The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,102
affixed to it.
Gray’s voice whispered behind her from the middle row, communicating to Commander Pullman, who already had his plane in the air, his crew aiding their search from above via the Poseidon’s radar and tracking equipment. Gray had also enlisted Director Crowe to commandeer a satellite pass of the area, using ground-penetrating scans to try to detect hidden pockets that might point to an underground city.
As Gray hung up, Seichan asked the question on all their minds. “Anything?”
Gray huffed, “Unfortunately, too much. It seems these saw-toothed mountains have not seen a dentist in millennia. The peaks ahead are riddled with cavities. There are caves and tunnels throughout these ranges.”
“Then sounds like we’re doing it the hard way,” Joe said, guiding them through the town’s outskirts, crossing alongside a golf course. “On foot.”
His assessment wasn’t entirely accurate.
The road ended ahead at a small riverside marina. The green expanse of the Sous widened here, stretching two football fields across to the far bank. An L-shaped dock sheltered twenty slips, packed with sleek pleasure crafts, worn commercial fishing schooners, and several charter boats.
Joe parked in the lot, and they all clambered out of the SUV and gathered their gear, stored in new backpacks. Ever the optimist, Gray had raided hardware and sporting goods stores this morning. He bought flashlights and electric lanterns. Even found caving gear: ropes, helmets, rappelling equipment. Apparently the sport was popular here, what with all those cavern systems. So was canyoning into the deep gorges that hid perfect little oasis gems of cerulean pools and palm trees.
From the back, Joe hauled out their most important bag. He grunted as he shouldered the heavy weapons duffel, loaded with ammunition—along with a short-barreled shotgun, which Joe already called dibs on.
Back at the hotel, Gray had passed around the team’s stock of SIG P320s, along with thin ballistic nylon holsters. Only Father Bailey had balked at taking one, but Gray had convinced the priest, telling him, if you don’t want to shoot to kill, at least shoot to defend.
Joe straightened with his load. “Where the hell’s our guide?”
“This way,” Gray said and led them from the parking lot to the marina.
The boat they were looking for was tied in the last slip. It was a thirty-foot aluminum cruiser with an enclosed stand-up cabin welded to it. It looked well used and from the polish to its bulkheads and hull, well loved. The captain of the little craft, a young woman—maybe not even twenty—leaned over the stern, tinkering with a raised outboard motor.
She straightened when their group reached the slip. She wore oil-stained coveralls, belted tight at the waist, and a cowboy hat. Her flawless skin was a light ebony, her curly hair a dark cinnamon-brown, her eyes a stunning blue. She looked like she had stepped out of the pages of Vogue, but this was no pampered model who worked out at a Pilates studio.
The men around her didn’t fail to note her looks, even Father Bailey. All of them were stunned into momentary silence.
Maria took the lead and stepped forward. “Charlie Izem?”
The woman pushed the sleeves of her coverall up, revealing powerful forearms. She reached across the rail to shake Maria’s hand.
“That’d be me,” Charlie answered, with a hint of a French accent.
Maria guessed she was of local Berber descent, maybe with a little European blood, too.
“From your companions’ expressions, you were perhaps expecting a man, oui?” Charlie said and waved them aboard with an amused wink. “Or maybe someone older, non?”
The others picked up their jaws and climbed into the stern of the cruiser.
“No complaint here,” Joe muttered under his breath.
Maria cast him a scolding glare.
Seichan boarded, giving the woman a side-eyed appraisal. Her gaze lingered a beat on the pistol holstered at Charlie’s hip, then she gave a small nod of approval.
“You come highly recommended,” Gray commented, also shaking the woman’s hand. “They say you know the Sous and its tributaries better than anyone.”
“My family’s been running this river for over a century. And me since I was nine. The Sous, she is temperamental, crafty, mischievous, but we get along. At least, most days.”
Charlie stepped over to help Mac with his pack. He had shed his sling but it was obvious his shoulder still hurt. Though he didn’t wince or groan, the woman seemed to innately sense his distress.
“How long have you been captain of this boat?” Father Bailey asked.
Charlie surveyed the group, making sure everyone was settled. “Ah, but I am not the captain.” She shifted over