Read Online The Navigator by Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos - Free Book Online
Authors: Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos
Tags: Fiction, General, Juvenile Nonfiction, Action & Adventure, Adventure fiction, Composition & Creative Writing, Language Arts, Iraq War; 2003-, Archaeological Thefts, Iraq, Austin; Kurt (Fictitious Character), Marine Scientists
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was open to an article describing the work of a ship that lassoed and towed icebergs threatening Newfoundland oil and gas rigs.
“How would you like to join me on a cruise to Iceberg Alley?”
Zavala scanned the magazine article.
“I don’t know, Kurt. Sounds mighty cold. Cabo might be more appealing to my warm-blooded Mexican American nature.”
Austin gave Zavala a look of disgust. “C’mon, Joe. What would you be doing in Cabo? Lying on the beach sipping margaritas. Watching the sun set with your arm around a beautiful señorita. Same old same old. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Actually, my friend, I was thinking of watching the sun come
up
as I sang my señorita love songs.”
“You’d be pressing your luck,” Austin said with a snort. “Don’t forget, I’ve
heard
you sing.”
Zavala harbored no illusions about his singing voice, which tended to be off-key. “Good point,” he said with a sigh.
Austin picked up the magazine. “I don’t want to push you into this, Joe.”
Zavala knew from past experience that his colleague didn’t push; he
leaned
. “
That
will be the day.”
Austin smiled and said, “If you’re interested, I need a quick decision. We’d leave tomorrow. I just got the okay. What do you say?”
Zavala rose from his chair and gathered up his submersible diagrams. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Where are you going?”
Zavala headed for the door.
“
Home
. So I can pack my flannel jockstrap and a bottle of tequila.”
CHAPTER 5
NEAR MA’ARIB, YEMEN
“DOWN THERE, MISTER, is tomb of queen.”
The wizened Bedouin jabbed the air, his bony finger pointing to a fissure about a yard wide and two feet high in the side of the pockmarked limestone hill. The rough-edged layers of strata above and below the opening were like lips afflicted with a bad case of trench mouth.
Anthony Saxon got down on his hands and knees and peered into the hole. He pushed aside thoughts of poisonous snakes and spiders, unwound his turban, and pulled off his beige desert robe to reveal long pants and a shirt. He flicked on a flashlight, probed the darkness with its beam, and took a deep breath.
“Down the rabbit hole I go,” he said with a carefree jauntiness.
Saxon dove into the opening, wriggling his lanky six-foot frame like a salamander, and disappeared from sight. The passageway sloped downward like a coal chute. Saxon experienced a claustrophobic moment of panic when the chute narrowed and he pictured himself stuck, but he shimmied his way through the tight squeeze with the use of creative finger-toe coordination.
To his relief, the passageway widened again. After crawling for about twenty feet, he popped out of the chute into the open. Mindful not to bump his head on a low ceiling, he slowly stood erect and explored his surroundings with the flashlight.
The bull’s-eye of light fell on the mortared-stone-block wall of a rectangular space about as big as a two-car garage. There was an opening with a corbeled arch about five feet high on the opposite wall. He ducked through the breach and followed a passageway for around fifty feet until he came to a rectangular room about half the square footage of the first.
The dust that covered every surface started him on a coughing fit. When he recovered, he saw that the room was bare except for a wooden sarcophagus that was tipped on its side. The lid lay a few feet away. A vaguely human form swathed in bandages from head to toe was half tumbled out of the ancient casket. Saxon cursed under his breath. He had arrived centuries too late. Grave robbers had stripped the tomb of any valuables hundreds of years before he was born.
The sarcophagus lid was decorated with a painting of a young girl, probably in her late teens. She had dark, oversized eyes, a full mouth, and black hair tied back from her face. She looked vibrant and full of life. With gentle hands, he rolled the mummy back into the case. The
“How would you like to join me on a cruise to Iceberg Alley?”
Zavala scanned the magazine article.
“I don’t know, Kurt. Sounds mighty cold. Cabo might be more appealing to my warm-blooded Mexican American nature.”
Austin gave Zavala a look of disgust. “C’mon, Joe. What would you be doing in Cabo? Lying on the beach sipping margaritas. Watching the sun set with your arm around a beautiful señorita. Same old same old. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Actually, my friend, I was thinking of watching the sun come
up
as I sang my señorita love songs.”
“You’d be pressing your luck,” Austin said with a snort. “Don’t forget, I’ve
heard
you sing.”
Zavala harbored no illusions about his singing voice, which tended to be off-key. “Good point,” he said with a sigh.
Austin picked up the magazine. “I don’t want to push you into this, Joe.”
Zavala knew from past experience that his colleague didn’t push; he
leaned
. “
That
will be the day.”
Austin smiled and said, “If you’re interested, I need a quick decision. We’d leave tomorrow. I just got the okay. What do you say?”
Zavala rose from his chair and gathered up his submersible diagrams. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Where are you going?”
Zavala headed for the door.
“
Home
. So I can pack my flannel jockstrap and a bottle of tequila.”
CHAPTER 5
NEAR MA’ARIB, YEMEN
“DOWN THERE, MISTER, is tomb of queen.”
The wizened Bedouin jabbed the air, his bony finger pointing to a fissure about a yard wide and two feet high in the side of the pockmarked limestone hill. The rough-edged layers of strata above and below the opening were like lips afflicted with a bad case of trench mouth.
Anthony Saxon got down on his hands and knees and peered into the hole. He pushed aside thoughts of poisonous snakes and spiders, unwound his turban, and pulled off his beige desert robe to reveal long pants and a shirt. He flicked on a flashlight, probed the darkness with its beam, and took a deep breath.
“Down the rabbit hole I go,” he said with a carefree jauntiness.
Saxon dove into the opening, wriggling his lanky six-foot frame like a salamander, and disappeared from sight. The passageway sloped downward like a coal chute. Saxon experienced a claustrophobic moment of panic when the chute narrowed and he pictured himself stuck, but he shimmied his way through the tight squeeze with the use of creative finger-toe coordination.
To his relief, the passageway widened again. After crawling for about twenty feet, he popped out of the chute into the open. Mindful not to bump his head on a low ceiling, he slowly stood erect and explored his surroundings with the flashlight.
The bull’s-eye of light fell on the mortared-stone-block wall of a rectangular space about as big as a two-car garage. There was an opening with a corbeled arch about five feet high on the opposite wall. He ducked through the breach and followed a passageway for around fifty feet until he came to a rectangular room about half the square footage of the first.
The dust that covered every surface started him on a coughing fit. When he recovered, he saw that the room was bare except for a wooden sarcophagus that was tipped on its side. The lid lay a few feet away. A vaguely human form swathed in bandages from head to toe was half tumbled out of the ancient casket. Saxon cursed under his breath. He had arrived centuries too late. Grave robbers had stripped the tomb of any valuables hundreds of years before he was born.
The sarcophagus lid was decorated with a painting of a young girl, probably in her late teens. She had dark, oversized eyes, a full mouth, and black hair tied back from her face. She looked vibrant and full of life. With gentle hands, he rolled the mummy back into the case. The
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