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Sandecker rose and began working off his frustration by pacing the floor. "Even if the President approves a clandestine entry, our special response team has no intelligence to guide them to the location where Loren and Rudi are held captive."
"I have an idea the Zolars are holding them on the mountain," said Giordino.
Starger nodded in agreement. "You might be right. The hacienda they used as a headquarters to conduct the treasure search appears deserted."
Ragsdale sighed. "If Smith and Gunn are still alive, I fear it won't be for long."
"We can do nothing but look helplessly through the fence," said Starger in frustration.
Ragsdale stared out the window across the border. "The FBI can't launch a raid onto Mexican soil."
"Nor Customs," said Gaskill.
Pitt looked at the federal agents for a moment. Then he addressed himself directly to Sandecker.
"They can't, but NUMA can."
They all looked at him, uncomprehending.
"We can what?" asked Sandecker.
"Go into Mexico and rescue Loren and Rudi without creating an international incident."
"Sure you will." Gaskill laughed. "Getting across the border is no trick, but the Zolars have the Sonoran police and military on their side. Satellite photos show heavy security on top and around the base of Cerro el Capirote. You couldn't get within ten kilometers without getting shot."
"I wasn't planning on driving or hiking to the mountain," said Pitt.
Starger looked at him and grinned. "What can the National Underwater and Marine Agency do that Customs and the FBI can't? Swim over the desert?"
"No, not over," said Pitt in a deadly earnest voice. "Under."
NIGHTMARE PASSAGE
October 31, 1998
Satan's Sink, Baja, Mexico
In the parched foothills on the northern end of the Sierra el Mayor Mountains, almost 50 kilometers (31 miles) due south of Mexicali, there is a borehole, a naturally formed tunnel, in the side of a cliff.
Carved millions of years ago by the turbulent action of an ancient sea, the corridor slopes downward to the bottom of a small cavern, sculpted from the volcanic rock by Pliocene epoch water and more recently by windblown sand. There on the floor of the cavern a pool of water emerges from beneath the desert. Except for a tint of cobalt blue, the water is so clear as to appear invisible and from ground level the sinkhole looks to be bottomless.
Satan's Sink was shaped nothing like the sacrificial pool in Peru, Pitt thought, as he gazed at the yellow nylon line trailing into the transparent depths. He sat on a rock at the edge of the water, his eyes shaded with a look of concern, hands lightly grasping the nylon line whose end was wound around the drum of a compact reel.
Outside, 80 meters (262 feet) above the bottom of the tubular borehole, Admiral Sandecker sat in a lawn chair beside a ravaged and rusting 1951 Chevy half-ton pickup truck with a faded camper in the bed that looked as though it should have been recycled years ago. Another automobile was parked behind it, a very tired and worn 1968 Plymouth Belvedere station wagon. Both had Baja California Norte license plates.
Sandecker held a can of Coors beer in one hand as he lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes with the other and scrutinized the surrounding landscape. He was dressed to complement the old truck, having the appearance of any one of thousands of retired American vagabonds who travel and camp around the Baja Peninsula on the cheap.
He was surprised to find so many flowering plants in the Sonoran Desert, despite scant water and a climate that runs from subfreezing nights in the winter to a summer heat that produces furnace temperatures. Far off in the distance he watched a small herd of horses grazing on bunchgrass.
Satisfied the only life within his immediate area was a red diamondback rattler sunning itself on a rock and a black tailed jackrabbit that hopped up to him, took one look, and leaped away, he rose from his lawn chair and ambled down the slope of the borehole to the pool.
"Any sign of the law?" asked Pitt at the admiral's approach.
Nothing around here but snakes and rabbits," grunted Sandecker. He nodded toward the water.
"How long have they been down?"
Pitt glanced at his watch. "Thirty-eight minutes."
