
left shaft of my sunglasses and settled back to hear what
was going on inside.
"Panama is ours," came Ortiz' gloating voice, "They
have given in. We now control the Panama Canal."
"What of Bolivia, Ab Puch? They refuse to yield to
your demands."
"They have had a second warning?"
"Yes, Ab Puch."
"Then the earthquake will be triggered in two hours.
They will regret ever having defied the Lord of Death!"
A wet crushing noise came from behind me. I spun,
still crouched low, Hugo's point angling upward for a
quick thrust. Only thick green jungle growth surrounded
e, Turning down the volume on my electronic pickup,
[ duckwalked a few yards out and listened. Nothing. I
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waited and still no new sound came back to identify
what I'd heard, What was happening inside the building
was of more interest to me than some small animal stalk-
ing a meal.
I turned up the volume on my sunglasses again. What
I heard sent my heart racing.
"Take her to the city. I will be along in an hour. When
the earthquake is history and the Bolivian government
has learned to obey Ab Puch, I will personally question
her again."
"And Kukulcån?" came an eager question.
"And after I have questioned her a final time, I will
prepare her for the sacrifice. Kukulcån will smile even
more on our venture when he receives one such as she. "
Wherever they planned to kill Consuela was where the
earthquake generator—or its remote triggering device—
was located. All I had to do was follow Ortiz and then
all would come together for me. The mission would be
over—I hoped.
I turned down the volume on my spying device and
worked back into the jungle. I had to return to the ha-
cienda before Ortiz. As I struggled through the heavy
vegetation, I found the partially concealed body of one
of the guards—not ten yards from where I'd been listen-
ing in on Ortiz. The guard had been stabbed in the back.
Rolling the corpse over onto its side, I studied the
wound. A quick, silent death. The knife point had en-
tered the back, angled upward and expertly pierced the
heart. This didn't make any sense, especially if this
man's death was the slight noise that had disturbed me
earlier. Who had killed him?
I didn't have time to waste trying to figure it out. His
death might have nothing to do with me at all. He might
have gotten involved in a dispute over a woman or a
gambling debt with another guard. He was dead, I was
alive. That mattered, nothing else.
I raced up the staircase to the very top and saw that
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he guard I'd knocked out was stirring. I dropped full
ength and resumed the position I'd been in when he'd
ome to my aid. Pretending unconsciousness, I waited
or him to come around and try to shake me awake.
eluctantly, I allowed it.
"What happened?" I asked, my voice sounding like
'd been out for some time.
' 'Tripped. Get up."
I got up, pretending to stumble slightly again. It was
good act. One more scene and the play would be over.
"You're not swimming, Sefior Carter. Is anything
grong?"
"I don't feel like it right now. I had a little accident on
he staircase. Fell and hit my head. Real headache right
low." I rubbed my forehead.
"What a shame," Ortiz said insincerely, sitting down.
Ie gestured to the guard who'd been assigned to watch
ne. They talked in a low voice for several minutes, the
uard obviously not telling how he'd also been knocked
ut- I'd done it smoothly; he probably thought he'd
tumbled and fallen, too. And being human, he didn't
ant to admit his clumsiness. A perfect alibi for me.
All that remained was for me to find out where Ortiz
vas taking Consuela, and that would tell me where his
arthquake generating equipment was.
Ortiz turned away from the guard and settled back
lito his chair, sipping at the fruit juice served by a silent
aid.
"You expresed interest in the Well of Sacrifice, Senor
*'arter," he said. "Would you be interested in seeing it?
'he history surrounding it is impressive. Edward
lerbert Thompson discovered this particular cenote
round 1890. It is the oldest and most interesting in this
ntire region. "
"Sacrifices to a well," I mused. "Yes, that sounds in-
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triguing. Where is this well?"
I knew this was what I'd been waiting for. When
Pedro Ortiz told me, all the pieces of the puzzle would
be together. His headquarters would be nearby. De-
stroying it and him would be simplicity itself.
"Ihe cenote is a naturally-cxcurring cavern rather than
a man-made structure," he said, skirting around the
datum I so desperately wanted to hear. "There are three
in this particular spot."
"And that is?" I prodded.
"Chichén Itzå."
Bingo!
"This isn't too far from here, is it? I seem to remember
you saying it was an hour's ride in a jeep."
"Yes, I've constructed a permanent road through the
jungle to the site."
"You must go there a lot."
"It is a fascinating portion of Mayan history. The
Temple of Kukulcån alone is worth the visit. Of
course, there are many other attractions to the city, es-
pecially for me."
"I can imagine. Let me go grab my camera and I'll
meet you out front. This is going to be great!" I didn't
have to feign enthusiasm. But as I went up the staircase
again, my high spirits dampened. Ortiz was no fool. He
knew how important that single piece of infor'mation
he'd so freely given me was; he knew I was an agent. All
he wanted to know was who I worked for.
I might never get to Chichén Itzå alive if he became
tired of the little game he played or felt it no longer mat-
tered if he knew who my employers were. I had to hedge
my bet. The guard still paced behind me, wary this time
of the top step. I lightly vaulted it and went to my room.
He waited outside, automatic rifle held at port arms. I
closed the door and made my decision.
This was a risk I had to take. I twisted the left shaft of
my sunglasses, Tight-beamed, low power communica-
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EARTH SHAKER
tion linked me with David Hawk instantly.
109
"I need an air strike," I said. "I know where the earth-
quake remote control is."
"At Ortiz' estate? Where you are now?" demanded
Hawk.
- "No, not here. You'll have to look it up on a map
because I don't know where it is in relation to his ha-
cienda. I want an airstrike that will reduce the entire
place to rubble. Maybe you should consider an atomic
bomb. "
Hawk appeared grim. He might H-bomb the entire
jungle.
"We can't miss, N3. Are you sure about this? Where
is the target?" I knew what had to be done. I was ex-
pendable now. If Hawk ordered in a strike, I was going
to be sitting on ground zero. I'd make the ultimate
trade. Me for millions of lives. That was my job.
"Theplaceis . "I gasped and cutoff my sentence as
a heavy hand smashed me in the. side of the head.
Hawk's voice turned to a static hiss as the contact
wavered. Another blow smashed directly into the left
shaft. I heard Hawk crying out, "Where, Nick, where?"
before the connection broke entirely.
"An American agent. You had a communication link
to the Vela satellite. Ostensibly a weather satellite, it
doubles as a relay and spy device for several U.S. agen-
cies. I missed the transmission last night, but this time,
a piece of cake, as you Americans say. " Ortiz stood over
me, surrounded by half a dozen men with leveled ma-
chine guns.
' "What are you talking about?" I grated out. My head
felt as if it had been converted into a low-mortgage con-
dominium for bees. "Why'd this goon hit me?"
"No more of this play acting, Carter," snapped Ortiz.
' 'My communication detection equipment is excellent. I
had difficulty finding the appropriate wavelength you
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used, but once I did, tapping it was simple. We know
what is happening. I am Ab Puch, Lord of Death. You
are a U.S. spy, CIA? I doubt it. Perhaps you are an
agent for one of the other spook groups. AXE? Yes,
perhaps. It no longer matters. You are definitely not an
Interpol agent. That is what I needed to know."
Ortiz mentioning Interpol told me that Consuela had
cracked. I had no idea what they'd done to her, but it
had to be awful. She wasn't the kind to lightly give out
information to save her own skin.
"You're crazy."
"Those sunglasses. Most ingenious. I see that they are
worthless if I do this." He bent the left shaft back and
forth until a sick snapping noise sounded. The micro-
electronics inside were fragile. His manhandling had
permanently ruined the communication function. I
couldn't contact Hawk now to tell him where to call in
the air strike.
Chichén Itzå would remain standing. Earth Shaker
would trigger the quake in Bolivia. And three days from
now California would be reduced to smoking rubble.
I'd failed.
"Come, stand. We go to Chichén Itzå. I wish to
show you everything about that fair, departed city. And
I might also show you how the power of the Mayan
empire will be restored!"
Gun barrels nudged me erect and quick brown hands
took Wilhelmina and Hugo. Then they totally stripped
me, examining every article of clothing. When the
guards were satisfied I didn't have a 155mm howitzer
stashed away in my socks, they silently motioned me to
get dressed again. My fingers lingered on the silver belt
buckle with the jade inset. This was all I'd been left with.
It seemed a feeble weapon against the power mounted
by Pedro Ortiz, Earth Shaker.
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Outside I squinted in the bright sunlight. The entire
acienda bubbled with activity like a pot left on the
urner too long. Ortiz's men rushed out, rifles or ma-
hine guns slung over their backs, carrying crates laden
•th his pre-Columbian art treasures. He was obviously
noving everything.
To Chichén Itzå, his earthquake command center.
"Blow up the building," he commanded. He had
*hanged into a costume that would have pleased a
k. Brilliant feathers adorned the cloak pulled
iround his shoulders. Kneelength shorts made of some
nimal hide covered his loins and on his feet were
nocassinlike boots. He carried a long scepter carved
•rom jade and used it to point, to gesture, to emphasize
-is every command.
Pedro Ortiz had ceased to exist. In his place was the
'arbaric, powerful Ab Puch.
I watched helplessly as his men carried a case of
lynamite out to the building where Consuela was. As
he building blew up, the explosion rocked the ground in
mini-earthquake. But my anger flared hotter than the
leart of any sun.
"She's dead," I said in a flat, emotionless voice.
"Not so, Carter," corrected Ortiz. "I only destroyed
y communication equipment. The satellite dish you re-
erred to earlier was behind the structure. I have no need
o communicate with the outer world, except through
ny power." He shook the jade scepter, "Consuela
vfaria Gonzales lives. To be sacrificed to Kukulcån to
nsure my success in ruling the world!"
At the mere mention of the name Kukulcån, his men
topped their activity and shouted. Their cheer reached
he very heavens. They waved their rifles in the air. For
horrifying moment, I thought they'd begin firing at
andom. But Ab Puch's discipline was strict. Not one
ischarged his weapon.
"Where is she?" I demanded.
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NICK CARTER
"What is she to you, Carter? The bitch is a Mexican
Secret Police agent, not a U.S. lackey. You have both
failed in your missions; I have triumphed."
What angered me the most was the truth in what Ortiz
said. My chances of stopping him now were slim. If only
I'd managed to get the name of the ruined city Chichén
Itzå to David Hawk. The knowledge that my death
hadn't been in vain would have made this humiliation a
little easier to take, As it was, Hawk was faced with the
necessity of saturation bombing all of the Yucatan—not
a likely prospect. He might call in an air strike on this
hacienda; he almost definitely would drop in a com-
mando unit.
They would find nothing. Ortiz was smarter than
most. He realized this base was useless to him.
"Into the jeep," urged a guard behind me. I did as I
was told, climbed into the back of the vehicle, then felt
chains linked around my wrists, fastening me to the jeep
body. The rusty iron lock they used to secure the chains
was an old one, large and bulky and with a hasp as thick
as my index finger. We took off in a rattling, bouncing
dragstrip start.
I used the rocking motion of the jeep to slump against
the side and work at my chains. The guard who'd bound
me had done a good job but he hadn't counted on me
tensing my muscles. Now that I relaxed, a small slack
allowed the links to clank freely. It still wasn't possible
to pull my hands free but I'd gained enough space to
work.
Jungle foliage brushed across my face as we raced
along the dirt road through the dense green cover. I
twisted and reached out as far as I could. A branch came
by; I grabbed. The vine cut through my hand when I
tried to jerk it free. Again and again I repeated this until
I ripped off a small branch.
Carefully pulling it upward until I found a tiny limb
with a single leaf on it, I pinched and worried at the twig
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until it broke off. The jostling motion of the jeep kept
me off balance but it also occupied the attention of the
driver. He didn't notice I had a stick small enough to
force into the lock on my chains.
A piece of spring steel is best for picking a lock.
Houdini often freed himself in times shorter than it took
to lock him up, I'm no Houdini. I didn't have a steel
lock pick. The wood splinter wore down quickly and
forced me to start all over. The bouncing of the jeep
continually threw me off balance. The vegetation
smashing into my faw distracted me.
It took almost an hour before I had the lock open.
My wrists were cut and raw from chafing. The metal
links of the heavy steel chain were discolored from my
blood. But I was free. Carefully pulling in the short
length of chain and wrapping it around both my hands
until only a foot-long segment dangled between, I
turned to the driver. He stared intently into the dimness
ahead. The leafy ceiling above admitted little light. No
amount of aerial reconnaissance would ever find this
hidden pathway,
That twilight illumination worked for me. I had the
chain looped around the man's throat before he realized
anything was amiss. The jeep swerved and we hit a tree.
I was thrown forward, but hung on to the ends of the
chain. One mistake now and I was dead. The driver
coughed, sputtered, struggled, then went limp. In anoth-
er minute he was cooling meat. Panting, I released my
death grip on the ends of the chain.
But another problem immediately presented itself.
The jeep was stuck in the thick sludge on the shoulder of
the road. It would take a few minutes to get the vehicle
out—and I already heard the next jeep in Ortiz' evac-
uation caravan coming up from behind. I had to get out
of there. Fast.
I picked up the driver's rifle, a Belgian Fabrique Na-
tionale FLN 16 assault rifle. This was standard issue in
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NICK CARTER
many of the Latin American countries' armed forces
and perhaps the best rifle for jungle warfare being sold
in the world today. It wouldn't jam with mud and dirt
like the U.S. M—16. Even better, it fired the standard
NATO 7.62mm round, a slug heavy enough to bull its
way through the thick jungle growth and not go rum-
bling off course like the lighter M—16 round.
Armed and free, I felt cocky and full of piss and
vinegar. I'd stop Ortiz. I'd show Earth Shaker he
couldn't mess around with AXE and the United States.
I slipped into the thick curtain of green just as the trail-
ing jeep came up.
I heard shouts, muttered curses, and the hiss and
crackle of a radio. I moved into position. There were
three of Ortiz' men in the jeep. Three quick rounds re-
moved all of them from the picture. I went to their jeep
and quickly emptied their rifles' magazines, putting the
extra ammunition in my own pockets. An important
rule: Never leave ammo behind.
But I was disappointed when I didn't find Hugo and
Wilhelmina. I felt naked without my friends.
I had no time to decide what else I might take from
the jeep. Another came up coughing and sputtering. But
this time they'd been warned by the brief radio message.
They came on, their rifles ready.
A quick glance told me •I couldn't fight all of them off.
I faded back into the jungle, ready to slough through the
mud and undergrowth to get around behind them. I
needed a jeep to get out of there quickly; barring that,
one of the radios could be tuned to an AXE monitoring
station frequency. Word about the location of Ortiz'
earthquake generating plant had to be passed along.
A heavy truck rumbled up and stopped. I peered
through the ferns. The truck was laden with carbon
dioxide bottles. I didn't understand that. When Ortiz
said he was pulling out of his hacienda in favor of a
more permanent base in Chichén Itzå, I figured he
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EARTH SHAKER
115
ould take his art treasures and whatever else he re-
uired. But a hundred gas cylinders of carbon dioxide?
Chat didn't make any sense.
I slowly counted the men I faced. An even dozen. Five
mad been in the jeep, another seven in the truck. All
Irmed, all ready to kill me. What was worse, they Nere
sed to the jungle. I fidgeted as a blood leech began
'astening its suckers into my leg. I winced as I scraped
he half dollar sized devil off, but it was replaced by
)ther crawling, sucking insects,
Retreating seemed my best alternative to staying and
)eing eaten alive. I sought firmer ground, careful with
•very footstep that the sucking of mud didn't alert my
)ursuers. When I found a dry stretch of land, I picked
•p my pace. Trying to keep some orientation in the uni-
Ormly green wilderness proved difficult. I had to stop
'.very now and then, close my eyes, and mentally trace
ny path in relation to the road. When I had directions
n mind again, I took off, trying to parallel the road,
oping to cut back and ambush the men one by one.
Behind I heard thrashing and cursing. Men followed.
started toward my right, -toward where the road lay.
Ore sounds, more men. I could only go straight ahead
Jr deeper into the jungle. Or so they thought.
A firm, straight tree rose up ahead. It dropped ten-
frils from its low-hanging branches that took root wher-
they touched ground. The sturdy banyan tree of-
ered me a quick route up to play Tarzan. I didn't swing
rom limb to limb on a grapevine, but I found it was
asy to jump from one tree to another without having to
ight the thick growth on the jungle floor.
When I came to a small clearing, I prepared myself for
little firefight. I laid belly down on a thick branch,
ooped the rifle strap around my upper arm for support,
hen waited. One man entered the clearing. Another and
till another. Slow, measured fire on my part dropped
wo. The third screamed and dived back into the curtain
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NICK CARTER
of jungle. I'd winged him, but there wasn't any way of
telling how badly.
Nine men and a wounded one were still after me.
I moved on. It was time to find the road again. The
vehicles might be left with only a minimal guard.
I was right.
Three men stood a nervous rear guard—two on the
truck and one on the jeep, I headed for the jeep, stalked
the guard, dropped the rifle strap over his head, and
jerked as I put my foot in the middle of his back. His
neck snapped. That sound was louder than the brief,
strangled cry he made.
The other two stared off in the opposite direction,
pacing and smoking. I crawled under their truck. As one
walked by, I swung the rifle in a shallow arc and struck
him behind the knees. He yelped, dropped, and I
pumped three swift blows with my fist into his temple.
After the third one, I felt the fragile bone there crush. He
died. But the slight noise had attracted the third man's
attention.
His machine gun swung up, I looked down the bore at
immediate death. Only the man's fright or inexperience
with a machine gun saved me. He pulled back on the
trigger while aiming directly at me. The gun bucked
savagely and rose to the man's right as spent brass clat-
tered out onto the road. I felt the hot breath of a single
slug across my cheek; the rest went into the truck above
me.
I didn't give the man a chance to try again. I swung
my captured rifle around and fired twice. Either slug
would have killed him instantly. The first hit him in the
sternum. The second entered his throat, angling upward
into his brain.
Six and a wounded. Possibly only six left. The odds
were getting better. But removing hired help wasn't my
mission. I had to go for the head man. I leaped into the
ancient truck, stamped down hard on the kick starter,
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EARTH SHAKER
117
and got the machine rolling down the road. As I passed
the two jeeps, I emptied my rifle into them. The slugs
might not have done much damage to the engines, but a
pair of flat tires would delay the men still out in the
jungle hunting me.
I roared down the road for less than two hundred
yards. The vault of the jungle suddenly gave way to the
brilliant blue of the Yucatan sky. An immense area
spread before me, filled with ruins of buildings so mag-
nificent they took my breath away.
Chichén Itzå.
I braked to study the deserted city of the Mayas. Tire
tracks had to betray the direction Ortiz and his
henchmen had taken from here. As it turned out, I
didn't need to look for such things.
The cold bore of a rifle pressed against my neck.
"Welcome to my city, Carter," came Ortiz' frigid
tones. For all my struggle in the jungle, I was again
Earth Shaker's prisoner.
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SEVEN
The sight of the magnificent ruined Mayan city of
Chichén Itzå would have been more impressive if Or-
tiz hadn't insisted on keeping the cold muzzle of his ma-
chine gun pressed into my spine. I hoped he didn't de-
velop any nervous twitches. With that weapon at this
range, he couldn't miss. Being cut in half by twenty
heavy lead slugs wasn't a thought I cherished.
"See the difference in the style of pyramids, Carter?"
Ortiz rattled on, as if he was a Grayline Bus Tour guide
intent on showing off his city to the foreigners. "The
steps mark this as totally different from the Egyptian.
And the proportions are different, too. The Mayas did
not experiment as the Egyptians did. They mathemati-
cally calculated what they needed, then built. The Egyp-
tians constructed by trial and error; many of their first
efforts feel down."
In spite of my dire predicament—and the threat of
horrible destruction hanging over California—I found
myself becoming more and more intrigued by the city.
There was an unmistakable grandeur about it. Most
ruins are little more than hiding places for ghosts of
bygone days. Chichén Itzå had the feel of being
deserted, yes, but also of waiting. The entire city seemed
I to be hesitating, about to gratefully accept new tenants,
new people to once again give it its ninth century glory.
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"What's that? The central pyramid?" I pointed in the
direction of an impressive mound of smoothly cut stone.
My reward was a sudden jab in the back with the ma-
chine gun. Out of the corners of my eyes I saw a half
dozen of Ortiz' men lift their own weapons. They
weren't going to make the same mistake twice with me.
I'd gotten free and killed Ortiz's men once. The next
death would be mine.
"That is El Castillo, as the Spanish call it. The Temple
of Kukulcån." I felt a wave of religious fervor pass
through the small band of men guarding me. This meant
something special to them. It was a hefty structure, but
I felt none of their passionate awe.
"Of all the testaments to the greatness of the Mayas,
this is the finest. Each of thefour stairways going up the
sides have ninety-one steps. With the upper platform,
that totals three hundred sixty-five, one for each day of
the year. The nine terraces are divided into fifty-two
panels."
"One for each week of the year," I offered.
"One for each year in our ceremonial cycle," cor-
rected Ortiz smugly. He glanced. at one of his
wristwatches before continuing. "These terraces are sep-
arated by the stairways into eighteen sections, one for
each month in our calendar. The stelae marking time
are . .'v
I let Ortiz drone on about the lost glories of the
Mayan Empire. He was off on his pet obsession. I won-
dered if he checked out both his wristwatches before tell-
ing me all about the Temple. I used the lecture to cover
my rubber-necking. The city Avas laid out in a grid pat-
tern with the Temple dominating the center. A sharp-
shooter on its top platform could command the entire
city. I had no doubt that Ortiz had several men stationed
up there with high-powered rifles and telescopic sights.
Escape would prove dangerous--—even more dangerous
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EARTH SHAKER
than my brief taste of freedom in the jungle.
121
"And a further difference," went on Ortiz, as I tuned
back into his lecture, "is in the central burial chamber.
There is an inner pyramid and an antechamber with a
sculptured figure of Yum Chac."
Again the ripple of tension through the guards. They
were heavily indoctrinated by Ortiz in this long-dead re-
!igion.
"And beside this figure is the Jaguar Throne."
"Jaguar Throne?"
"My throne. From it I will lead my brave Mayas on
conquest that will sweep the world. We will be invin-
'ible. None will dare deny us our heritage now."
The rattle of the truck I'd stolen caught my attention.
turned and watched as the carbon dioxide bottles
zlanked noisily in their holders as the truck came to a
Æreeching halt not fifty yards distant. The truck had
itopped in front of a low stone hut that had been reno-
;ated. I had the impression that there was something
nside that structure that might be of interest to me.
It might even be the earthquake generator.
"What's all that C02 going to be used for?" I asked.
'Odd stuff to have out in the middle of the jungle."
"I make a lot of dry ice," said Ortiz carefully. The
:one told me he was lying through his teeth.
- "Don't see the exhaust fumes from a compressor."
"There is no need for you to know why I require
•arbon dioxide. And how do you know what is in the
"All gas cylinders are color-coded as to the type of gas
nside," I told him. "It doesn't seem likely you'd put
;ome other gas in them when the entire load came from
commercial wholesaler. Do you get your lasers from
he same supplier?"
A heavy wood machine gun butt struck me in the
niddle of the back. I tumbled forward, stumbling and
rying to keep my balance. What happened was a bad
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NICK CARTER
compromise. I fell to my knees before I stopped my face-
forward dive.
"Your inquiries are not required, Carter. Enjoy the
majesty of my city, of Chichén Itzå. It will be the last
pleasant thing you do before your death."
"To Kukulcån?" came an eager inquiry. "He will be
sacrificed to Kukulcån, too?"
"He will join the woman in the Sacred Well. Yum
Chac will feast on their flesh."
"Who or what is Yum Chac?" I asked, stalling for
time.
"Yum Chac is the Water Spirit who lives in the bot-
tom of the Well of Sacrifice. In two days you will be cast
into the well. Your screams of fear will augment the al-
ready great courage of my people!"
"Yeah, glad to be of help," I said. I started to ask why
two days, then shrugged it off. I'd be nothing more than
an appetizer for his mass destruction of California. I
wondered if Ortiz would carry through with his earth-
quake even if he received his ransom jewels. Such wan-
ton destruction would certainly ruin the United States
for years to come, weakening any protests that we might
make about Ab Puch's depredations in the rest of the
world.
"In there," he pointed, gesturing with the end of his
machine gun. I followed the line and saw a small stair-
case leading down into the ground. Heavy stone walls
lined the corridor into the bowels of the earth. Only
shadow greeted me at the bottom. I longed for the bro-
ken sunglasses left back at Ortiz' hacienda.
"This is the well?"
"This is where you shall stay till the Sacred Way to
the Well of Sacrifice is prepared for you." He shoved
hard. I tumbled head first down the narrow stone steps.
Rolling into a tight ball kept me from banging my head.
But back and legs and arms still bruised badly as I hit
every stone step and finally landed flat on my back at
the bottom.
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At the end of the stone corridor was a heavily barred
•oden door. Ortiz and three of his guards had joined
e by a less precipitous journey down the steps. The
'or was unbarred and they gestured me in. I went.
"hat else could I do?
"Nick!" cried Consuela the instant I came into the
cell. She rose from a dusty blanket spread on the
ne floor and rushed to me. I held her in my arms as
rt:iz and the others laughed cynically. Without another
3rd, Ortiz slammed the door. I heard the heavy
)0den bar across it fall into place.
The only illumination in the stone cell came from a
uttering torch hung in a bracket on the opposite wall.
le smoke gathered at the ceiling before finding cracks
.tple enough to seep out. Otherwise, the smoking torch
Duld have suffocated us in minutes. It was still pretty
'se inside the room.
'61 hoped they wouldn't catch you, Nick," shesobbed.
—r entire body shook as I held her. She'd broken and
ew I knew it. That made her reaction even more dis-
*Sing.
"What did they do to you?"
She looked up at me with hollow, haunted eyes. The
e, the energy that had been in those wondrous brown
*01s was now gone. Only a shadow of her former vital-
remained.
"Never mind," I said quickly. The old "death before
;honor" code among spies was still in force, but
)dern interrogation techniques had taken the death
! tion away. And no one can withstand the full force of
, rained, skilled interrogator. No one. With drugs, sci-
tifically applied pain, and subtle suggestions working
deepest fears, anyone can break. That's one reason
ty the "need to know" edict is so strongly enforced in
If an agent doesn't have a need to know, a topic is
ver discussed. You can't spill what you don't know.
ld, for the professionals like me, there's always the
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NICK CARTER
little suicide pill. If Ortiz tried to find out some of the
things I knew, that pill would be used—mine is surgical-
Iy implanted in the back of my tongue. A hard, painful
bite on an out of the way spot, a deep cut, a crushed pill,
and death follows swiftly—the poison entering the
blood stream through my tongue. However, I didn't in-
tend to use the pill unless it was absolutely necessary.
That is always the last course of action to consider.
Dead, I was useless; mymission a failure. Alive, I still
might find a way of stopping Ortiz and his diabolical
earthquakegenerator.
No, I didn't blame Consuela for telling all she knew.
But that didn't make her living with the guilty knowl-
edge any easier.
I held her close. Soon we moved to the pathetic
blanket spread on the cold stone floor. We tried to make
it a little warmer. It didn't work.
"Bring the prisoners to my throne," commanded Or-
tiz. I looked up at the man seated on the ornately carved
throne. This wasn't the pre-Columbian art collector; this
was Ab Puch, the Lord of Death. He was attired in his
gaudy colored feather cloak, had the jade scepter firmly
in hand, and was lounging back on the carved stone.
The armrests were done in the shape of cats' heads and
a curlicue of ornate inlay ornamented the top of the seat:
Mother of pearl, semi-precious stones, and a white
chalklike substance that might have been bone.
I didn't want to think about what type of bone might
be decorating this barbaric tribute to absolute power.
"You see before you tbe assembled might of the new
Mayan Empire!" bellowed Ortiz. "These are my chief-
tains. They will each rule one of the currently existing
nations. In less than three of your years, the entire
Western Hemisphere will be under my control. Inside
ten years, all the countries on the Ring of Fire will be
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'ne. And then..
. then . . ."hesaid, hisvoicelowering
dramatically to a stage whisper, "all of Asia and Europe
will fall. Africa comes soon after."
"Yeah, it doesn't really pay to get too greedy too
soon," I said sarcastically. My reward for that outburst
was a fist to the side of the head. It knocked me down
but didn't dampen my anger at this self-styled con-
queror.
C' You fail to appreciate my hard work. I only reclaim
what was taken from my people, Carter. Ones such as
she," he said, glaring with those crossed eyes at Con-
suela, "denied my people their heritage. They burned
our most sacred and wondrous books, they sank our
merchant ships, they harrassed, murdered, and brought
Ziisease that devastated our culture. Now it is our turn."
"To kill helpless and innocent millions?" cried Con-
Aiela.
"It is only a just repayment for the centuries of slavery
the noble Mayas have endured. I hold the key to power.
I will turn that key."
As Ortiz leaned back in the throne, I saw my chance.
I kicked out and knocked the legs out from under the
ard beside me. He went down heavily. Unfortunately,
his rifle clattered down the steps and out of reach. But I
could finish off Ortiz with my bare hands.
I had taken only two steps when ferocious snarls
reached my ears. I froze. That saved my life.
On either side of Ortiz' throne crouched two black
iaguars. Their lips were pulled back in threatening,
;lavering snarls. Yellowed teeth flashed their deadly
menace. Only Ortiz' hand on their jade-inset collars re-
strained them.
"My human guards sometimes grow inattentive. Not
so with my feline ones. The ancients kept jaguars as pets,
well as revering them. Another step, Carter, and my
furred guards will dine on your flesh. I wouldn't like
that, because I have other plans for you."
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NICK CARTER
"I wouldn't care for it, either," I said.
"Actually, they dine regularly on human flesh. They
rather enjoy it. " Ortiz laughed harshly, "You are fright-
ened, Carter. You men of civilization will never be able
to triumph over a Mayan warrior because of your
squeamishness. We have learned when and how to kill—
and do it. You always keep a small area of your brain set
aside for regret, for sympathy with your victim. That is
your downfall. "
I didn't feel any charity toward Ortiz. In fact, my kill-
ing would be remorseless. I wouldn't even charge AXE
for my time; let them keep my salary. I'd kill this maniac
for nothing.
"But you are my guests. A celebration is in order.
Tomorrow morning at dawn you will be the guests of
Yum Chac." A murmur of approval rippled through all
Che assembled henchmen. Consuela started to ask who
Yum Chac was. I restrained her.
"Don't put yourself out on our account, Ortiz."
"Address our king as Ab Puch," snapped the guard
behind me. He punctuated his demand with a gun butt
to my head. My skull rang like a dinner bell but I strug-
gled up to see Ortiz swim into a blurry focus. For a brief
instant, it seemed his eyes weren't crossed and the head
didn't slope back in that weird and upsetting angle.
Then my eyes focused and I saw him as he really was:
deformed both physically and mentally.
"A celebration," said Ortiz. He clapped his hands. I
watched the jaguars on either side of the stone throne. I
feared his release of their collars meant an attack from
those feline death machines. But they remained
crouched where they were. Somehow , that didn't relieve
the tension I felt.
"What sort of celebration?" asked Consuela.
"One in the ancient Mayan tradition, of course," sup-
plied Ortiz. "For instance, a test of my warriors and
their fighting prowess. Witness. A box filled with throw-
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ing darts. Ten, of which five are poisoned. Two war-
riors. Choose your darts!"
The men, stripped to the waist, spectacularly muscled
and oiled, came to Ortiz' throne. Each quickly took five
from the box. They walked to opposite sides of the
road platform until they were almost twenty feet apart.
"Commence!" cried Ortiz, clapping his hands. The
jaguars started nervously, snarled, then subsided, their
feral yellow eyes revealing nothing but hatred.
"What's going on?" asked Consuela. "I don't under-
;tand."
"A dueL They're going to throw those darts at each
)ther."
- "But he said five were poisoned," she said, her voice
catching. "One of them could die."
"Both could die," said Ortiz. "But a real warrior will
10t even be scratched. Watch, Carter, watch and learn. "
The men paced back and forth in a narrow section of
platform. I suspected they were constrained to stay
•thin invisible boundaries. Leave and die. The one on
•ny right made a quick, accurate, underhand toss. The
eathered dart sailed so fast it was only a blur. It stuck
the other warrior's left bicep. That man winced but
iidn't die. The dart wasn't poisoned.
He threw a dart back. The man on the right dodged
und cleverly caught it as it raced past. This exchange
ontinued, no more blood being spilled, until each man
tad only one dart remaining.
"Excellent exhibition of speed, skill and daring, isn't
t?" demanded Ortiz. "They are highly trained. Quick
eflexes, absolutely no fear of death."
"Then they're fools," I said glumly. "Both of them
ould be holding death—facing death."
"You are afraid of dying, Carter? Astounding. You
\mericans are a weird breed. That is why you will soon
erish. Perhaps I will move my regional capitol to Wash-
ngton. Chichén Itzå must remain the center of my
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world headquarters, naturally, but it would amuse me to
run all of North America from your old buildings."
"Nick, look!" cried Consuela.
The darts shot straight and true in both directions.
Both hit flesh. But the man on the right straightened, a
stony expression on his face. As stiff as a board, he top-
pled forward, dead. The poison worked even faster than
Ortiz had promised. The man remaining plucked the
dart that had struck him in his thigh. He hobbled over
and knelt in front of Ortiz for approval.
"You were clumsy. You have two wounds. You will
play pok-a-iok. "
The man started to say something, then stopped. I
read fear in his eyes. A fearless warrior who had faced
poisoned darts, and now he was frightened. What was
pok-a-tok?
"And I think our two guests should join you in the
game. Prepare the courts!"
Strong brown hands gripped my arms and pulled me
down the stairs. I had no idea what was going to hap-
pen, but it had to be brutal.
"It is a simple game, an ancient one invented by my
ancestors," said Ortiz. I had to disbelieve him as I
looked out on the court. The playing area stretched half
the size of a football field with the boundaries marked
with flagstone. Two sides were flanked with high stone
walls. Ornately carved stone rings were mounted on
walls on opposite sides of the court. I peered at the
nearest ring; something more than carving graced its
perimeter.
"I see you've noticed the innovation I've made in this
fascinating game," gloated Ortiz. "The Mayas played it
simply. A gutta percha rubber ball must be thrown
through your opponent's goal, the stone ring, for a
score. A type of basketball—except the ring is vertical
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EARTH SHAKER
129
instead of horizontal, and the ball need not be dribbled.
It can be bounced off the walls, thrown, or passed in any
fashion at all."
"I assume it's permitted to take the ball away from an
opposing player," I said.
"Using any method you desire," Ortiz said, his
crossed eyes flashing fire. "We do not allow knives or
other weapons, but unarmed combat is not out of the
question."
"What's the gizmo hooked onto the ring?" I asked
again.
"Observe closely. I believe the play is reaching a
finale. "
Two men played against one, if I read their actions
correctly. One of the players decked the solitary one
with a right hook. This allowed the remaining player to
take the ball and rush for the goal. As he came closer I
saw he wore a thick metallic collar, almost like a medi-
eval gorget. He ran for the stone goal ring and expertly
I tossed the ball through. It struck a pressure plate.
The stadium rocked with the force of the explosion.
The solitary player's neck ring had exploded. The act
of putting the ball through his goal had set off a band of
explosives in his collar. Only two players remained; both
were on the same team.
"The winners!" proudly declared Ortiz. "They are
true warriors. They have survived the game of pok-a-
rtok. "
"And now we have to play? How's the deck? Stacked
against us?"
- "Not at all, Carter. You, the woman Mexican Secret
Police agent, and the warrior are one team. Those three
are your opponents, Each score against your team re-
moves one player."
"In what order?" asked Consuela, her hand un-
consciously reaching for her slender throat,
"Who knows?" shrugged Ortiz. "The sequence is set
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NICK CARTER
at random by a small microprocessor chip. Not knowing
who is next makes all players perform to their fullest."
"I can imagine," I said.
"Play," came Ortiz' cold command.
Guards took us down to the field and snapped the
exploding collars around our necks. They weren't as
heavy or clumsy as I'd thought. Big deal. One score
against us and my head might become hamburger. Or
Consuela's. I glanced over and saw the guards finishing
their collaring act with her. The survivor of the dart toss
seemed less than happy with his teammates, too. I didn't
blame him. I wished someone else had been chosen to
join him, also.
I sized up our opponents. They looked tough. Strong,
well-muscled, obviously at the peak of their physical
prowess, quick, smart—the list went on. They seemed to
have no flaws I could see. I bet they'd also workedto-
gether in this game of death before.
"They are my champion team," came Ortiz' taunting
words from the stadium seats. "Do try to give them a
little sport, Carter. Now play!"
We warily circled in the center of the court. The rub-
ber ball sailed from the stands and bounced between us.
It had a higher coefficient of restitution than I'd counted
on. It sailed high overhead, I grabbed for it and missed.
As I came down, a heavy elbow landed in my solar
plexus, knocking the wind from me. Consuela dropped
to help.
I managed to gasp out, "Stop them. Get the ball."
The explosion rained down brains and hair and blood
over us. The other team had worked three on one
against our reluctant team member and had scored easi-
ly. Unfortunately for our Mayan teammate, the random
selection of the scoring ring had chosen him to go.
"Come, come, Carten You're not playing. Prepare
for the second point. "
I struggled to my feet, facing the now grinning other
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.hree. Consuela was by my side. I had to use her in a way
he others wouldn't expect. It seemed improper to do it
her; it also seemed improper to die. If those three
cored again, one of us would certainly die.
An instant before the ball was tossed between us, I
ed and ripped open Consuela's blouse, exposing
nose luscious breasts of hers. This had the desired effect
n the three confronting us. They hesitated to ogle. The
ubber ball bounced, I grabbed it and ran across the
{ide field before they could respond. When they finally
3covered from their surprise and turned, Consuela
ed. She dived forward in a flying tackle, took one out,
d caused the second to stumble.
The third Mayan was faster than I was, He caught up
eith me a fraction of a second before I threw the ball.
gut I made a quick decision. Rather than play the ball,
played man to man.
I caught him in the groin with a well-placed kick. He
runted, turned green, and somersaulted into the wall. I
queezed the ball, noting it was softer than I'd thought,
æn tossed it.
It bounced away from the stone ring. I'd missed,
"Hurry, Nick," cried Consuela. She was still fighting
iith one man. The other had slipped free and was on his
ay to aid his fallen teammate. I scooped up the ball,
»ok a running leap at the ring, and stuffed the ball di-
3Ctly through the tiny hoop.
The man running for me lost his head in a fiery ex-
(osion.
I dropped to sit and catch my breath. My gorge
Ireatened to rise, but I refused to vomit. To show such
eakness in front of Ortiz was unthinkable.
"You have evened the score, Carter," said the feather-
irbed Ab Puch, safely removed from the field. He
idn't sound pleased at our victory.
"These are the best you have to offer?" I gasped out.
They're little more than children."
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"Prepare for the next point. "
The man I'd kicked in the groin moved slowly. The
element of surprise from Consuela's sudden nakedness
was gone now. Her breasts flopped around in front of
her, the buttons gone from her blouse. She'd have to
endure. Otherwise, we'd both be dead. I didn't think I
could survive alone against two.
"Work on the one I kicked," I told her in a low voice.
"Leave the healthy one to me."
"He's not so healthy, Nick," she informed me. "l
broke his thumb. "
I nodded. They were the walking wounded, but they
still had experience on their side.
The ball bounced and again I played the man instead
of the ball. I used a roundabout kick to the kidney to
drop my opponent. But I had to abandon him immedi-
ately when I saw the other man had the ball and Was
racing for our goal. I didn't want Consuela's pretty head
to be blown off; I wanted to keep my own even more. I
heard Consuela huffing and puffing beside me as we ran
together to stop the man. The only thing we had going
for us was the man's injury; the kick to the groin slowed
him considerably.
I grabbed him and spun him around. The ball
bounced from his hand and Consuela clumsily caught it.
"Their goal," I gasped out. "Get it through their goal.
Hurry, dammit, hurry!"
The man fought like a tiger. It's been said that any
real fight can last only a few seconds. But that doesn't
take into account other factors. Both of us were profes-
sional killers. We knew all the tricks. And both of us
were in less than perfect condition right now. I was tired,
my wrists still hurt from being chained to the jeep during
the ride through the jungle, I hadn't been fed in twenty-
four hours, and the strain of playing this damnable
game put an edge on my reactions that caused me to
make mistakes.
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133
He attacked. I parried the blow and missed a quick
kill. We danced apart, warily circling. I kept glancing at
Consuela. Her long, slender legs pounded across the
wide field toward the stone ring. But a new factor came
into the equation. The man I'd kicked in the kidneys had
regained some of his strength. He charged after her.
The man facing me lunged, his arms outstretched,
going for my throat. A mistake. I capitalized on it imme-
diately. My right hånd reached over both of his and
grabbed his right wrist, My left hand augmented the grip
as I turned to my right and twisted. I heard his elbow
break. Now all that was in my mind was reaching Con-
suela and aiding her.
She and the other man grappled under the stone ring.
She tried unsuccessfully twice to get the ball through.
Both times she kept possession of the ball, however. The
tactic I'd use, if I were in the man's position, would be
to get the ball and toss it out of play. He was in a dan-
gerous position. Better to start this point 911 over than to
lose a partner—-or his own life.
I finally pounded up behind them. My brawny fore-
arm circled the man's throat and I pulled him away. But
I couldn't get a proper stranglehold. The iron collar was
in the way. He fought like a wildcat and I knew he'd
quickly get free.
"Get the ball, Consuela. Put it through the ring!" I
shouted.
"But, Nick, it . . . it'll kill one of them. It might kill
I'd thought of that. If this man's collar went, it would
mean I'd go, too. That was a chance I had to take.
"Do it! Dammit, do it!"
She tossed the ball halfheartedly several times, then
seemed to stiffen with resolve. The ball soared through
the ring just as the man with the broken elbow came
lumbering up.
He vanished in a red mist.
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I threw the remaining man down to the ground and
glared at him. He struggled to sit up, then dropped to
hands and knees, panting. He was as much a victim of
this as we were, but I hated him. He was available and
Pedro Ortiz wasn't.
"God, Nick, I never thought . . began Consuela.
I roughly cut her off. "The ball. Where is it?"
"There. Over there, but
I picked it up. I heard Ortiz shouting for me to stop
but I took careful aim and threw it through the stone
ringagain. The surviving member of the other team lost
his head in a tornado of blood and bone and explosives.
"That's not the way the game's played, Carter,"
shrieked Ortiz. S' You cheated. You were supposed to
play for another point in the center of the court."
"So sue me," I panted. Red anger flooded my entire
body. If Ortiz had been on the field, I'd have dismantled
him one limb at a time. "You wanted to see death? You
got it, Ortiz. "
"You cheated," he screamed over and over. Then,
"Guards! Guards! Take them back to their cell!"
I couldn't fight off a dozen men armed with machine
guns. I still had a mission to complete. I allowed them to
herd Consuela and me back to the stone cell.
"There, that gets it off," I said. I'd finally managed to
work off the exploding collar around Consuela's neck.
Mine had come off first to make sure that the simple act
of removing it didn't also trigger it. I put her collar with
mine next to the wood door.
"God, Nick, I thought I was a good agent. I thought
I could face death. But look." She held out her hands.
They shook uncontrollably. I took them in mine.
"Death is never easy to accept. "
"You accept it."
"I've had practice." My hands didn't shake like hers
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135
ind inside I kept a tight rein on my own personal fear,
jut that fear slipped free at unexpected times. And if I
owered my defenses for an instant too long I would end
dead.
I held her close. Her blouse had come entirely off in
he game and her skirt was partly ripped. My own
lothing wasn't in much better condition.
"Nick," she said quietly.
"There's something even worse than the fear."
I waited. I knew what she was going to say. I felt it,
00. I think there's some primal, elemental force at work
hat is beyond the control of anyone. It seized us both
low.
"I was afraid then. I want to make love now, Isn't that
errible?"
Maybe it's a form of survival. Death spawns life. I
kidn't stop to burden her with my pet theories. They
eren't important. What was important was lifting her
{ps to mine, kissing passionately, holding her as tightly
IS I could,
There wasn't much in the way of clothing to get off.
Ind our physical needs far exceeded any emotional
nes. This wasn't a lovemaking as much as it was an
nimal rutting. We needed the releases; I didn't care
. bout Consuela's responses, she didn't care about mine,
I kissed and bit hard at her lips and neck and breasts.
he moaned and clawed savagely at my back and upper
rms. The pain spurred us on. My hands reached down,
troking, gripping, probing. They slipped under fier
training body until I cupped her buttocks.
"Yes, Nick, oh how I need you. I never thought I'd
want you like this. It's so . . e"
"Brutal," I supplied. My fingers tightened like steel
on the fleshy buttocks. I pulled upward, lifting
er off the cold stone floor. Her legs parted wantonly,
xposing the black-furred triangle I desperately sought.
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I moved between her slender thighs, my knees scrap-
ing on the rough stone. I used my grip on her to guide
her hollowness toward my quivering pillar. I felt as if
someone had thrown a bucket of water over me when I
sank all the way into her hot, clinging center.
Sweat poured down my chest, off my forehead into
my eyes, down my back. I lifted her up even more so
that her back arched in a bow. Her legs were on either
side of my body. I knelt with my legs tucked under me.
Consuela's shoulders were on the floor.
We moved together, slowly at first, then with a
mounting desire that consumed us both. I shoved hard
into her; she ground her hips in a circular motion that
caused me to penetrate her willing body even deeper.
She climaxed. It set me off. I pumped fiercely, my
body overheating with the strain. But I raced toward a
physical high that would allow me to forget what had
happened this day, that would allow me to go on and
not dread what was to come.
We collapsed weak and trembling onto the dingy
blanket. The cold of the stone cell evaporated the sweat
and chilled our bodies. But we glowed inside. And, for
the moment, all thoughts of the death around us had
vanished.
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EIGHT
"I don't want to die, Nick," Consuela said softly, her
breath hot and moist in my ear. She wasn't shaking, and
that was progress. I'll give her this—-for a woman who
really wasn't trained for this sort of job, she was doing
very well. The Mexican Secret Police didn't deal very
often with men the caliber of Pedro Ortiz. I mentally
X)rrected that. The Mexican Secret Police had never
ealt with a man with such cunning and power.
I'd faced many men and women in my career: profes-
,ionals, trained killers, cold-blooded murderers. But
-wen those dealing in atomic weapons hadn't controlled
force this potent. An earthquake is unstoppable once
t has begun. It is one of those natural occurrences that
eaves the strong weeping. A thousand atomic bombs
gniting at once only begins to compare with the destruc-
iive force of an earthquake ranking an 8.0 on the
Richter scale.
The 1906 earthquake that had leveled San Francisco
lad been ranked at an even more deadly 8.3.
Somehow I would kill this self-proclaimed Lord of
Death, this Earth Shaker. And all that stopped me at the
noment was the thick wooden door barred on the out-
ride.
"We're not going to die."' I answered Consuela.
'We're still alive. Even if the air in this room is pretty
137
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foul." I wiggled my nose. It itched from the accumula-
tion of cloying, noxious smoke sputtering from the
wood torch in its bracket. The tiny air vents in the roof
weren't up to the tasks of both letting out smoke and
letting in oxygen. It was possible that we were slowly
suffocating ourselves by leaving the torch lit, yet the
pale, dancing flames and the wan shadows they cast
lifted our spirits.
"I found a tiny spot by the door where the air's better.
I'll show you. " Consuela crawled on hands and knees to
the thick door and pointed to a splinter that had been
cracked off in some ancient time. A tiny wedge of day-
light crept through this opening.
Hope flared for a moment. I might be able to widen
the crack and eventually get through the door. But when
I touched the wood that hope faded. The wood was
crackéd, yes, but the years had hardened what was left
until it was sturdier than iron. Even with Hugo, it
wouldn't have been possible to get through. I checked
the entire door.
"I've looked, Nick. I didn't see anything."
"Looks like all we've got is the explosive in those col-
lars," I said. "But that's not going to do us any good.
We'd need something to hold them against the door to
focus all the blast into the wood. Otherwise, the blast
would come back into the cell and smash us flat. "
Consuela glanced about futilely for something bulky
enough and heavy enough to wedge against the collars
before setting them off. All we had was our clothes. The
rest of the room was bare.
"If I could only stop panicking," she said. "My
mind's all jumbled. What do we fasten the collars to the
door with? What?"
As she said it, my mind leaped on our last possibility.
We didn't have a heavy block of stone to jam against the
collars, but I had a belt buckle filled with a powerful
epoxy.
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EARTH SHAKER
I had to try it.
139
"Get back, Consuela." I took the collars apart and
ocated the plastic explosive inside. The plastique was
nalleable and would form the thin, deadly cord I needed
or maximum effect. I strained and bent the metal por-
ion of the collars into a cover for the plastique, then
'ulled off my belt buckle. I didn't know if the glue inside
he jade inset would bond metal to wood, but there was
jnly one way to find out.
"Let it harden for a few minutes," I told Consuela.
nhen we set it off and see what happens,"
"But if the glue doesn't contain the blast and focus it
•ut into the wood door, it'll come back into the room
nd kill us," she said in a hushed voice,
"The shock wave might do that anyway," I told her.
But what choice do we have? We've got to get out of
rere and I don't see any other chance."
"I don't either," she said, her voice low.
"The glue is supposed to harden in a few seconds. I've
iven it five minutes. Let's let 'er rip." I put the jade
iece back onto the silver belt buckle; it still had most of
e glue remaining. A little drop went a long way.
"Nick," Consuela said with fear, her hand reaching
ut to grip my arm.
"I know," I replied. "Now get down and wait. This
tuff will go when the flame from the torch hits it."
Consuela crouched in the far corner of the tiny stone
ell. I fixed the torch so that it would burn down into the
-nd of the plastic explosive. When I was sure it would
;nite properly, I turned and sheltered Consuela's body
*ith mine. It seemed like a million years before the blast
)cked the cell; in real time it couldn't have been more
Ian a minute.
A powerful fist reached out, gripped me, and
lueezed hard. I felt myself being crushed back into the
:one wall, into Consuela. She screamed, but her cries
•ere drowned out by the loud booming of the blast. Hot
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air seared me; hot bits of wood and stone burned pits
into my skin.
I swatted out the spots where my shirt had caught fire.
By the time I'd finished, I looked like I'd put on a fish
net instead of a shirt. But as the smoke cleared I felt cool
air gusting into my face.
"Come on," I called, grabbing Consuela by the hand
and pulling her after me like a captive balloon.
We ran out past the ruins of the wood doors, across
the splintered remnants strewn down the tiny corridor,
and ran full tilt up the stairs to the world above. The sky
was blue, the soft white clouds danced lightly in the
wind, the earth was fresh and clean under my feet, and
the scent of jungle purged the stench of ignited plastique
from my nostrils.
But the world was totally silent.
I was deaf.
It was a good thing I realized this in a hurry. Tiny
sounds made by would-be assassins have given me
enough warning to save my life on innumerable occa-
sions. Without my hearing, I'd have to be doubly alert
to visual and scent-oriented clues.
The hot smell of unwashed bodies and chili peppers
caused me to pull Consuela into the shelter of a nearby
stone hut. We watched as a pair of guards rushed to the
ground level entrance of the underground prison we'd
just vacated. Their lips worked, but I heard nothing.
I signalled to Consuela that I was deaf. She under-
stood. She was deaf, too. I signed that I wanted those
two dead. Letting them spread the alarm wouldn't help
us any. Without fanfare, I calculated the distance be-
tween the guards and us and launched myself into the
air. The flying tackle worked better than I thought.
My legs smashed into one guard. He toppled headfirst
down the staircase. My arms circled the other -man's
waist. I wrestled him to the ground, hanging on as he
struggled futilely. Two quick chops to his throat re-
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141
moved him permanently. I scooped up the fallen man's
rifle and aimed it down the stairs to take out the other
guard, but it wasn't necessary. He'd hit his head and
broken his neck. He'd died-instantly.
I glanced around for others loyal to Ortiz, then
ducked down the stairs. Protruding from the man's belt
was a familiar sight: Hugo! I quickly searched his lifeless
body and produced another sight for sore eyes.
Wilhelmina rested comfortably in my hand once more.
The toggle action was smooth as I pulled it back. The
shell moved confidently into the firing chamber.
I felt like I could lick a world filled with Earth
Shakers now. I had my trusted allies back.
"Nick," came the distant call. I shook my head. The
ringing in my ears, drowned out most of Consuela's
voice, but my hearing was definitely returning. I pointed
to my ears and shook my head. She nodded and then
indicated she could hear a little, probably more than I
could at the moment,
I scooped up the rifle and tossed it to her. She fielded
it gingerly, then with a show of confidence made sure it
was ready for action. I wrote in the dust at our feet,
"Stone hut. Where Ortiz has earthquake machine."
Pointing in the proper direction, I finally got the
message across to her. I'd be point man. She had to fol-
low and take out any snipers I might miss.
I started across the ruins of Chichén Itzå with a
broken field run that would have made an infiltration
expert proud of me. That dodging kept me alive. I saw
rather than heard tiny puffs of dust kicking up around
me. The sniper on top of the Temple of Kukulcån had
opened up on me; my hearing still wasn't acute enough
to pick up the report. Only the dance of death
performed by the dust warned me.
I did hear Consuela's rifle barking out a steady fire,
however. For all her lack of training in some things, she
proved either incredibly lucky or a great marksman. She
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NICK CARTER
got the sniper with her fourth shot—damned fine shoot-
ing under any circumstances.
"Nick, do you think they heard the firing? "she asked
in what seemed a normal tone. I could tell by the way
her slender throat strained that she shouted the words.
My hearing was returning more quickly now.
"I'm sure of it. Ortiz doesn't miss a bet. He's a smart
son of a bitch. Let's hope this is where he controls his
earthquakes. Maybe we can destroy the entire place. "
I moved quickly into the stone hut where I'd seen the
carbon dioxide tanks being unloaded. Wilhelmina pre-
ceded me. I fired four quick rounds, then a final fifth to
relieve the three guards of their burdensome lives. They
were dead before they realized anything was wrong. I
raced through this small antechamber and into the main
room. It was larger than I'd thought.
I was struck by the incongruity of twentieth century
scientific gadgets mingling with ninth century Mayan
relics. Oscilloscopes wiggled their green lines across
screens in dual displays; strip chart recorders dragged
ink pens up and down valleys; lasers snapped and
popped in electrical discharge on work benches.
Mingled with all this were feathered icons, squatty
basalt statues, and cartouches of Mayan hieroglyphics.
Nothing seemed to fit in this eerie mixture of ancient
and modern.
"Do you know what you're looking for, Nick?"
"Not really." I walked into the center of the room.
Most scientists set up their labs in a logical fashion. The
most important devices were away from points of entry.
They didn't want the uninformed wandering in and dis-
turbing an important setting or a vital piece of equip-
ment. And Ortiz was a scientist of the first rank.
I found a bank of lasers that met that standard. I went
to the work table and studied what he'd done. It made
little sense. I wished I were more of a scientist. I wanted
to be able to glance at the equipment and know what
was going on.
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"A lab book," I told Consuela. "Look for a lab book
with his notes. I don't want to touch anything for fear of
setting off the earthquake I want to prevent. "
Consuela went to seek out the book. It had to be
around somewhere. Ortiz wasn't the type to keep all his
notes in his head; he wanted posterity to know how truly
great he was.
The laser setup puzzled me. It appeared to be an ex-
periment rather than a functional, earthquake produc-
ing rig. When Consuela returned with the notebook, I
hastily scanned through it and heaved a sigh of relief.
The experiments Ortiz performed were too complex for
him to use the Mayan hieroglyphic writing. He had to
rely on more standard scientific notation—and in a form
could read easily. Unfortunately, what was in the book
wasn't exactly what I wanted.
"This is only a test," I said dejectedly. "But it does
contain a description of how he sets off the quakes. He
finds an existing fault, lowers his high powered laser into
it, then pumps in carbon dioxide and uranium hexa-
fluoride."
"Why? What does that do?"
"It's got to be here somewhere. Yeah, here it is. The
uranium hexafluoride occurs naturally in quake areas.
By introducing it into the fault, he somehow excites the
fault—but this isn't sufficient to set off the earthquake.
When he fires the laser, this superheats the carbon diox-
ide. This reduces the friction between the plate tectonics
and releases the energy that has been built up by radio-
active gases. He continues to fire the laser as he pumps
in the carbon dioxide. -As the gas expands, it adds to the
train energy. Sooner or later, the fault gives—and Ortiz
has his earthquake."
"Does it give a location for his laser?" Consuela asked
agerly. "I saw a radio in the far corner of the lab. If you
now the location, I can radio it to the Mexican Secret
Olice and they can relay it to your government."
I wished I could contact Hawk directly, but
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Consuela's idea was best. Leafing through the book un-
til I reached a chart with coordinates on it, I ran my
finger down the column and noted the tiny pencilled
check marks in the margin. Those were the quakes al-
ready initiated. The one corresponding to California
caught my attention.
"Here it is. Go radio it out. And have them contact
David Hawk in Washington. Urgent."
"Yes, Nick." She trotted off with the lab book. I
turned back to the lasers on the bench. Only an experi-
ment. Ortiz only perfected his gadget here; this wasn't
the least bit important. But his method of earthquake
generation was no longer a secret,
A radioactive gas built the energy in the existing fault.
Superheated carbon dioxide reduced friction between
the rocks in the fault and allowed them to slide more
easily. More of the superheated gas spread the sides of
the fault and eventually released the prodigious energies
locked within the earth.
Earth Shaker could now die.
The sharp report of a rifle spun me around.
Wilhelmina was aimed and ready. For a moment I de-
tected nothing more, then I heard the sizzle of an elec-
trical malfunction. I smelled something burning—the
stench of insulation. The soft shuffle of feet on the tile
floor pulled me around to see Consuela backing up, her
hands held out in front of her. The rifle she carr•ied had
been damaged by a bullet.
Everything clicked together. Someone had shot at her.
The bullet had richocheted off her rifle and into the ra-
dio she was using.
I acted.
Jumping onto the bench gave me a little different view
of the lab. An unprotected head bobbed into view. A
single shot from Wilhelmina's trusty barrel ended his
life.
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145
"Nick," gasped Consuela, "the radio is destroyed. I
. I'm not sure I got the message out or not."
"Tell me what happened." This was of vital im-
portance. Either Consuela managed to contact her peo-
ple or I'd have to get to Ortiz and still somehow get my
information to Hawk.
"l'd just gotten the right frequency. I gave the coordi-
nates Of Ortiz' laser device. I hadn't received a reply."
"And?" I asked. Her voice told me there was even
more bad news coming.
"I'm not sure anyone was listening, Nick. I got no
answer. And I didn't have a chance to tell them where
we were."
So we were on our own. No matter what happened,
we were thrown onto our own resources. And I still
wanted Ortiz.
"Let's get out of here. That dead guard might have
turned in an alarm." Even before the words were out of
my mouth, I saw more heads filing into the room. I
counted ten of them as they scrambled in. Wilhelmina
had—at most—one or two shells left in her magazine. I
hadn't found the spare magazine on the guard's dead
body. Two shots maximum against ten armed killers.
But they were his slaves, and slaves didn't think for
themselves. The incongruous mental image of all of Or-
tiz' men facing us with the iron collars used in his
diabolical pok-a-tok made me laugh. Consuela turned
and stared at me as if I were quite mad. And she may
have been right. Whatever else ran through my mind, an
idea formed.
"Lure some of them in this direction," I whispered to
her.
"l don't have to. They've already found us." Seeing
she was right, I immediately turned the nearest of the
continuous wave lasers around and flipped the red tog-
gle switch on the side. A power hum filled the cavity,
then a blue-green ray of light lanced out.
It was a potent beam. The first man it struck cried out
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and fell to the ground. The second let out a blood cur-
dling scream and tried to run. I lifted the beam upward
and bounced it off a mirror near the door. The reflected
beam struck the fleeing man in the eyes. He collapsed,
temporarily blinded.
The others rushed.
I swung the beam around like a sword made of purest
light. The amount of energy I was able to actually give
any single attacker was minimal. In fact, no one was
really hurt by the laser. But the psychological fact that
they faced a twentieth century marvel that their Ab Puch
used to trigger earthquakes gave us the edge needed to
escape.
Consuela picked up a discarded rifle as I backed
away. The eight functioning guards in the lab were
trying to regroup after I'd sent them running for cover.
I took the rifle when Consuela silently passed it to me.
I then gave the guards reason to stay under cover. I
killed two of them and wounded a third.
"Beat it," I said, motioning to a side door. Going
through it and into a storage room filled with CO bot-
tles gave me an idea.
the rifle to Consuela, I turned my attention to
the gas cylinders. I'd heard something when I was hang-
ing around one of the A XF labs. We'd see if I could
build my very own rocket. The tank lay on its side, the
valve stem away from the door through which we'd just
come. When the guards bravely followed, I took the rifle
back from Consuela and fired. The bullet broke the
valve stem on the gas cylinder.
Under high pressure, the gas shot out, sending the
heavy metal bottle rocketing into the men. They
screamed in pain as they toppled like pins in a bowling
alley.
"It works. Remind me to never break one of those
valves by accident. "
"Where are we going, Nick?" I wished I had an an-
swer for her, but I didn't. We'd emerged from Ortiz' lab
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with only the thick jungle ahead of us,
147
"Let me check to see how many rounds are left in the
rifle," I said, crouching down. It was worse than I'd
thought. Two bullets for the rifle, one for Wilhelmina.
We'd better not get into a long, drawn out fire fight, I
thought.
"Nick, they're coming," she said, her fingers as tight
as steel bands on my shoulder. "What are we going to
- "Run like hell," I said, I pointed her toward the
jungle and we sprinted. The captivity, the physical and
emotional beating from the game of pok-a-tok, the lack
of food and sleep and all the other factors kept us from
breaking the four minute mile. We made good speed but
it just wasn't good enough.
Bullets sang all around us. I had a giddy, unreal flash
of hail bouncing off a tin roof. Then suddenly a man
popped up in front of me like a target on a firing range.
Instinctively I fired Wilhelmina. I hit him and he went
down. But it wasted a round and I didn't have the
chance to pick his body clean of more ammunition. The
guards were pouring out of Chichén Itzå, and coming
directly for us.
"Down," I panted. "Get down and we'll try bluffing
them.zl'm going to fire the bullets we've got left and
make them think we're ready for a fight. Maybe we can
sneak off if I make them duck for cover. "
It wasn't the best idea, but it was all I had. I spun,
dropped to a kneeling position and fired the last two
bullets from the rifle. Neither slug found a human
target. And the rush of human bodies wasn't abated in
the least.
Consuela and I got to the edge of the forest but this
proved our undoing. The thick undergrowth slowed us
down. We would have done better trying to hide in
Chichén Itzå itself. I heard the heavy footfalls of men
behind us, then nothing.
The sudden silence hit me like a kick to the head. The
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guards pursuing us had stopped. Why?
The deep-throated snarl in front of us told me.
Jaguars, I saw one and heard the other. They had us
bracketed. If we tried to advance any farther into the
jungle, we'd be a tasty little snack for those huge, dan-
gerous beasts.
"Nice kitty," I said, facing one of them.
"It can claw your throat out with one swipe, Carter,"
came an all too familiar voice. "Shall I order it to do
"Don't bother. Consuela and I were just out for a
little afternoon constitutional. It's about time we got
back."
Ortiz laughed. It was a cruel, heartless laugh, devoid
of all mirth and humanity. He walked into view, the two
jaguars flanking him. He reached down and took a jade-
studded collar in each hand: The cats subsided.
"I didnst realize you were so interested in physical fit-
ness, Perhaps I can aid you."
"Don't go out of your way," I said, still watching the
two jaguars. They were dangerous, their yellow eyes
staring at me as if trying to figure out how many calories
I was worth on a diet plate special.
"A swim. Yes, Carter, you and your lady friend from
the Mexican Secret Police shall go on a little swim. "
"In the well?" I ventured. His laugh told me I'd hit the
nail right on the head. Somehow, I wasn't pleased with
guessing right. His guards came and herded us toward
the central Temple of Kukulcån.
And the Well of Sacrifice.
"Barbaric," moaned Consuela. She was being held on
her knees by a pair of Ortiz' guards. From the scars
around their necks, I guessed they were survivors of his
charming version of the Olympics. The exploding collars
were iron and were bound to scrape and cut-—if they
didn't blow first.
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Pedro Ortiz walked down the temple steps, the
jaguars at his side. The slow processional reached the
base of the pyramid where Consuela and I were held
captive. Ortiz gestured imperiously and walked down
the road toward the well almost a hundred yards distant.
His haughtiness made me blink; I thought I was actually
cast back a thousand years to the peak of the Mayan
Empire.
The guards pulled us to our feet and forced us to fol-
low. I tried to think of something, anything. Nothing
but despair filled me.
There wasn't any way of knowing if Consuela's
message had been received. She hadn't gotten a reply
before the radio had been destroyed. I'd failed to kill
Ortiz. And with the jaguars for bodyguards, not to men-
tion the fifty or more henchmen all armed to the teeth,
I had no chance at all of killing him with my bare hands.
The walk to the Well of Sacrifice seemed to last for
hours. When we stopped, I glanced over and down into
the cenote. It wasn't a reassuring site. This was a natural
limestone cistern; no building blocks existed to come out
of the walls and form visible ledges in it. And way down
in the well were slimy walls, green with the years of ac-
cumulated muck. Filthy black water lay as still as death
in the bottom.
"A thousand years ago, maidens were cast into this
well," said Ortiz in his lecturing manner. "They ap-
peased our gods. Yum Chac reputedly lives in the bot-
tom of this very well. I doubt that. But I do believe that
your sacrifices will pleasure Kukulcån, our mightiest
god, and cause our venture to succeed."
"It won't work, Ortiz," I said more bravely than I felt.
"Consuela radioed out the position of your laser device
in the San Andreas Fault. My people will have disabled
it by now."
"My monitors," said the crosseyed Maya, with a
sneer on his lips, "tells that the radio was on for less
than a minute,"
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"Enough time," I said, bluffing. He knew it, too. And
that hurt worse than anything he might do to me. Ortiz
rubbed my nose in my failure.
"Yes," he said. "It might be enough time. That's why
I will be flying back to the United States to plant still
another device. Insurance, you might call it. This one
will be in the San Francisco area. In the Hayward Fault,
the same one that caused that fine city so much destruc-
tion in 1971."
"What are you talking about?" I hoped Ortiz kept
bragging for a year. The longer he went on, the longer
Consuela and I lived.
"You think simply planting this device in any fault is
sufficient? Hardly, Carter. I thought better ofyour men-
tality than that. I study every possibility, every contin-
gency. This is more dangerous than fire, this ability to
create earthquakes. The people of San Francisco have
not learned their lesson from history."
"The city is earthquake-proof," I said.
"Hardly. They built their rapid transit system directly
through the fault. BART cuts across the Hayward Fault
—the same one I will use for this quake. They have con-
structed hospitals over it. Two hundred small dams sur-
round the area. I believe the Mount Sutro reservoir will
break when my earthquake is triggered, and millions of
gallons of water will deluge the Sunset area. The reser-
voir north of the Twin Peaks will take out the Mission
District. Mud slides and other damage from broken util-
ity lines will occur."
"You're pretty damn thorough," I muttered.
"And this is only my backup scheme. I still believe my
primary device is unscathed. But this is, as I said, insur-
ance. I am tempted to trigger this just to see if my specif-
ic predictions are accurate. As before, fire afterward will
be the major destroyer. The entire of Chinatown will be
in flames."
"Spare me the details," I said. I shifted from foot to
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foot, waiting for an opportunity. It didn't come. The
guards were too cautious.
"There is no further need to impress you, Carter."
Ortiz turned and began chanting. The words were more
guttural than Spanish; it had to be Mayan. The men
around us tensed, a nervous ripple passing through
them. They prepared for something.
It came like lightning.
Ortiz turned and pointed at Consuela. His men lifted
her and tossed her out into the center of the huge well.
Her screams didn't stop until she hit water. The distant
splash told me the well was about sixty feet deep. Sixty
feet deep, two hundred feet around. My mind refused to
work in the face of this danger. Irrelevant items kept
cropping up. Sixty feet to the murky water below. Two
seconds of falling before the sacred well swallowed me
as it just had Consuela.
I fought. But the men were too strong, too numerous.
It took six of them to fling me out into the middle of the
well. And I fell. Before I hit the still rippling water, I got
my legs under me to take up some of the shock of im-
pact. The water was colder than I'd anticipated. The
gray-green murk closed over my head and I went down
into the sucking slime that had claimed so many lives in
the past.
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I felt as if I'd returned to the womb, but it was a cold,
filthy, unsavory one. The murky green water totally sur-
rounded me. It seeped into my nose and ears; it made
my skin feel unclean. When my feet touched the bottom
of the sacrificial well, I kicked out. And this almost cost
me my life.
The action should have sent me soaring to Che surface
of the water like a bobbing cork. Instead, my feet sank
into slime so thick that it began sucking me down like
quicksand. I fought. My lungs began to strain. I opened
my eyes for a clue to escape. This action only blinded me
with the filth in the water. I saw nothing, and all I felt
were my burning lungs and the slow suction on my feet.
Twisting frantically, I managed to break the suction
under my boots. An odious belch rose past me. I fol-
lowed the bubble to the surface, I broke through, gasp-
ing for air. Even the foul, dead air of the well seemed
like perfume to my nose.
I paddled about for a few seconds, resting, getting my
strength back. When I managed to wipe the grime from
my eyes and face, I slowly turned in the muck, surveying
my watery prison.
Consuela struggled a few feet from me. I swam over to
her slowly. My arms felt like lead weights and my legs
were nothing more than logs, dangling and lifeless.
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Lungs heaved and my entire body felt as if I'd been
beaten constantly for a month.
When I saw Consuela trying to sneeze out the slime in
her nose, I swam up to her, my arm going around her for
mutual support.
. I didn't see you after
"Nick," she said, startled. "I . .
you hit the water. I was scared to dive after you."
"Didn't you hit bottom?"
"No, I didn't. I don't think. Oh, Nick, I'm so fright-
ened, so confused!"
Consuela was lighter and hadn't gone as far down
into the water as I had. That might have saved her life.
I studied our surroundings and saw why none of the
earlier sacrifices had gotten out. The green, slick slime
coated the walls for almost six feet. Then slippery
limestone started and went the sixty feet to the surface.
The opening, so large from ground level, seemed like a
tiny hole in the sky now.
"We're going to have to try to get out of here fast," I
told her. "If we don't, our strength will fade and make
it impossible later on. It's got to be now. Are you
game?"
She was. The Mexican Secret Police didn't train their
field agents well, but if all of them had a tenth of the
courage Consuela showed, they'd be unstoppable.
"This isn't going to be the easiest escape in the
world," I told her. "Mainly because I haven't got the
faintest idea how we're going to do it."
"The slime makes the walls too slippery to climb, and
I can't jump high enough to grab that little ledge." She
pointed out a thick ledge some ten feet above the surface
of the water. It might have been ten light years away.
But if I could get to that ledge, the possibility existed I
might find others and slowly make my way back to the
surface.
But how to reach that ledge?
"Let me try to make it like a dolphin leaping out of
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che water," I said. "I'll dive as far down as I can, turn,
and roéket up for the surface. Maybe the buoyancy of
my body will help me shoot up and out far enough to
aeach the ledge."
She looked dubious and with good reason. I tried it
and failed to reach the ledge by five feet.
We clung together in the water while I got my breath
back. She looked into my eyes and I read the message
there. She knew we were going to die. She moved closer
and kissed me. I knew I had to come up with something,
and fast.
Then an idea hit me like a ton of bricks falling off the
Empire State Building.
"My belt!" I cried. "I can use my belt to get onto the
:edge."
"But you have to hook it to something," she said
eakly. But hope was beginning to flare. Just a little, but
t was there.
"I don't have to hook the belt around anything. I
lave most of the epoxy glue left in the jade inset on the
)uckle. We try the dolphin bit again, this time with me
2nder you. We rocket up, I push hard and get you up
out of the water as far as possible. You swing the
'elt with the buckle all smeared with glue. Aim for the
edge. If it hits the ledge, let go of the belt, Don't try to
Dull it back down or support your weight on it. The glue
Mill set in a few seconds. Then we go for the dangling
'elt."
"I don't know if I can do it, Nick."
"You don't have any choice. We don't have any
bhoice,S' I told her grimly.
I worked the jade inset around, glued it firmly to the
)uckle with some of the glue inside, then made sure the
Duckle itself was well smeared with the quick drying
'poxy. I hoped the journey through the water wouldn't
affect the glue—or wash it off.
All we could do was try.
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We dived until my lungs were ready to explode. I
didn't want to think about Consuela's condition. We
arched our backs and headed for the surface as fast as
we could. I got under her feet. When she broke the wa-
ter, I kicked as hard as I could. I drove her up into the
air, her feet pressing down firmly into my shoulders. My
exertions brought me three quarters of the way out of
the water.
I prayed this would work. There wasn't enough
energy in both of us for another try.
A wet slap echoed up the well, then I had my hands
full with Consuela. She fell back down on top of me. We
spluttered and floundered around and finally got back
to the surface. When the water blinked free of my eyes
I saw the most beautiful sight in the world.
The belt dangled tantalizingly overhead. The buckle
had landed on the ledge. Now all we had to do was try
it for strength.
"How long do we wait, Nick?"
"Another ten minutes to be on the safe side. And then
you'll have to go up the belt to the ledge."
"Me? Why me, Nick? You're stronger. "
"But you're lighter. If the glue's not strong enough to
hold, at least one of us has to get out of here. " She reluc-
tantly admitted the logic. The wait dragged into cen-
turies for us and finally, after only five minutes, I said,
"We'll try it now."
Again we performed the two stage human rocket.
Consuela soared upward and caught the belt. She kicked
upward and got both hands onto the dangling leather
strap. But I saw instantly she wasn't going to be able to
work her way hand over hand to the ledge. Her strength
wasn't enough for that.
I acted without thinking. Grabbing one of her slender
ankles, I used her as an extension of the belt. Her hands
slipped while she supported both our weights as I
worked my way upward. The gamble paid off. I got my
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hand above hers on the belt in time to take the strain off
her.
The pair of us hung like flies caught on a piece of fly
paper. But I knew her strength couldn't last much long-
ere I climbed past her and up the belt. I marvelled at the
way the glue supported both our weights so effortlessly.
When the ledge was firmly under my feet, I dropped
down and pulled Consuela up beside me, There was
barely enough room on the ledge for both of us.
We were alive. That was good enough. For the mo-
ment.
"What now, Nick?" she asked. "We can't use the belt
again." I saw she was right. The belt buckle was
permanently bonded to the limestone, What had saved
us now robbed us of a valuable tool to get the remaining
fifty feet out of the well.
"I'm not a very good rock climber, but it looks as if
I'm going to get a lot of practice," I told her. "l see
ledges and cracks, crevices and outjuttings I might be
able to use to get up. You stay here. I'll get to the top
and drop you a rope."
It sounded easy. It was the hardest non-equipment
rock climbing I'd ever done. The limestone was slippery
with slime from below. The ledges were worn away by
the action of centuries of falling water. The cracks were
crumbly. The outjuttings that had looked so large from
below barely supported my toes.
But I made it to the top. Just when I knew my last
ounce of strength had fled, I felt dirt under my finger-
tips. I clawed frantically, kicking and wiggling like an
earthworm. Never had plain dirt felt so good against my
face, on my chest, all over my body.
Ortiz and his men had already left the Sacred Well.
For the moment, luck was with us.
"Nick," came Consuela's voice drifting up weakly
. I don't think I can
from below. "Arf you all right? I . .
hang on much longer."
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"Wrap the belt around your hand," I called down.
"That'll help save your strength. I'm out of the well. Let
me—-" Before I could say another word, I heard air-
planes overhead. An entire flight of airplanes. The sky
filled with cargo planes. Seconds later, they disgorged
white, blossoming parachutes.
Troops. Mexican Army troops.
"Consuela!" I cried. "Your message got through. The
Army's arrived. We'll have you out in a few minutes.
Hang on!"
I regained my strength while the troops landed. By the
time the first soldiers found me, I had recuperated
enough to greet them. And then my heart fell. The lead
man was Jaime Esquibel, the Mexican Secret Police
agent whom I'd stripped naked and left in Mexico City.
"Nick Carter," he said.
"You won't believe this, Senor Esquibel, but I'm
damned glad to see you right now."
His •short right almost knocked me out. I fell heavily
and rubbed my jaw. He stood over me, his belly heaving
and his fists clenched at his sides. Slowly, the fists relax-
ed and he held out his hand to help me get to my feet.
"I should throw you into that well," he said, the edge
still in his voice. "Perhaps I will."
"I just came from the bottom," I said, "and Consuela
Gonzales is still down there. Better get a rope and help
her out. She's one of yours, you know."
"Of course I know," he said acidly. Esquibel gestured
and got the troops over to help free Consuela from the
bottom of the well. As soon as the rescue was in
progress, he turned and said to me, "You are lucky I
carry a grudge."
"How's that?"
"No one else would have followed you so diligently.
No one else would have protected your back in the
jungle."
"Back at Ortiz' hacienda," I said, things finally falling
into place. When I was bugging their building someOne
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had removed the guard in the jungle. "You killed the
guard!"
"I wanted you for my own revenge, Carter. I would
not allow such scum to rob you from me. "
"l am glad you carry a grudge then," I said with feel-
inge
"Doubly so. I followed you to this place." He
gestured around at the ruins of Chichén Itzå. "No
one else would have picked up such a feeble radio
message that lasted only a few seconds. "
"That was Consuela's message?" I asked. The portly
Mexican Secret Police agent nodded assent. "Did you
get the information to David Hawk? This is important. "
"We know of Ortiz and his earthquake machine. The
information was immediately sent to your David
Hawk."
I heaved a sigh of relief. Then it came to me. The
troops were now fighting, and no word had come of Or-
tiz' capture.
Esquibel spoke rapidly into his walkie-talkie, then
turned to me and said, "Ortiz has escaped into the
jungle. We will find him."
I wasn't so sure.
"Nick," cried Consuela. soldiers had finally pulled
her from the sacrificial well. She clung to me, sobbing
for long minutes. I felt Esquibel's hot eyes burning
through us. He obviously disapproved. Of me. Of Con-
suela. Of the way she was almost naked. Of everything
about us and this mission.
What he thought didn't matter to me. I had to give
credit where credit was due. I'd humiliated him and he'd
tenaciously followed me to get even. He'd saved our
lives. I owed him,
"Consuela, they still haven't caught Ortiz. I'm going
after him. "
"Let it be, Carter," said Esquibel. "The soldiers will
find him. "
"This is personal. Just like between you and me," I
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said. Understanding dawned in the man's brown eyes.
Being thrown into the well was worse than mere humil-
iation.
"Then these might be of use to you." He dug in his
pack and pulled out Wilhelmina and Hugo. "I took
them off one of the first guards I killed. I have put in a
new magazine into that automatic. It is a fine weapon,
that Luger of yours."
I hefted them both, feeling the old familiar power
surge into me. They renewed my determination to per-
sonally finish off Ortiz.
"Consueia, stay with Esquibel. I'll be back when I've
•finished this mission once and for all." Consuela started
to protest, but one look from me cut off her words. She
knew what I had to do and why.
I took off at a dogtrot for the Temple of Kukulcån.
I still pictured Ortiz sitting on that ornately carved stone
throne with his pet jaguars on either side. I also remem-
bered him pronouncing the death sentence on me from
that spot. Whether this was business or personal no
longer mattered; the end result would be the same.
Hawk had ordered Earth Shaker eliminated. There
wasn't anything in the rules about me not personally
sharing that goal.
I took the steps up the side of the pyramid one at a
time, irritated that my legs weren't quite long enough to
take them two at a time. The ancient Mayas who had
built this stone edifice either had improbably long legs
or very short ones. I suspected the latter. They'd take
two solemn steps before going up the next step. Perhaps
they had never been in the hurry I was, either.
I reached the top with its platform and throne. Ortiz
was nowhere to be seen. But this didn't bother me. I
hadn't really expected such a man to remain quietly
waiting for the end. He was a fighter. I understood men
like that.
Slowly scanning the entire city of Chichén Itzå re-
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vealed the chaos that had fallen on it from the skies.
Mexican troops everywhere herded their prisoners to-
ward the stadium and the pok-a-tok field for easier su-
pervision. The game with the exploding collars and rub-
ber ball would never again be played here. But for all the
armed men, the sporadic gunshots, and the obvious con-
trol the Mexican Army was slowly exerting on the city,
I failed to see Ortiz.
The stone hut where his spare earthquake generator
rested had to be a good bet for a starting point in my
search. And it was. Human figures, made tiny by dis-
tance, lugged out boxes and loaded them into the back
of the truck that had carried in the carbon dioxide bot-
tles. Ortiz was packing to leave.
He had to be stopped.
Ortiz couldn't know if we had already stopped his
plans to wreck California. Knowing him as I did, there
was only one course of action left for him. He would put
his backup plan into effect. Whether or not his primary
earthquake machine worked, he would be ready to go
with a second.
AXE had pulled the plug on the first earthquake gen-
erator. I had to do the same to Ortiz' backup unit.
I raced back down the steps of the pyramid, this time
on a different side. I gave up all hope of subterfuge. A
frontal attack was all that could stop Ortiz in time. That
truck had to be disabled, the lasers broken, the Earth
Shaker himself killed.
Stumbling and rolling when I hit the base of the giant
pyramid saved my life. Tiny dust clouds popped up
around me. Ortiz' men had opened rifle fire. But de-
termination drove my bullets. Every one spit out of
Wilhelmina's barrel found a target. Not all killed; all
struck flesh.
"Carter," yelled Ortiz, still dressed in his feather robe
and jade and silver ornaments, "you cannot stop me.
The entire Mexican Army cannot stop me. I will rule the
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world!" His voice rose to a screech and broke. Ortiz had
gone over the edge and planned to take millions of inno-
cent people with him.
Wilhelmina leveled and I fired once, twice, three
times.
The Mayan gods looked after their Ab Puch. Ortiz
stood stock still and each of my three bullets missed
him. I saw the feathers on his robe jump with the pas-
sage of hot lead, but he remained unscathed. He laughed
and jumped into the truck. I started to use the last two
bullets on his truck tires when I heard a low animal
snarl.
He'd turned loose his jaguars.
I tried to estimate my chances of survival if I shot out
the tires and then faced those savage beasts with only
Hugo. The odds were zero and I knew it. Even shooting
out the tires might not stop Ortiz from escaping. The
Mexican soldiers were at the other side of the city,
rounding up the remaining guards. If Ortiz had a spe-
cially planned escape route from Chichén Itzå, and I
had no reason to believe otherwise, he might still escape.
If I were dead, I couldn't hunt him down and kill him.
Of all the people in the world, I alone had the best idea
where he would plant his backup earthquake generator.
Just before he'd tossed me into the sacrificial well, he'd
virtually told me the location. Dead I couldn't transmit
that information.
I let Ortiz' truck go and turned the sight of my Luger
on the leading jaguar. I hated destroying such a beau-
tiful creature, but now, matters had reverted to the law
of the jungle: kill or be killed. I killed. Two heavy slugs
ripped into the first jaguar's chest. Even those didn't in-
stantly kill it. It staggered on a few feet and died futilely
clawing at me.
The other cat launched itself straight for me. One of
the reasons weak, vulnerable man has survived in the
primitive jungles is because of his mobility. Once a four-
legged animal commits to an attack, it has to follow
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through. On only two legs, man can turn and dodge
faster.
I did the fastest dodging of my life. Even then, I felt
teeth ripping at my arm as the jaguar rocketed past. I
continued to spin and followed the beast as it hit the
ground. Hugo leaped into my hand and sank hilt-deep in
the animal's side. Glossy black fur spotted with red as I
repeatedly drove my knife into that noble creature's
straining body. It still had enough vitality to twist its
powerfully sinewed neck and rip at my upper arm. Teeth
sank into biceps. I screamed in agony. But the knife con-
tinued to stab.
I rolled free, bloody Hugo poised between the animal
and me. Its eyes flashed yellow hatred as it advanced. It
staggered, dropped forward and tried to rise. The ex-
pression on that feline face was of hatred turning to sur-
prise. It was master in these jungles. A mere man
shouldn't rob it of life.
The jaguar gave one last convulsive kick with its hind
feet and launched itself through the air toward me. I
turned, but too slowly this time. The weight of the cat
bore me to the ground. Thick claws tore into my chest,
seeking my soft stomach. But as the cat worked to claw
me, my own metal claw jabbed upward into its exposed
belly. I gutted the jaguar. A gush of hot red blood
poured over me. The animal kicked one last time and
died without a sound,
I looked at the bloody corpse thinking, "Sorry," and
meaning it. Creatures like these belong in the jungles
hunting, not acting as bodyguards to psychos like Ortiz.
I winced as pain shot through me. An army doctor
had to be nearby. I needed fixing up badly.
- "Nick, you scared me," said Consuela, a worried ex-
pression on her face. "There was so much blood all over
:you. "
I'd had the relatively minor wounds tended to and
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was now dressed in Mexican Army fatigues. Esquibel
had total control of Chichén Itzå and wanted more
information. Consuela's commiseration over my condi-
tion obviously irritated him.
"Where is this earthquake machine, Carter?" he de-
manded. "My government wants to know everything
about it."
"To protect yourselves in the future, right?" I asked
him. The answer was obvious. Mexico was a peaceful
country, especially as Latin American countries went.
Their government was stable and democratic, their land
reform slowly working, their trade with other countries
improving due to the large, untapped oil reserves. But it
was axiomatic that once a country had power, it used it.
Lord Acton may not have been totally right about
absolute power corrupting absolutely, but it came
nearer to the truth than most other aphorisms.
I couldn't give the Mexican Secret Police agent the
secret to Ortiz' generator.
"It's in the stone building," I said, pointing to where
Ortiz had departed. "Did you manage to track Ortiz
"He got away," said Esquibel in a tight, controlled
voice. "A road had been cut through the jungle, then the
entry to it hidden under heavy growth. He drove over
this barricade and down the road. He had planted mines
along it, radio-controlled mines that blew up when we
tried to follow. We lost twenty men."
"What happened to Ortiz?"
"An airstrip in the jungle , A plane. He is airborne. We
will try to find him. He will not escape us. "
I thought otherwise. Any man capable of removing an
entire laser assembly from a city overrun with soldiers is
capable of leaving the country, especially this one with
its primitive air defense warning network. The radar
coverage of the U.S.-Mexican border is spotty at best,
on both sides—due to lack of funds and even less in-
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terest on the parts of both governments. If Pedro Ortiz
flew low enough, he could enter the United States un-
detected.
He was heading straight for Northern California. If
he planted his second earthquake generator in the Hay-
ward Fault—as he'd told me he would do—he might
succeed in triggering the San Andreas Fault in the bar-
gain. More than ever I had to kill Ortiz.
"Let me help you, Nick," offered Consuela. I didn't
need her arm around my shoulders to support me, but it
felt too nice for me to turn down. The three of us went
into Ortiz' laboratory. It remained much as we'd left it,
with the exception of the lasers on the work bench. They
were gone, as was some of the other equipment.
"He had the lasers here," I said, pointing to the empty
spots. "And some sort of radiation monitoring gizmo."
"For the uranium hexafluoride?" demanded Es-
quibel.
I nodded. The man knew more than I'd thought about
this. I kept underestimating him. I hoped the punch to
my jaw had been enough to salve his wounded pride. It
wouldn't take much for this man to kill me. Everything
I did angered him more. Worst of all, he obviously had
a thing for Consuela and did not like the attention she
gave me.
"His lab book is missing," said Esquibel after a short
search. "He either destroyed it or took it with him."
"Won't he need the carbon dioxide, Nick?" asked
Consuela. "If he doesn't have all the supplies he needs to
produce another earthquake, he's limited."
"That's the simplest item for him to acquire," I told
her. "Any good scientific supply store carries it. Most
soda pop vending companies have it in large supply. It's
used to carbonate drinks at all the fast food places in the
United States. If he got desperate, he could even buy dry
ice. No, with the laser and the uranium hexafluoride,
Ortiz is in the earthshaking business again."
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"Where might he try to set off another earthquake?"
asked Esquibel.
. " began Consuela. I tightened my grip around
"In .
her waist to cut off the words. This was my show. I
didn't want the Mexican Secret Police muscling in on it.
"Where?" repeated Esquibel, turning to the woman.
"In one of the countries where his influence is
greatest," she said. "Perhaps in Panama. We overheard
him talking about replacing the government there with
figureheads. "
"Those men have been removed," said Esquibel.
S' You have no idea where he might have gone with his
equipment?" The intense stare told me that this man
khew we knew. I did something I thought only worked
in the movies. It surprised me it worked so well. I simply
relaxed and sank down, as if fainting.
"Nick," cried Consuela in concern. "He's weaker
than we thought. He's lost so much blood."
"I'll get the medic," said Esquibel.
Before he'd left the room to seek out the doctor, I was
on my feet and pulling Consuela with me. We left by the
side door. I pointed down the broad main thoroughfare
of Chiché Itzå to where a Mexican Army plane had
landed.
"Let's go. We're going to hijack ourselves a plane."
"Nick, let us handle it. This is our country," she
pleaded.
"And Ortiz is heading for mine."
She nodded and came along. Stealing the cargo plane
proved easier than I'd thought. The pilot and copilot
had left to check out the sights. Their prisoners weren't
to be loaded aboard the plane for some time yet. I
jumped up into the open cargo door, reached back,
pulled Consuela up beside me, and then looked at her.
"Are you sure you want to come along? This will get
you into a hell of a lot of trouble with your superiors."
"I was assigned to stop Ortiz. I have not stopped him
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yet. Being with you gives me the best chance."
167
I laughed, then kissed her. She had spirit. Reluctantly
breaking off the kiss, we went forward to the cockpit.
"Have you ever flown one of these?" I asked her.
"Never, I am not a pilot."
"Fasten your seatbelts and do exactly as I tell you.
This is going to be hairy. The runway is too short for my
liking, but we don't have a full load. That should give us
the margin we need."
I started the DC—3's engines. They coughed and sput-
tered, then roared to throaty life. These old planes were
the workhorses during World War II. Nowadays, they
were greatly favored by dope smugglers and foreign gov-
ernments because of their reliability and basic in-
destructibility. The wings flapped up and down so much
that Consuela gasped. I reached over and reassuringly
squeezed her leg. Then I started taxiing down the
deserted street of Chichén Itzå.
I used full flaps, then gunned the engines to clear the
jungle. From behind I heard faint shouts of dismay and
anger, but no bullets arched up to seek out our metal
skin. Checking the compass, I found north, then pointed
to a large green button on the control panel in front of
Consuela.
"Press that," I told her. She reached out and hesitant-
ly touched it. The plane lurched slightly, then settled
down. "That's the autopilot. All we have to do is sit
back and relax now."
" "Must we sit back and only relax?" she asked. Her
eyes danced with merriment—and lust.
"Let's check out the cargo compartment," I said. And
we did.
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"There's the border," I said, pointing down to the in-
visible line between Mexico and the United States. We
were flying up into Arizona just west of Nogales, a dope
smuggler's favorite route. I licked my lips as I studied
the controls. Our fuel was running low, but it would be
enough for quite a few more miles; perhaps even enough
to get us into Northern California. I didn't want to radio
ahead for a landing because of uneasy feeling I had.
Hawk might give me orders that would prevent me from
getting Ortiz. But Earth Shaker was mine. I wouldn't
give him up for any reason.
I'd been attacked by jaguars, thrown into wells, damn
near had my head blown off by a technologically ad-
vanced and artistically barbaric game, and Ortiz was
going to pay for it.
Revenge is never a pretty word; it's always an ugly
motive. It's the only one that accurately described my
feelings toward Pedro Ortiz. I like to tidy up a job, clean
up all the loose ends, and keep the fuss to a minimum.
Ortiz was still dangerous, still my assignment, and he'd
been a prick for my pretty balloon of confidence.
"Nick, look. Planes. They're coming after us. "
I cursed silently as I put our plane into a steep dive.
The U.S. Border Patrol had sighted us and had sent up
a pair of planes to bring us in. I wasn't about to waste
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precious hours explaining to petty bureaucrats that I
had to stop a madman from destroying the western
United States. I'm no fighter ace but I can fly with the
best of those who aren't.
I banked, slipped, then put the ponderous cargo plane
into a climb. That lost one of the planes. The other fol-
lowed my aerial acrobatics and radioed me. The crackle
and hiss of static on the radio eventually hardened into
cold words.
"Land immediately. You have illegally entered the
United States air space. Land or be shot down."
I didn't know if that was a bluff or not. The light
plane following us didn't have heavy armaments. But
there were a couple Air Force bases nearby with in-
terceptors and fighters that could bring us down.
I banked again, then dived, trying to lose the Border
Patrol plane. I hated using our precious fuel, but there
wasn't anything else I could do. The fuel gauge needle
made its slow ma!Ch toward the big E—empty. When
my starboard engine began to sputter, I feathered the
prop and limped down on one engine. The fuel was
almost gone.
"Hang on," I told Consuela. "We're going to swap
planes on the ground." I looked around and finally
found an old airstrip that was cut through the desert
sage and cactus.
I landed, and the Border Patrol plane came in quickly
beside me on the deserted airstrip. The patrolman
thought he had captured a planeload of desperate drug
smugglers. I had to get around his natural suspicions if
I wanted to steal his plane.
Outside, I held up my hands as he advanced on me,
pistol drawn. I said, "Look, we're not drug smugglers.
No dope inside. None. We're just out for a little jaunt. "
"In an old cargo plane. Sure, mister. I've heard 'em
all. Now where's the rest of your crew?"
"Up there," I said, turning slightly to indicate the
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cockpit. Consuela is quite a beauty and that was all it
took for the man to freeze for a split second. He eyed
her; I moved.
An untrained man might have died trying to attack a
Border Patrol guard. I'm a professional. I timed my kick
to his stomach perfectly. The air rushed out of his lungs
and I knocked the gun from his hand. He was out cold
in another three seconds. Consuela joined me and we
tied him up and tossed him into the cargo bay of the
DC-3.
"Sweet dreams," I said to him, "And won't you be
surprised when you find out this baby is stolen from the
Mexican Army." Consuela and I rushed to the smaller
plane the Patrolman had flown. The fuel tank was
almost full. Good luck on our part. Before the call went
out for us, we would be in California.
I took off, circled once, then headed toward Oakland.
The mountains to the east of this city were the most
likely spot for Ortiz to set up his earthquake machine. I
tried to remember the area around Walnut Creek and
failed. But this was a long shot; it had to payoff.
We flew low and at top speed, finding the central val-
ley in California and going north along the east slopes of
the Sierra Madres. It was good to return to civilization
after being so long in the jungles of the Yucatan.
"What are we hunting for, Nick?" she asked. "Are we
looking for Ortiz from the air? I don't think I can spot
his sloped head from this altitude."
"An airplane. Landed somewhere that looks like a
mine shaft. Can't be many places like that, even though
old gold mines are everywhere." I hoped I sounded
more confident than I felt. Despair wracked me that I
would be unable to find Ortiz; looking for him was like
searching out one particular drop of water in the entire
ocean.
"Nick, all of California seems to be either airplanes or
autos."
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Consuela had a point. The area around Walnut Creek
was ideal for Ortiz' earthquake generator. The fault line
ran nearby, the mountains had mine shafts going down
to the appropriate levels, and the ground transportation
was adequate for any movement of heavy laser equip-
ment.
"Look there," I said, pointing. We had been hunting
for almost an hour when I sighted something that
looked promising. A small airstrip, nestled in the foot-
hills not ten miles from the freeway leading through the
mountains to Berkeley, held a single small plane. A jet.
A Learjet. I circled to make certain.
"Is that Ortiz'?" asked Consuela. "It's a jet like the
one we rode in, but is it his?"
"It's got to be. We're running low on fuel and the
description of this plane must have been broadcast all
over the West by now. We're going down." I banked,
pulled it up, and sat down gently on the rocky landing
strip, The bouncing was worse than I'd have liked, but
we landed safely and walked away.
I checked out the Learjet. Deserted. Inside, it seemed
no different from the one we'd flown in with Ortiz from
Mexico City to the Yucatan, but the markings on this
one were different. That meant nothing. Ortiz could
have a fleet of these planes hidden away in the jungles.
Even having U.S. registration numbers said nothing
about the owner or pilot.
"Nick," whispered Consuela. I turned and went back
to the cargo compartment. She pointed. A carbon diox-
ide cylinder was strapped to the bulkhead. "Does that
mean this is Ortiz' plane?"
"Looks like it," I said grimly. "No one else is likely to
carry a cylinder of carbon dioxide around with them in
a private jet. The big question now is where he's taken
the laser. Into the mountains, but where? This is a big
area."
I debated about calling David Hawk and reporting in.
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He could have an AXE search team here in twenty
minutes. I might miss my chance at personally killing
Ortiz, but if that call for help didn't go out, Earth
Shaker might kill millions. My duty was clear. I put in
the call.
"N3?" came Hawk's tentative voice over the radio in
the cockpit of the jet. "Where are you?" I hastily gave
him my position. He barely let me get in a word after
that. ' 'Just wait and we'll have a team to you in nothing
flat. The San Andreas device has been deactivated, but
Ortiz put a self-destruct mechanism on it. The vital com-
ponents are all fused; we need more information on their
construction. Take Ortiz alive, if you can. If it's obvious
he'll trigger the earthquake, kill him."
I'd kill him, no matter what. He wasn't going to live
after what he'd done. On a more philosophical level, I
wasn't sure the power he wielded was safe in anyone's
hands. Better it should die with the slope-headed Mayan
genius.
"Look, I'm not going to sit here cooling my heels. I'm
going after him. If time's so important, it might be the
difference between experiencing an earthquake and just
thinking about it."
Hawk paused for a moment, then his voice crackled
over the speaker, "Go to it, Nick. I trust your judgment
in this matter."
"Thanks."
I clicked off the radio and went outside the plane to
join Consuela, She pointed to waffled tire tracks leading
down a dirt road into the mountains.
"A fresh trail," she said. "The ridges in the dust are
still sharp. He must have had a truck waiting for him
here. "
"Let's go. We've got quite a few miles to go to get to
the mountains. "
"We walk?" she asked doubtfully, looking into the
purpled distance. "The mountains are probably a lot
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farther away than they look."
"I know that. We're going to fly the Border Patrol
plane. It's got enough fuel to last a few more miles. This
is going to be a real treetop airline operation."
Consuela didn't scream once as I piloted the plane
just above the ground level, although her knuckles
turned white from her grip on the edge of the seat. We
flew for almost ten miles before the fuel ran out. But it
was enough. We'd found a branch in the road—one
leading deeper into the mountains, another to an old
mine shaft cut into the foothills.
The tire tracks led to the mineshaft. It was only a mile
and a half walk, but we were hot and sweaty by the time
we reached our destination.
"This is it, Nick. There's the truck they used. We're in
time."
"Not so loud. Your voice carries up here." But the
warning came too late. Guards rounded the truck, guns
in hand. They exchanged some rapid-fire words I missed
—probably in Mayan—and dispersed. I silently cursed;
they were doing too good a job for me to easily finish
them all off.
I pointed to my right and silently signalled Consuela
to go hide. She wasn't armed. I'd have to retrieve a gun
for her if we were going to get into the mine shaft in time
to stop Ortiz from triggering the promised quake. When
she was in position, I moved quickly. And almost died.
The guards had set up their defense perimeter wisely.
I found myself staring into the barrels of two high-pow-
ered rifles. The first man fired and the second squeezed
off a round an instant later. A heavy slug hit me high in
the shoulder and spun me around. I flopped to the
ground like a beached whale, but as I fell, Wilhelmina
came up.
I lay as if they'd killed me. I waited. Soon, one of the
men cautiously approached to study his handiwork. A
single shot from my trusty Luger right between the eyes
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dropped him dead. Rolling, my gun sight lowered on the
other man, who was now halfway to my position.
Wilhel
mina spoke again and another body dropped.
Their rifles were quickly added to my arsenal, and I
made my way back to Consuela's position.
"Here," I said, handing her oneof the rifles. "Use it.
We've got at least a half dozen men to get through be-
fore we even reach the mine shaft and Ortiz."
I waited and watched. Attacking was out of the ques-
tion. I had to make them come to us. They would reveal
their position, allow a shot, give us the edge. And it
worked. Almost ten minutes after I'd killed the first two,
I heard a tiny rockslide start. I rolled and aimed upward.
The man on the boulder above me was momentarily
taken by surprise. He hadn't expected to see a pair of us
waiting.
He took three slugs from my rifle as he cartwheeled
down the hill. The others rushed at the sound of firing.
Consuela wounded another and I killed a third. My in-
formal count left three unwounded and alive—and now
wary.
I moved to the rock on which the man had stationed
himself. This gave a nice view of the truck, the mine
shaft, and two of the other guards. Ortiz' army was soon
reduced to one wounded and one man still active and in
hiding. Consuela shot and killed the man she'd wounded
as he tried to get under cover. I'd hoped this would bring
the remaining man out of hiding. It didn't.
"I've got to go after him," I called to Consuela. The
man could now afford to play the waiting game. I didn't
know how long Ortiz had been in the mine or how long
it took to set up his laser equipment. This firefight had
already lasted an impossibly long fifteen minutes. It was
close to a half hour since I'd put in the call for backup
men to Hawk. The AXE team would be arriving in force
any time now.
I wanted Ortiz for myself.
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dropped him dead. Rolling, my gun sight lowered on the
other man, who was now halfway to my position.
Wilhel
mina spoke again and another body dropped.
Their rifles were quickly added to my arsenal, and I
made my way back to Consuela's position.
"Here," I said, handing her oneof the rifles. "Use it.
We've got at least a half dozen men to get through be-
fore we even reach the mine shaft and Ortiz."
I waited and watched. Attacking was out of the ques-
tion. I had to make them come to us. They would reveal
their position, allow a shot, give us the edge. And it
worked. Almost ten minutes after I'd killed the first two,
I heard a tiny rockslide start. I rolled and aimed upward.
The man on the boulder above me was momentarily
taken by surprise. He hadn't expected to see a pair of us
waiting.
He took three slugs from my rifle as he cartwheeled
down the hill. The others rushed at the sound of firing.
Consuela wounded another and I killed a third. My in-
formal count left three unwounded and alive—and now
wary.
I moved to the rock on which the man had stationed
himself. This gave a nice view of the truck, the mine
shaft, and two of the other guards. Ortiz' army was soon
reduced to one wounded and one man still active and in
hiding. Consuela shot and killed the man she'd wounded
as he tried to get under cover. I'd hoped this would bring
the remaining man out of hiding. It didn't.
"I've got to go after him," I called to Consuela. The
man could now afford to play the waiting game. I didn't
know how long Ortiz had been in the mine or how long
it took to set up his laser equipment. This firefight had
already lasted an impossibly long fifteen minutes. It was
close to a half hour since I'd put in the call for backup
men to Hawk. The AXE team would be arriving in force
any time now.
I wanted Ortiz for myself.
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Stones gr'itted under my boots as I moved forward.
For once I was dressed properly for infiltration. The
Mexican Army fatigues I wore allowed me to blend into
the deep shadows and dull greens of the creosote bush
growing in the crevices.
A hot line slashed my cheek. I ducked instinctively.
The remaining guard had tried and failed to kill me.
This let me guess with some certainty where he was hid-
ing.
The truck had a tarp over the steel uprights in the bed.
I figured the man was hiding inside the truck right about
midway. I emptied my magazine—all six rounds
snapped through the canvas and the weak metal sides of
the truck.
I'd expected some outcry of pain, fear, or rage. Noth-
ing. Discarding the rifle and hefting Wilhelmina again, u
advanced boldly. The time was past for careful infiltra-
tion techniques. Nothing. Not a sound reached my ears.
I whipped around the back of the truck, the Luger
aimed inward.
The man sat against the far side of the truck, his eyes
sightlessly staring, most of his chin missing. One of my
bullets had squarely struck him, killing him instantly.
It wasn't a pretty sight.
I called to Consuela, "Hurry up. Into the mine shaft. "
She joined me, briefly glancing into the back of the
truck. Her dark complexion turned several shades light-
er but she said nothing. She was learning that field work
was deadly.
We hesitated for a moment in the mouth of the shaft.
I pressed a handkerchief into the small bullet hole in my
shoulder; it was hardly more than a scratch and
wouldn't slow me down, I had more important things to
worry about. The darkness yawned in front of us like a
mouth waiting to swallow us alive. I didn't want to ven-
ture inside without some sort of light.
"Is there a flashlight anywhere? We can't go blunder-
ing around in the dark."
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"Here, Nick," Consuela said, tossing me a flashlight
she'd found in the truck cab. She hefted one of her own.
I saw her hand shaking slightly.
"You can stay out here and guide Hawk in with his
reinforcements," I said gently.
"I'm going with you. I've come this far; I'll go all the
way."
I didn't bother telling her this was dangerous. She
knew it. Turning, I plunged into the:maw of the mine
shaft. That peculiar dead smell of air long unstirred sur-
rounded us. I flicked on the flashlight and noticed that
the batteries were almost dead. The pale yellow circle of
light on the rock floor of the mine was better than noth-
ing at all. Consuela turned on her light; it was as dim as
mine.
"Hurry," I said. With the flashlight in one hand and
Wilhelmina in the other, I made my way deeper into the
heart of the mountain. Pick marks on the walls showed
where gold miners had eked out every last speck of that
precious metal years ago. The timbers holding the roof
were rotted and decaying. The lightest touch sent down
a cascade of splinters. I prayed there wouldn't be gas as
well. This entire mine was a grave waiting to be filled.
"Nick! Oh!" cried Consuela. She staggered against
me and we both went down when the temblor hit. The roof
of the mine shaft held—but barely. Chunks of rock as
large as my fist hurled down from above. Huge dust
clouds rose and threatened to suffocate us. The earth-
quake lasted only a second, then died.
"He's triggered the earthquake!" she shouted.
"Maybe not. That might just be the result of him re-
leasing the radioactive gas into the fault line. We might
have a chance if we step on it."
We stumbled along the shaft now, tripping over huge
chunks of rock and fallen timbers. When the second
quake hit, I knew the weakened beams behind us would
yield. They did.
A deep grinding in the bowels of the earth preceded
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the actual cave-in. I shoved Consuela ahead of me and
yelled, "Run like hell. The whole shaft's collapsing on
She didn't need urging. The sickening quivers of the
once steady earth convinced her. We didn't know what
we were running toward, but only death remained be-
hind us. The roof of the shaft creaked an-d groaned; that
was solid rock giving way. The wooden beams had long
since gone. The roar of falling stone and the rush of
thick dust caught up with us and swept past us into the
depths of the hill.
An aftershock brought down even more rock. A
flying shard caught Consuela on the leg and sent her
face-forward onto the ground. I stopped my headlong
run and struggled back to her side through the veil of
choking dust. It got into my mouth, made my eyes wa-
ter, and caused me to sneeze.
"You okay?" I shouted. The roar of the collapse had
beendeafening.
She nodded. While she staunched the flow of blood
from her cut, I walked back a few paces. The ever-de-
creasing beam from the flashlight verified my worst
fears. It would take more digging than either of us were
capable of to move the ton of rock barring our exit. I
hoped there was a second shaft leading into the mine,
but I didn't want to bet money on it. Even if we'd
wanted to retreat now, it wasn't possible. We were
forced into going on.
Ortiz was ahead in the mine. He had to be stopped,
even if it was the last thing I did. And from the shape the
shaft was already in, it looked like it might be.
I helped Consuela to her feet and said, "Forward. Or-
tiz is there. He'll be getting ready for the big rip. We
can't let him do it."
She started to say something, turning in my grip and
facing back into the dark pile of solid rock barring our
exit. Then she stopped, realizing what I meant. We had
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to stop Ortiz because it was all we could do, We began
inching forward, her injured leg slowing our progress.
"It's dead," Consuela said bitterly. She shook her
flashlight, trying to make the tiny beam of dim yellow
light return. She ended up smashing the useless instru-
ment against the stony wall. I shared her frustration.
With only one flashlight left between us, it would have
to be carefully guarded. Without light, we would be
hopelessly lost in the darkness. Failure loomed as a con-
stant specter over our hunt. In fact, my confidence
began to waver on several counts.
I was no longer even sure we followed Ortiz. We'd
come to a vee in the tunnel. We'd tried to study the dirt
at the juncture for a clue as to the direction he and his
men had taken. The rough rock didn't show a single
scuff mark or scar. Even checking several yards along
each branch failed to reveal any indication that we were
on the right track. I'd finally decided the issue by simply
choosing one of the tunnels at random. We'd both gone
along the left one for no good reason other than I was
loath for us to split up, especially when we had only one
flashlight.
"Nick, the air is terrible," Consuela panted. I had to
agree. The heaviness had been mounting. I suspected the
tunnel slanted sharply downward into the earth. There
was no renewal, no mixing, no circulation in this part Of
the mine. With the cave-in blocking the tunnel mouth, it
was impossible for new air to edge through.
The feeling of walking in my very own grave kept ris-
ing to haunt me.
"I haven't seen any clue that Ortiz is in this direc-
tion," I told Consuela. "Let's go back to the junction
and try the other—wait!" I held her close as I heard a
deep rumbling. For a horrifying instant I thought it was
still another of the miniature earthquakes. But this
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temblor had a different frequency to it, a different feel.
I was desperate to find Ortiz. Sometimes when desper-
ation becomes too extreme, everything goes wrong. Not
this time, not with me. My senses became more acute; I
picked up on tiny clues that might otherwise have been
missed. My sixth sense was running at full efficiency
now.
It was a good thing. I needed something in my fayor
—Ortiz was both smart and lucky.
Clicking off my flashlight to save the batteries, we
stood in the Stygian darkness, listening for long minutes
to the rumble and the beating of our own hearts. I
dropped to the floor and pressed my ear to it. Sound
waves travelled faster in the rock, and the telltale click-
ing of metallic digging tools was like music to my ears.
"He's ahead. And he's digging. I can hear it," I whis-
pered excitedly. I fingered Wilhelmina, then reluctantly
shoved her back into my belt. The way the roof tended
to cave in, a sharp pistol report might bring the entire
mountain down on our heads. Hugo would have to
perform the coup de grace on Ortiz.
We edged forward slowly, our eyes adjusting to the
pitch blackness all around. After we'd gone about ten
yards, I noticed a faint illumination ahead.
"There he is," I said quietly. I felt like a racehorse at
the starting gate, waiting for the Kentucky Derby to be-
gin. This was the type of action I'd trained for most of
my life. I felt the Killmaster side of my nature beginning
to assert itself.
Hugo came easily into my grip. I pushed Consuela
behind me and handed her the flashlight before moving
forward on silent feet. Each step was tested before I put
my weight down. A turn of a stone, a rattle of a pebble,
the slightest noise and I might betray myself and lose the
only thing going for me—surprise.
I blinked for a full minute when I came to the small
room cruelly blasted in the living rock. The light Ortiz
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worked by wasn't bright; after the total darkness, I felt
as if I looked into the heart of the sun, But my eyes
adjusted and I counted his assistants.
Four of them. While I debated with myself over the
possible use of Wilhelmina, one of them turned and
sighted me. Then the balloon went up. He shouted; I
launched myself in a flat dive straight for his midsection.
Hugo went before me like the prow of a ship. Cold steel
ripped the man's guts out, and I rolled and came to my
feet in a knife-fighter's crouch, blade held with point
slightly upturned.
Ortiz had been engrossed in using a small drill on the
rock to enlarge the opening of a vertical shaft. He stared
up at me, surprise in his crossed eyes.
"Get him! Kill him!" he screamed when he finally re-
alized the danger. He didn't attack himself. He left that
to his henchmen. But he didn't try to run, either. I swore
violently at that. Ortiz turned back to his work. He
started lowering a cable down the shaft. I didn't have to
be a scientist to know what was at the other end.
The laser that would eventually trigger the earthquake
was being put into place, Everything else was in read-
iness for this-madman's wildest dream to come true.
The three technicians with Ortiz advanced. I sized
them up and immediately knew they weren't trained as
a unit. This made my job all the easier. I feinted to the
right, launched a roundabout kick to the knee of the
man on the left, and stabbed the center man. While the
one on the left screamed and clutched his broken
I turned my attention back to the remaining
technician.
His face blanched when he realized how difficult a job
he had ahead of him. Then he slumped forward. Con-
suela had smashed him over the head with the flashlight,
She'd ruined it, but I ruefully thought that we wouldn't
need it to get out. There was no escape from this
chamber for any of us. The best that could happen was
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that we would prevent millions from dying in the outer
world, While I didn't care for the idea of an epitaph,
saving all those lives appealed to me as a last act.
One sharp punch to the throat of the man with the
broken kneecap put him out of his misery. He choked to
death with a smashed windpipe in a few seconds. Only
Ortiz remained. Consuela and I both turned to face him.
In the dim light, he looked more like a devil than a
human. His sloping forehead and those demonic crossed
eyes made him appear as if he'd risen from the depths of
hell.
"Stay back or I trigger the quake now," he warned.
He held a small black box; his finger rested on a button
mounted on it. The cable ran out of the box and down
the shaft. All the vulnerable equipment supporting the
laser was in place and out of our reach. If he'd had the
power in this tiny room, Hugo could have shorted it out
with a single toss. As it was, any attempt to try to slash
the heavy cable was out of the question.
"Don't do it, Ortiz. Think of the ruin you'll cause,"
pleaded Consuela. I knew instantly she had tried the
wrong tact. Ortiz wasn't interested in humanitarian
pleas. If anything, he reveled in the idea of the destruc-
tion he might cause.
"It's no good, Ortiz," I cut in. ' 'The city's been
warned. Your plan to use the reservoirs is no good;
they've been drained, all the floodgates opened. It'll hurt
the city later, but at least the water won't destroy half
the town. "
"You're lying," he snapped. His eyes flashed; the fin-
ger tightened over the button, "But that doesn't matter,
even if you tell the truth. This is a calculated Richter
scale 9.0 earthquake. Almost ten times the energy of the
19()6 quake. I am the most powerful man in all history.
And I am a Maya! Let the world see how the Spanish
cheated us of our heritage. Let the world know our
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I edged in one direction, Consuela in the other. We
had to distract him, to keep him from pressing the but-
ton. If Ortiz triggered the device, there was no tur'ning
back. We had to stop him cold. Now.
"Ab Puch," I said, switching to his Mayan name,
"you will die here if the quake occurs. Who will worship
you? Who will be there to conduct the sacrifices to Yum
Chac? You are the last and the greatest Of the Mayas.
Your people need you." As I spoke I moved toward
him. He faced me and threatened to press the button. I
stopped. Consuela took this as her cue to advance while
his back was turned.
"No," he said. "I will die in this effort. But my spirit
will return in another. Physical death means nothing to
me. I have lived before; I will live again."
Consuela turned a small stone as she took an in-
cautious step. It rattled over the edge of the shaft and
tumbled downward. Ortiz spun to face her. I dived,
Hugo going in front of me again. My first cut hamstrung
the man. He howled in rage and pain. He would never
use that leg again. That gave Consuela the opportunity
to kick the deadly trigger button away from him.
I tried to finish him off, but the man had more re-
siliency than I'd counted on. He rolled away. Hugo hit
solid stone and sparks flew.
"Carter, you've ruined everything for me. My empire
must be postponed until my reincarnation. But I will
triumph. I will!"
Consuela tried to shove the button away. Ortiz
grabbed her ankle and pulled her down. The deep cut
she'd received on her leg had weakened her too much to
resist. She got in my way. This gave Ortiz his chance. He
scooped up the box with the deadly button on it. Using
the wall as a support for his ruined leg, he rose.
In that instant he seemed to glow with a majestic light.'
I was entranced—but I fought off his hypnotic power.
Then Hugo tumbled point over hilt and lodged firmly in
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Ortiz' throat. A fountain of red erupted, drenching his
feathered garb and making him look even more barbaric
in his splendid costume. He gave a gurgled, choking cry
of triumph, his crossed eyes now focused on eternity.
Even as he died, his finger stabbed down on the but-
ton.
Deep down the shaft, an intense laser beam ripped
through carbon dioxide gas, superheating it, causing
rock along the fault line to shift and groan, beginning
the release of inconceivable energy.
The earthquake had been born.
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ELEVEN
"He's dead, " Consuela muttered. She propped herself
up against the rocky wall of the small chamber and
stared at the corpse. For the first time since entering this
tiny room in the mine, I felt the walls closing in on me.
All I could do was look from the barbaric Pedro Ortiz,
the Mayan Ab Puch, the Lord of Death—Earth Shaker
—to the simple control box with the button on it. The
button had remained depressed after Ortiz had touched
it.
Deep down in the crevice a laser was buried. It fired
constantly, heating the gases to the point where the fault
began to slip and the prodigious energies of the earth
were released in destruction. I had come so far and done
so much—but I had ultimately failed.
Ortiz was dead. The simple act of killing him hadn't
given me any sense of accomplishment. If I'd prevented
the earthquake from being triggered, it would have
meant more. But my first task -had been to stop the
earthquake, then kill Ortiz. I'd failed. And millions
would die because of it.
Consuela and I would die locked within the bowels of
a mountain, our bodies never to be found after the de-
structive force of an earthquake had run its course. I
sank down to the stone floor and stared at Ortiz' body.
The blood no longer flowed from the knife wound in his
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throat; his heart had ceased beating.
I felt every ache and pain and wound in my body. I
was tired to the core. My shoulder throbbed where the
bullet had gone through it, my cheek still oozed a tiny
trickle of blood from the graze wound, my arms and
lungs felt like lead weights, and my lungs labored in the
thick, dead air of the mine. I'd failed.
My mind locked on that thought and refused to
budge.
"Nick, we did all we could," Consuela said. She hob-
bled over and sank down beside me. Her warmth should
have comforted me. The single thought of failure was
like a phonograph needle stuck on a record. It played
over and over.
"It doesn't matter, does it?" I said tiredly. All other
emotion was drained from me. "The end of the road for
us. We're going to die in here. When the earthquake
hits, we'll be crushed to death. At least it'll be fast—not
like those who'll be burned out of their homes after gas
mains burst or trapped in the rubble of fallen sky-
scrapers."
"Nick," Consuela said in a peculiar tone.
"The earthquake. It hasn't happened yet. Ortiz
pushed the button and nothing's happened. Why not?"
The surge of adrenaline that suddenly hit me was po-
tent. It jolted me into reality. What Consuela said was
true. The earthquake hadn't jolted us yet. A chance re-
mained that I might be able to deactivate the mech-
anism.
"The shaft!" I cried. Rolling onto my belly, I peered
down into the shaft Ortiz had been enlarging when we'd
burst into the room. The dim illumination from the pro-
pane lantern providing light for the room penetrated
only a few feet down the The detonator cable
leading downward vanished from sight.
"Pull it up, Nick. He connected the button to the laser
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trigger. It didn't work! Pull on the cable and get the laser
out of the fault line!"
I started to do what Consuela urged, then stopped.
There had to be a reason the laser hadn't fired. I sus-
pected we'd rushed Ortiz and the electrical connection
wasn't perfect. A small short would rob the electronic
trigger of the juice needed to fire it. But if I tugged on
the cable, it might grind wires together or force a more
perfect connection. I could set off the laser with a care-
less mistake.
"I've got to go down and look at it. I might be the one
to trigger the earthquake if I fool around with it from
this end."
Consuela nodded, seeing the logic. She said, "I don't
understand what happened. I saw a flash of light as if
the laser had fired. "
"l did, too. Maybe the connection burned out. Idon't
know. I'll have to go see."
"How far down do you think it is, Nick?" she asked
anxiously, peering into the dark crevice.
"Only one way of finding out. I'm going down." I
stooped, pulled Hugo from Ortiz' throat, then wiped the
blade clean on one of the feathers in his multihued cape.
"You'll need light," she pointed out. Consuela held
up the gas lantern. I shook my head. I couldn't figure
out an easy way of carrying the lantern, especially since
{'d be needing both hands and feet to get down the rock
Zhimney leading into the fault.
"Hold it for me. Maybe we can figure out some way
Df lowering it when I reach bottom." I started for the
:iny crevice. 'It seemed too small for me to really do
nuch, yet I had to try. Remembering my feelings of ab-
iect, crippling failure, a determination not to fail now
hat I had a second chance washed over me like the im-
)lacable waves of the ocean.
The crevice was only two feet wide. Pressing my back
against one side and pressing hands and feet against the
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other made me feel as if I were being shoved into a drop
forge. The space narrowed as I wriggled down. After a
five-foot descent, my foot slipped. I yelped in panic, my
fingers seeking out any small ledge in the stone walls. I
felt skin ripping off my back and hands, but I stopped
my fall.
"Nick, are you all right?" Consuela called out. I saw
the tiny circle of light from the lantern. It was only a few
feet above my head; but it looked like miles. Working
downward more carefully, I found myself beginning to
wonder if this rock chimney didn't lead to the center of
hell itself.- It felt like I'd worked forever getting this far.
Everything inside me screamed, "Turn back!" But I
kept going. I had to. I couldn't fail again.
The crevice began to bend slightly. This took Con-
suela from my view and totally cut off the light. I
worked in darkness, now. The flashlight was in my
pocket, but I needed both hands and feet to keep a hold
on the rock walls. What complicated matters even more
was the need to avoid touching the cable Ortiz had
rigged for his remote control trigger. I feared that the
slightest touch might bring broken wires together and
set off the laser,
A dozen lifetimes after I'd started this black, down-
ward journey, my foot brushed a ledge. Testing it
proved easy. It held my weight with no trouble. When I
lowered my rear end to sit on the ledge, I relaxed for the
first time and pulled out the flashlight to look around.
The floor of the crevice was less than four feet away. The
black coaxial cable running from the room above to the
trigger entered the back of the laser which was aimed
across the cavity and into a narrow crack in the rock.
How Ortiz had determined this was the spot for his
earthquake device I'd never know. All I knew was that
the laser had to be disarmed.
I never noticed the world slowly beginning to spin
around me. Only a shout from Consuela brought me
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around. It felt as if a million men sat on my chest. My
lungs were laboring heavily.
"Nick, what's wrong? Answer me or I'm coming
down to get you!"
"Consuela, don't," I called out. My voice squeaked in
a ludicrous fashion. It took all my effort to speak.
"There's no air down here. No oxygen. Filled •with
CO and radioactive gas. No oxygen. Gotta hurry,
Won't make it otherwise."
I dropped the four feet to the bottom of the shaft and
fell on hands and knees beside the laser. A crackling,
hissing, popping sound came from inside. The electrical
connection had shorted out, just as I'd thought. Ortiz
hadn't had time to properly check out the equipment.
Our being so hot on his trail had rushed him—and saved
millions of lives and trillions of dollars in property dam-
age.
My flashlight's beam weakened visibly. Or perhaps I
was blacking out. Either would mean disaster. I pulled
Hugo out and pried off the casing of the laser. Set screws
held the case in place; I didn't have time for them. I
levered up the metal case and exposed the micro-
electronic guts. The spots where the sparks bounced and
jumped was apparent in the darkness. I squinted at the
junction, saw the hair-fine wires, then jammed Hugo
down on one of them.
The electrical jolt I received rattled my teeth. But the
popping ceased. The laser was quiet, dead, no longer a
menace. All I had to do was get out of this oxygen-
starved crevice alive, And I didn't know how I was going
to do it. Disabling the laser had been simple. My
muscles weren't up to anything more strenuous than
sticking a knife point into a box of electronics.
Crawling, feeling my lungs burn with every muscle
twitch, I pulled together all the equipment Ortiz had
painstakingly placed here, I ignored the empty cylinder
or uranium hexafluoride gas and the bulkier carbon
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dioxide tanks. I was more interested in the power supply
for the laser, the laser itself, and the cable running to the
room above.
I slowly rolled over and over, entangling myself in the
cable. I fastened the laser and power supply to the cable
above me, then tugged on it to get Consuela's attention.
"Yes, Nick?"
"Pull hard on the cable. Lots of weight. Hope it's not
My voice
all dead weight. Help me get up. Help. .
gave out. The room turned black. It took long seconds
for me to realize the flashlight batteries had died and
that I was still alive. Barely.
Consuela began pulling. I tried to assist her the best
could, but she did most of it on her own.
I flopped over the rim of the crevice and simply lay
there, uncomprehending. The laser and its power supply
crashed down beside me as Consuela pulled them out of
the pit. I tried to roll over and thank her but my head
spun. The last thing I remember before passing out to-
tally was Consuela giving me mouth-to-mouth rescita-
tion.
A small earthquake brought me instantly awake. I
was dreaming, and in the dream I'd failed. The laser had
fired and the gas had expanded, allowing the fault to slip
and destroy the world. I'd watched the crack open in the
earth and slowly circle the globe, opening it like a rotted
melon. The temblor added verisimilitude to the night-
mare.
"It's all right, Nick," soothed Consuela, her cool
hand on my forehead. "The quakes have been occurring
for hours now. But it's just the earth settling back. Ortiz
failed, you succeeded. "
"I can tell,"
I said, sitting up painfully. "If I were
dead or dreaming, I wouldn.'t feel this lousy. Every mus-
cle and joint is ready for the scrap heap. "
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"A pretty classy scrap heap, then," she said smiling.
"Thanks. How long have I been out?"
"A couple of hours. I ..
. I took one of Ortiz' watches
to find out," she said.
I nodded and regretted it. It felt as if everything inside
had come loose. But I lived. That made me a successful
agent. At least for the moment.
"Is there any way to get out of here? You must have
scouted around. "
'SI did. Nothing. In fact, there's been a new cave-in
between us and the one that originally trapped us.
There's no way of telling how many more tons of rock
are between us and the surface." She sounded as if she
reported to her superior about some inconsequential
deed. I guessed it took supreme willpower for her to re-
main this calm. Or perhaps she had burned out her fear
while I was unconscious.
"One good thing. The radioactive gas and the C02
are heavy enough to stay at the bottom of the crevice.
We can still get oxygen into our lungs up here," I
pointed out. Glancing around the chamber told me that
might not be the best thing in the world. The corpses of
Ortiz and his men had stiffened into rigor mortise In
another few hours they would begin to soften with de-
cay. The resulting stench would be terrible; the amount
of oxygen that process used was the boundary between
life and death for Consuela and me.
"Let's take a look at the cave-in," I said. Moving
around used up more oxygen than lying still, but I felt
the nervous need to be active. I had to feel as if we at
least had a small chance to escape this hell hole,
Consuela and I leaned heavily on one another. As we
went up the clogged mine shaft, my strength slowly re-
turned. By the time we reached the rockslide, I was'
mostly supporting Consuela. She collapsed with a tired
sigh as I slowly went over every inch of the rockfall. It
didn't look good.
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"We'd need real cutting tools to get through this," I
said. "All Ortiz had with him was a puny drill, not
enough to move an inch of this stuff. I wish I had a few
pounds of plastic explosive. Even dynamite would do."
"Might as well wish for a boring machine," Consuela
said. "Why not wish for a clear tunnel all magically cut
"That might not be so hard to arrange," I said, an
idea forming slowly. "What we need is something that
won't use up our air supply but will cut through solid
rock. What fits that description?"
"A steam drill?" she answered dubiously.
"That's got an internal combustion engine. It'd suck
up the oxygen and leave us gasping. An electric drill re-
quires power."
"We have a power supply. For the laser," Consuela
said. Then her face brightened. "The laser! We can use
the laser to cut through the rock fall! We have the power
supply. Ortiz needed it for the laser down in the fault.
But
but does the laser work? It malfunctioned
once."
"A sloppy soldering joint," I said. "I took care of that
with a simple cut from Hugo." I patted my stiletto while
my mind worked over the ramifications of this. The
laser would be powerful enough, Ortiz' legacy to us
might just turn the tide in our favor.
"Are you just trying to build up my hope, Nick?"
asked Consuela seriously. "Or do you think this can re-
ally work?"
"I think it'll work. Come along now and get that
perky behind of yours moving. We have work to do."
"If it doesn't work," she complained, "I'd just as soon
sit and die in peace. Madre de Dios, Nick, I am tired!"
"It's the air supply going sour on us. We've got a fair
amount trapped but we're using up the oxygen at a rapid
clip. There wasn't all that much trapped down here to
start with. All the more reason to get out of this
pocket. "
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Consuela and I pulled and struggled to get the laser
and its power supply along the mine shaft to a place
where I could heave it up on a flat rock. I aimed it high
near the point where the old roof had been and the new
wall began. I hoped to find a cavity there which would
make cutting through even easier. Hit the cavity, go
straight for the other side of the rock fall. It was some-
thing to look forward to, at any rate.
"Why are you rigging up the remote control again?"
Consuela asked. She looked into the guts of the laser as
I quickly contrived makeshift connections.
"You'll see in a couple minutes. We don't want to be
anywhere near this baby when it gets to cranking out its
laser beam. "
"It's coherent light. If we just stand to one side, we
can watch what it's doing and .
"And let's just try it this way. Okay?" She was too
tired to argue. I rigged the remote cable and pulled it
back down the tunnel for almost twenty yards. I took a
deep breath, tasted the increasingly stale air and said to
Consuela, "Shield your eyes. Here goes nothing!"
I pressed the trigger button. An intense beam of blue-
green light lanced from the lens on the front of the laser
and began chewing through the rock. White hot molten
droplets of rock splashed backward and dropped into
the tunnel not ten feet from us. I'd been lucky guessing
how far away the melted rock would land. The laser
continued boiling away rock until it hit the cavity I'd
hoped for. For a long minute, nothing seemed to hap-
pen. The laser beam vanished through the tunnel it was
cutting and worked out of our line of sight.
When I heard a slight whistling noise, I immediately
cut power.
"Anything wrong?" Consuela asked nervously.
"Nothing, Consuela, in fact, everything's going fine.
Come look, but watch yourself. The rock is burning
hot. "
The laser had done everything I'd hoped it would.
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Burning a hole through the slide, it found the cavity that
the fallen rock had made, then pushed on to boil away
rock on the other side of the fall. Fresh air—relatively
speaking—gusted through from the other side of the
stone barricade. For a while we wouldn't suffocate—
until we used up the oxygen in the next plugged section
of tunnel.
"l can't get through this small a hole, Nick," groaned
Consuela. "Even when it cools, it'll be too small for
me."
"Now's the time to enlarge, while the rock is hot. I
wish we had water to throw on the rock to crack it. That
would make digging a lot easier." But water was no-
where to be found and that might have been for the best.
Damp meant gas and gas meant explosion or death. I
hadn't told Consuela about the danger of explosion us-
ing the laser. It hadn't happened; therefore my silence
had been vindicated.
We clawed and scraped and tore at the rock along the
axis of the hole cut by the laser until we had a space big
enough to wriggle through.
"The hole will have to be larger if we want to get the
laser through," Consuela observed. She had a point.
"Let's explore and see if we need it again. If not, why
waste the effort getting it on this side? The later quakes
might have cleared the way for us. "
"And if cows had wings they could fly," she said
sarcastically. "The tiny earthquakes have brought down
rock for good. Getting it out of our way is a job of huge
proportions."
"We're up to it. Haven't we made a great team so far?
Haven't we stopped Ortiz? We turned off his earth-
quake. We're past the first barricade. Nothing can stop
us." I gave her my best grin.
The Latin beauty made a snorting sound that was ob-
viously derisive, I hoped that nothing could stop us. It
was an appealing fantasy—one I wanted to believe. But
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we had conquered a lot to get to this point. What were
a few tons of rock to us?
The propane lantern was developing an ominous hiss-
ing. I turned down the gas flow and darkened the mantle
a bit to save fuel. Being in the dark didn't appeal to me.
We trudged along the mine shaft and discovered a con-
siderable tilt upward. It was difficult believing we'd
me down this steep a slope and hardly noticed it. We
found the all-too-familiar plug of rock in the tunnel ex-
ctly as it had been before.
"How thick do you think it is, Nick?" she asked.
I only shook my head. There was no way to guess. I
urned my weary feet around. We had a lot of digging to
io to enlarge the other hole for the laser and its power
mpply to fit through.
"The air, Nick, it's going bad again," Consuela
'0inted out. I was gasping like a fish out of water. Every
novement felt as if I waded through molasses. My lungs
ere beginning to burn again, and I no longer had the
'trength to lift the laser. I had to drag it.
"Are you going to hit the same place, Nick?"
"Up high," I agreed. "Maybe this will be a small roof
all, too, with a nice big cavity above." Our luck
.ouldn't be that good. The crashing thunder when this
ection had come down had convinced me it was a major
•ollapse. The roof and many tons of stone had sealed us
this time. But there wasn't anything else to do. I'd
Imost given up once after Ortiz had been killed. I'd
Imost been willing to let the earthquake machine trig-
'er enough devastation to be remembered for a hundred
ears. That time I'd succeeded,
I'd succeed again. I'd live. I was Nick Carter,
'Ilmaster for AXE. I never gave up. Ever.
Consuela and I wrestled the laser up onto a high shelf
o that the beam would lash out parallel to the old ceil-
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ing of the shaft. The power supply stayed on the ground
and the remote cable ran like an umbilical cord back
down the tunnel. Consuela and I settled down on the
floor. I pressed the button and watched the blue-green
beam cut through the dust-filled air and lick against the
rock.
I might have slept; more likely I passed out for a
while. The laser continued boring, cutting, digging,
melting. But the hole was hardly larger than my hand. I
awoke from my trance-likestate and turned the machine
off to examine the hole.
"It goes forever, Nick," said Consuela in despair. She
poked the flashlight into the hole and shined its dim-
ming beam in the path taken by its more potent cousin.
I reluctantly agreed. The cut ran a full twelve feet and it
still hadn't come out on the other side.
"Let's keep cutting."
"What's the use?" she asked bitterly. "We're going to
die."
"But not of suffocation if we cut an air hole."
"So we starve. Or die from lack of water. It's been a
million years since I had a meal. Ah, for a nice plate of
blue corn enchiladas. Or some chalupas. And a Dos
Equis beer," she sighed.
"Quit that," I snapped. "You're making yourself feel
worse."
I started to drop down the slope of the rock slide and
go back to our laser when I heard a sharp metallic click-
inge
"Listen," I said. "What do you hear?"
"It . . . Nick! Someone's digging. Someone's coming
in after us!"
David Hawk. Who else could it be? I had to admit
Hawk might not be specifically looking for me dead or
alive, but he'd certainly want to recover Ortiz' earth-
quake generator. Why Hawk was digging wasn't of any
great importance. That we had help coming was.
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"Turn on the laser," I told Consuela. "We've got to
let the rescue party know we're alive. "
Sweat poured off my shoulders and down my back as
I hefted the laser and moved it toward the hole it had
already begun. I didn't want to waste a precious erg of
energy from the laser. It all had to go into chewing away
more of the rock. I struggled more and more as the case
of the laser heated up. I held a dangerous device in my
hands but there was no turning back now. A sudden
flare appeared at the other end of the tiny tunnel I was
boring into, The laser beam had cut through.
I heard shouts of anger and dismay, then joy. The
crew on the other side of the rock fall had seen the laser
and knew what it meant.
"Turn it off," I called to Consuela. She flipped off the
switch on the power supply. The beam winked out. I.
dropped down on the slope of the rock slide and peered
through my newly-cut tunnel to the outside world. Stale
air gusted through; it was the sweetest tasting air I'd ever
inhaled. I let it roll over my tongue and fill my nostrils.
"Hello in there. Who's there?" came Hawk's voice.
"N3," I said. "Who's with you?"
"Esquibel, Mexican Secret Police." That told me
enough. AXE and the Mexican Secret Police had finally
joined forces. Just how far this cooperation ran, I didn't
know. I figured that wasn't my business. I'd stopped Or-
tiz. I had his laser earthquake generator. My job was
done. Let Hawk handle the rest of it. Politics bored me.
"Consuela's with me. Ortiz is removed and so is his
earthquake machine," I called out. "Now how soon ca'n
you get us the hell out of here? We're hungry!"
"We can enlarge the hole you've bored, Nick. And
food is on its way. The engineer we've hired for this
project says it'll be another ten hours or so before we
can get you two out. Hang in there."
I laughed ruefully. We had little choice.
"Just get us some food. And water."
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Hawk did better. It wasn't an authentic gourmet meal
that eventually came through my small tunnel, but it
was as far as my tastebuds were concerned. Consuela
and I gorged ourselves until we thought we'd burst.
When we were both filled, we leaned back and listened
to the distant sound of drills working on the fall. We had
food, water, air, and a lot of time to kill.
"I'm feeling . ." Consuela began. I knew what she
meant. The danger was past. We'd been running in high
gear for a long time, our lives in the balance. It was time
again to reaffirm that we lived, that the struggle was
worthwhile.
I pulled her to me, our lips lightly brushing at first,
then pressing together more passionately. Our clothing
was in tatters; it hardly posed a barrier to our eagerness.
She sighed and leaned back. It didn't matter that we
were making love in the middle of a rock tunnel. All that
occupied our minds now was emotional and physical re-
lease,
Her legs moved apart in invitation for me. I accepted.
I moved slowly, not hurrying. There was all the time
in the world to make this superb.
"Nick," came Hawk's voice through the small bore
hole. "Are you doing all right in there?"
"Just fine,"
I called back as Consuela's fingers
worked miracles over my battered body.
"We'll be through shortly."
"We might take a bit longer," I said, looking deeply
into Consuela's dark eyes. We laughed and began our
private celebration. We'd earned it.
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