It was at least eighty feet long but with a beam remarkably narrow given its length. For its size it rode extremely shallow: Logan estimated a draft of two feet at most. The superstructure consisted of a single, two-story construction that took up most of the deck. At either side of the bow were two small platforms, open to the air and suspended out over the water, that reminded Logan of crow’s nests. But the boat’s single most remarkable feature was at its stern: a massive, conical cage of steel, narrow end forward, as big as a Gemini space capsule and roughly the same shape. It enclosed a large, cruel-looking five-bladed propeller. The entire assembly was fixed permanently atop the stern section of the main deck.
“Good lord,” Logan said from the dock. “An airboat on steroids.”
“A description apt enough,” came a gruff voice. Logan glanced up to see a man appear in a doorway at the front of the superstructure. He was fiftyish, of medium build, with deep-set eyes and a closely cropped white beard. He stepped up to the waiting gangplank and ushered them aboard.
“This is James Plowright,” Rush said. “The expedition’s senior pilot.”
“Quite a vessel,” Logan said.
“Aye.” The man nodded.
“How does she handle?” Logan asked.
“Well enough.” Plowright had a rough Scottish burr and the Scotsman’s economy of words to go with it.
Logan looked back at the propeller assembly. “What’s the powerplant?”
“Lycoming P-fifty-three gas turbine. Retrofitted from a Huey jetcopter.”
Logan whistled.
“This way,” Rush said. He turned to Plowright. “You can cast off when ready, Jimmy.”
Plowright nodded.
Rush led the way back along the deck. Given the size of the superstructure and the craft’s slim beam, the decking was very narrow, and Logan was glad of the railing alongside. They passed several doors, then Rush ducked through an open doorway and ushered Logan into a dimly lit space. As his eyes adjusted, Logan found himself in a pleasantly appointed saloon, furnished with couches and banquettes. A variety of framed nautical scenes and sporting prints hung on the walls. The space smelled strongly of polished leather and insect repellent.
The driver of the jeep deposited Logan’s bags and the metal case in one corner, bowed, then returned to the deck.
Logan pointed at the case. “What’s in there?” he asked.
Rush smiled. “Hard disks containing the case files from the Center. I can’t completely ignore my full-time job while I’m out here.”
Within a minute, Logan heard faint sounds from the direction of the stern: the jet engine started up with a howl and the vessel drew away from the dock, its frame throbbing slightly, heading upriver toward the Sudan.
“We have two of these craft, specially built for the expedition,” Rush said as they settled onto one of the banquettes. “We use them for ferrying things to the site. Things too bulky or fragile for airdrop: high-tech equipment, for example. Or specialists.”
“I can’t imagine any site that would require a craft like this.”
“When you see it, you’ll understand all too well-I promise.”
Logan sat back on the rich leather seat. “Okay, Ethan. I’ve met Stone. I know what you’re looking for. Now I think it’s time you told me where we’re going.”
Rush smiled faintly. “You know the term ‘hell on earth’?”
“Of course.”
“Well, prepare yourself. Because that’s exactly where we’re headed.”
7
Rush leaned forward in the banquette. “Have you heard of the Sudd?”
Logan thought a moment. “It rings a distant bell.”
“People assume that the Nile is just a wide river, snaking its way unimpeded out from the heart of Africa. Nothing could be further from the truth. The early British explorers-Burton and Livingstone and the others-found that out the hard way when they encountered the Sudd. But take a look at that-it’ll describe the place far more eloquently than I can.” And Rush gestured to a book on a nearby table.
Logan hadn’t noticed it before and now he picked it up. It was a battered copy of Alan Moorehead’s The White Nile. It was a history of the exploration of the river; he vaguely remembered leafing through a copy as a child.
“Page ninety-five,” Rush said.
Logan flipped through the book, found the page, and-as the saloon throbbed around him-began to read.
The Nile… is a complicated stream. [It] proceeds through the desert on a broad and fairly regular course… [But ultimately] the river turns west, the air grows more humid, the banks more green, and this is the first warning of the great obstacle of the Sudd that lies ahead. There is no more formidable swamp in the world than the Sudd. The Nile loses itself in a vast sea of papyrus ferns and rotting vegetation, and in that foetid heat there is a spawning tropical life that can hardly have altered very much since the beginning of the world; it is as primitive and hostile to man as the Sargasso Sea… [The] region is neither land nor water. Year by year the current keeps bringing down more floating vegetation, and packs it into solid chunks perhaps twenty feet thick and strong enough for an elephant to walk on. But then this debris breaks away in islands and forms again in another place, and this is repeated in a thousand indistinguishable patterns and goes on forever… Here there was not even a present, let alone a past; except on occasional islands of hard ground no men ever had lived or ever could live in this desolation of drifting reeds and ooze, even the most savage of men. The lower forms of life flourished here in mad abundance, but for… men the Sudd contained nothing but the threat of starvation, disease and death.
Logan put the book down. “My God. Such a place really exists?”
“It exists all right. You’ll see it before dark.” Rush shifted on the banquette. “Imagine: a region thousands of square miles across, not so much swamp as a labyrinth of papyrus reeds and waterlogged trunks. And mud. Mud everywhere, mud more treacherous than quicksand. The Sudd isn’t deep, often just thirty or forty feet in places, but in addition to being horribly honeycombed with braided undergrowth, its water is so full of silt, divers can’t see an inch beyond their faces. The water’s full of crocodiles by day, the air full of mosquitoes by night. All the early explorers gave up trying to cross it and eventually went around. The Sudd may not be quite as remote or impassable today as it was in the times Moorehead wrote of, but it’s no picnic. It’s in a wide, shallow valley. And every year it spreads. Just a little, but it spreads. It’s like a living thing-that’s why we need such a narrow craft. Trying to traverse the Sudd is like threading a needle through the bark of a tree. Every day we have a recon helicopter that charts the shifting eddies, maps new paths through it. And every day, those routes change.”
“So the vessel acts sort of like an icebreaker,” Logan said. He was thinking of the strange equipment he’d seen at the bow.
Rush nodded. “The shallow draft helps clear underwater obstructions, and the propeller at the stern provides the raw power necessary to push through tight spots.”
“You’re right,” Logan said. “It does sound like hell on earth. But why are we…” He stopped. “Oh, no.”
Rush nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“Good lord.” Logan fell silent a moment. “So Narmer’s tomb is there. But why?”
“Remember what Stone said? Think about it. Narmer went to unprecedented lengths to conceal the location of his tomb. He actually went out of Egypt proper, past the six cataracts of the Nile, into Nubia-a dangerous journey into hostile lands. Given how early in Egyptian history this was-remember, this is the Archaic Period, the First Dynasty-it’s an accomplishment on the order of the Great Pyramid. Not only that, but Narmer is the only pharaoh not buried in Egypt-as you probably know, all pharaohs had to be entombed on Egyptian soil.”
Logan nodded. “That’s why Egypt never colonized.”
“Given all this, Jeremy-all this incredible effort and expense and risk-do you really think it likely that Narmer’s tomb contains little of value?”
“But an impenetrable swamp…” Logan shook his head. “Think of the logistics involved in tomb building-
