'Even with a fair depth of water it seems impossible for a heavy vessel like an ironclad to sail this far from the sea.'
'The Texas was built for military operations on the James River. She had a flat bottom and shallow draft. Navigatin' the tricky turns and depths of a river was no problem for her and her crew. The miracle was that she crossed an open ocean without sinkin' in rough water and heavy weather like the Monitor. '
'A ship could have reached any number of unpopulated regions during the 1860s up and down the North and Central American shores,' Pitt said. 'Why risk losing the gold hoard by sailing over dangerous seas and crossing uncharted country?'
The Kid took a cigar stub from his shirt pocket and lit it with a wooden match. 'You have to admit, the Union navy never would have thought to search for the Texas a thousand miles up a river in Africa.'
'Probably not, but it certainly seems like an extreme.'
'I'm with you,' said Giordino. 'Why the desperation? They couldn't rebuild another government in the middle of a desert wasteland.'
Pitt looked at the Kid thoughtfully. 'There had to be more to the hazardous voyage than smuggling gold.'
'There was a rumor.' The subtle change in tone could hardly be called evasive, but it was unmistakable. 'Lincoln was on board the Texas when she left Richmond.'
'Not Abraham Lincoln,' Giordino scoffed.
The Kid silently nodded.
'Who dreamed up that piece of fiction?' Pitt waved off another offer of the rye.
'A Confederate cavalry captain by the name of Neville Brown made a deathbed statement to a doctor in Charleston, South Carolina, when he died in 1908. He claimed his troop captured Lincoln and delivered him on board the Texas. '
'The ravings of a dying man,' murmured Giordino in absolute disbelief. 'Lincoln must have caught the Concorde to arrive in time to be shot by John Wilkes Booth at Ford's Theatre.'
'I don't know the whole story,' admitted the Kid.
'A fantastic but intriguing tale,' said Pitt. 'But tough to take seriously.'
'I can't guarantee the Lincoln legend,' the Kid said adamantly, 'but I'll bet Mr. Periwinkle and the remains of my grubstake, the Texas and the bones of her crew, along with the gold, lie here in the sand somewhere. I've been roamin' the desert for five years searchin' for her remains and by God I'm gonna find her or die tryin'.'
Pitt gazed at the shadowed form of the old prospector in sympathy and respect. He rarely saw such dedication and determination. There was a burning confidence in the Kid that reminded Pitt of the old miner in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.
'If she's buried under a dune, how do you intend on discovering her?' asked Giordino.
'I got a good metal detector, a Fisher 1265X.'
Pitt could think of nothing more of consequence to say except, 'I hope good luck leads you to the Texas, and she's all you imagined.'
The Kid lay there on his blanket without speaking for several seconds, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Finally, Giordino broke the silence.
'It's time we were on our way if we want to make any distance by dawn.'
Twenty minutes later the engine of the Voisin was quietly idling as Pitt and Giordino said their goodbyes to the Kid and Mr. Periwinkle. The old prospector had insisted they take several packages of concentrated food from his stock. He had also drawn them a rough map of the ancient riverbed, marking in landmarks and the only well near the trail leading to the waste facility at Fort Foureau.
'How far?' asked Pitt.
The Kid shrugged. 'About 110 miles.'
'A hundred and seventy-seven kilometers on the odometer,' translated Giordino.
'Hope you fellas find what you're lookin' for.'
Pitt shook hands and smiled. 'You too.' He climbed in the Voisin and settled behind the wheel, almost sad to leave the old man.
Giordino lingered a moment as he bid a farewell. 'Thank you for your hospitality.'
'Glad to be of help.'
'I've been wanting to say this, but you look vaguely familiar.'
'Can't imagine why. I don't recall meetin' up with you fellas before.'
'Would I offend you if I asked you your real name?'
'Not at all, I don't take offense easily. It's an odd name. Never used it much.'
Giordino waited patiently without interrupting.
'It's Clive Cussler.'
Giordino smiled. 'You're right, it is an odd name.'
Then he turned and settled in the front seat beside Pitt. He turned to wave as Pitt eased out the clutch and the Voisin began rolling over the fiat bed of the gully. But the old man and his faithful burro were quickly lost in the dark of evening.
DESERT SECRETS
May 18, 1996
Washington, D. C.
The Air France Concorde touched down at Dulles Airport and taxied up to an unmarked U.S. government hangar near the cargo terminals. The sky was overcast, but the runway was dry and showed no sign of rain. Still clutching his backpack as if it was part of him, Gunn exited the sleek aircraft almost immediately and hurried down the mobile stairway to a waiting black Ford sedan driven by uniformed capital police. With flashing lights and screaming siren, he was whisked toward the NUMA headquarters building in the nation's capital.
Gunn felt like a captured felon, riding in the backseat of the speeding police car. He noticed that the Potomac River looked unusually green and leaden as they shot over the Rochambeau Memorial Bridge. The blur of pedestrians was too immune to revolving lights and sirens to bother looking up as the Ford shot past.
The driver did not pull up at the main entrance but swung around the west corner of the NUMA building, tires squealing, and flew down a ramp leading to a garage beneath the lobby floor. The Ford came to an abrupt stop in front of an elevator. Two security guards stepped forward, opened the door, and escorted Gunn into the elevator and up to the agency's fourth floor. A short distance down the hallway they stood back and opened the door to the NUMA's vast conference room with its sophisticated visual displays.
Several men and women were seated around a long mahogany table, their attention focused on Dr. Chapman, who was lecturing in front of a screen that depicted the middle Atlantic Ocean along the equator off West Africa.
The room abruptly hushed as Gunn walked in. Admiral Sandecker rose out of his chair, rushed forward, and greeted Gunn like a brother who had survived a liver transplant.
'Thank God, you got through,' he said with unaccustomed emotion. 'How was your flight from Paris?'
'Felt like an outcast sitting in a Concorde all by myself.'
'No military planes were immediately available. Chartering a Concorde was the only expedient means of getting you here fast.'
'Nice, so long as the taxpayers don't find out.'
'If they knew their very existence was at stake, I doubt if they'd complain.'
Sandecker introduced Gunn around the conference table. 'With three exceptions I think you know most everyone here.'
Dr. Chapman and Hiram Yaeger came over and shook hands, showing their obvious pleasure at seeing him. He was introduced to Dr. Muriel Hoag, NUMA's director of marine biology, and Dr. Evan Holland, the agency's environmental expert.
Muriel Hoag was quite tall and built like a starving fashion model. Her jet-black hair was brushed back in a neat bun and her brown eyes peered through round spectacles. She wore no makeup, which was just as well, Gunn thought. A complete makeover by Beverly Hills' top beauty salon would have been a wasted effort.
Evan Holland was an environmental chemist and looked like a basset hound contemplating a frog in his dish. His ears were two sizes too large for his head, and he had a long nose that rounded at the tip. His eyes stared
