Pitt said, smiling broadly. “And the computer analysis shows charred wood forward, indicating the bow as burned away.”
“Then we have Menkura’s missing funeral barge.”
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” said Pitt, his expression set in absolute euphoria.
Marx anchored the research boat directly over the wreck site. Then for the next six hours, Pitt and Giordino subjected the funeral barge to a battery of electronic scans and probes, accumulating an extensive record of its condition and disposition for Egyptian authorities.
“God, how I wish we could get a camera inside the cabin and sarcophagus.” Giordino opened another beer but promptly forgot to drink it in the excitement.
“The inner coffins of the sarcophagus might be intact,” said Pitt. “But the dampness has probably rotted away most of the mummy. As to the artifacts . . . who’s to say? They might possibly equal the treasures of Tutankhaten.”
“Menkura was a far bigger nabob than King Tut. He must have carried a larger hoard with him for the afterlife.”
“Well we won’t see any of it,” Pitt said, stretching his arms to the cabin ceiling. “We’ll be dead and buried ourselves before the Egyptians find the funding to raise and preserve the wreck for the Cairo museum.”
“Visitors,” Marx alerted them. “An Egyptian river patrol boat approaching downriver.”
“Word travels fast around here,” said Giordino incredulously. “Who could have tipped them off?”
“A routine patrol,” said Pitt. “They’ll pass by in midchannel.”
“They’re coming straight toward us,” warned Marx.
“So much for a routine patrol,” grunted Giordino.
Pitt stood and removed a file folder from a cabinet. “They’re just being nosy and want to check us out. I’ll meet them on deck with our permits from the antiquities office.”
He walked through the cabin door into the roasting air outside and stood on the open stern deck. The froth of the bow-wave died away to a series of ripples, the metallic hum of the twin diesels loping on idle as the dark gray patrol boat slipped alongside less than a meter away.
Pitt gripped a railing as the wash rocked the research vessel. He watched casually as two seamen, dressed in the uniform of the Egyptian navy, leaned over the sides and held the patrol boat at bay with padded boat hooks. He could see the captain inside the wheelhouse and was mildly surprised when a hand was raised in a friendly salute but no attempt was made to board. His surprise turned to astonishment when a wiry little man leaped over the gunwales and landed lightly on the deck almost on Pitt’s feet.
Pitt gaped at him incredulously. “Rudi! Where in hell did you drop from?”
Rudi Gunn, the Deputy Director of NUMA, smiled broadly and pumped Pitt’s hand. “Washington. Landed at the Cairo airport less than an hour ago.”
“What brings you to the Nile?”
“Admiral Sandecker sent me to pull you and Al off your project. I have a NUMA plane waiting to fly us to Port Harcourt. The Admiral will meet us there.”
“Where’s Port’ Harcourt?” Pitt asked blankly.
“A seaport on the delta of the Niger River in Nigeria.”
“What’s the big hurry? You could have instructed us by satellite communications. Why make the time and effort to tell us in person?”
Gunn made a negative gesture with his hands. “I can’t say. The Admiral didn’t make me privy to the reason for secrecy or the mad rush.”
If Rudi Gunn didn’t know what Sandecker had up his sleeve, no one did. He was slim, with narrow shoulders and matching hips. Extremely competent, a master of logistics, Gunn was a graduate of Annapolis and a former Commander in the Navy. He had come on board NUMA at the same time as Pitt and Giordino. Gunn stared at the world through thick horn-rimmed glasses and spoke past lips that were most always curled in a mischievous grin. Giordino likened him to an IRS agent about to make a kill.
“Your timing is ideal,” said
“Then we have Menkura’s missing funeral barge.”
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” said Pitt, his expression set in absolute euphoria.
Marx anchored the research boat directly over the wreck site. Then for the next six hours, Pitt and Giordino subjected the funeral barge to a battery of electronic scans and probes, accumulating an extensive record of its condition and disposition for Egyptian authorities.
“God, how I wish we could get a camera inside the cabin and sarcophagus.” Giordino opened another beer but promptly forgot to drink it in the excitement.
“The inner coffins of the sarcophagus might be intact,” said Pitt. “But the dampness has probably rotted away most of the mummy. As to the artifacts . . . who’s to say? They might possibly equal the treasures of Tutankhaten.”
“Menkura was a far bigger nabob than King Tut. He must have carried a larger hoard with him for the afterlife.”
“Well we won’t see any of it,” Pitt said, stretching his arms to the cabin ceiling. “We’ll be dead and buried ourselves before the Egyptians find the funding to raise and preserve the wreck for the Cairo museum.”
“Visitors,” Marx alerted them. “An Egyptian river patrol boat approaching downriver.”
“Word travels fast around here,” said Giordino incredulously. “Who could have tipped them off?”
“A routine patrol,” said Pitt. “They’ll pass by in midchannel.”
“They’re coming straight toward us,” warned Marx.
“So much for a routine patrol,” grunted Giordino.
Pitt stood and removed a file folder from a cabinet. “They’re just being nosy and want to check us out. I’ll meet them on deck with our permits from the antiquities office.”
He walked through the cabin door into the roasting air outside and stood on the open stern deck. The froth of the bow-wave died away to a series of ripples, the metallic hum of the twin diesels loping on idle as the dark gray patrol boat slipped alongside less than a meter away.
Pitt gripped a railing as the wash rocked the research vessel. He watched casually as two seamen, dressed in the uniform of the Egyptian navy, leaned over the sides and held the patrol boat at bay with padded boat hooks. He could see the captain inside the wheelhouse and was mildly surprised when a hand was raised in a friendly salute but no attempt was made to board. His surprise turned to astonishment when a wiry little man leaped over the gunwales and landed lightly on the deck almost on Pitt’s feet.
Pitt gaped at him incredulously. “Rudi! Where in hell did you drop from?”
Rudi Gunn, the Deputy Director of NUMA, smiled broadly and pumped Pitt’s hand. “Washington. Landed at the Cairo airport less than an hour ago.”
“What brings you to the Nile?”
“Admiral Sandecker sent me to pull you and Al off your project. I have a NUMA plane waiting to fly us to Port Harcourt. The Admiral will meet us there.”
“Where’s Port’ Harcourt?” Pitt asked blankly.
“A seaport on the delta of the Niger River in Nigeria.”
“What’s the big hurry? You could have instructed us by satellite communications. Why make the time and effort to tell us in person?”
Gunn made a negative gesture with his hands. “I can’t say. The Admiral didn’t make me privy to the reason for secrecy or the mad rush.”
If Rudi Gunn didn’t know what Sandecker had up his sleeve, no one did. He was slim, with narrow shoulders and matching hips. Extremely competent, a master of logistics, Gunn was a graduate of Annapolis and a former Commander in the Navy. He had come on board NUMA at the same time as Pitt and Giordino. Gunn stared at the world through thick horn-rimmed glasses and spoke past lips that were most always curled in a mischievous grin. Giordino likened him to an IRS agent about to make a kill.
“Your timing is ideal,” said
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