Flight of the Serpent Read online

  FLIGHT OF THE SERPENT

  R.R. IRVINE

  WRITING AS VAL DAVIS

  To the memory of Collin Wilcox,

  who offered encouragement on a rainy night so long ago

  and to Grady Martin,

  whose laughter made it all worthwhile

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

  The author is indebted to Frank Ashley, Ralph Minor, and Joseph Marasco; World War Two pilots whose expertise and memories made this book possible. Joan Nay did her bit, too, sharing her knowledge so graciously, as did Marilyn Knowles. If technical gremlins persist, they are strictly the author’s and not theirs.

  Copyright © 1998 by Val Davis. All Rights Reserved.

  First ebook copyright © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN: 978-1-4821-0217-8

  Library ISBN: 978-1-62460-680-9

  Cover photograph © iStock.com

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  She waited. She knew what she had been born to do and she hadn’t done it in a long time. Men had laughed, wept, and died in her arms. She missed them. But one man in particular still came. He had rescued her in her darkest hour. He had not forgotten. But he never touched her. Not the way she wanted.

  He would spend long hours talking, but she was impatient with talk. She longed for more. She felt it in the deepest recess of her being. They would be together again, the way she wanted. She remembered his soft touch and firm command. She remembered the joy and the fear they shared together, and his total dependence on her. No, that wasn’t true. It was she who was dependent. She who needed him, to be free.

  She was born female and deadly, but now she waited.

  Chapter 1

  Nicolette Scott had made a ritual of climbing boot hill late every afternoon. From the top, she had a panoramic view of Ophir, Arizona, her ghost town. Sitting on the huge mound of ore tailings helped Nick shake the claustrophobia she experienced working in the historic town perched on the side of the ore-bearing escarpment.

  Choosing a spot near her favorite tombstone—HERE LIES BESS HARRIS AND HER DOG, WHO KEPT HER COMPANY TO THE END—she planned the next day’s activities. With the coming of sunset the air was beginning to cool and Ophir, built in a narrow gorge cut into the foothills of the Mescalero Mountains, was already deep in shadows. In the canyon there was the smell of moisture in the air, tantalizing with false promise. The nearest water was miles away. The temperature hovered somewhere in the nineties.

  To the west the escarpment slumped into the great Sonoran desert, still baking in the last rays of the setting sun. The flat western horizon, framed by the canyon walls, was unbroken except for a dark monolithic shadow that seemed to float above the dancing heat waves. The air was so clear that the great monolith appeared to be within a few minutes’ walking distance, but Nick knew that the dark shadow was the geologic phenomenon rising two thousand feet above the desert floor known as Mesa d’Oro, and was fully thirty-five miles away.

  Opening her notebook, Nick grabbed the pencil from behind her ear and absently finger-combed her short red hair. She had a dozen students to keep busy, though most of them weren’t actually going for academic degrees. For some people an archaeological dig was part vacation, part wish fulfillment. Forty years ago they would have been content with dude ranches. These days, they dressed like Indiana Jones and expected to discover lost treasure each time they turned a shovel full of earth. But they hadn’t counted on Ophir, scorching by day, teeth-chattering at night.

  The class description in the university’s brochure hadn’t helped matters any. “And they came to Ophir, and fetched from thence gold,” some romanticizing publicist had quoted from the Bible. “Spend six wonderful weeks searching the glorious Southwest just as Coronado once did, each day fitted with lectures and the promise of discovery.” As a result the students blamed Nick for the heat, the bugs, the ever present sand and grit, the canned food, and the lack of television.

  Even to Nick, Ophir, Arizona, was anything but romantic. Following the discovery of gold in the late 1880s, the town sprang to life at the mouth of Sulphur Canyon as a collection of ramshackle buildings tucked under the ore-bearing cliffs. For a brief time riches had poured from the mines that honeycombed the surrounding land. Tailings were dumped everywhere, the highest pile becoming boot hill.

  At the height of the boom, Ophir’s population rivaled the likes of Tombstone and Bisbee. Now all that remained were a few sun-blackened clapboard relics that had escaped the great fire of 1922.

  Technically Ophir wasn’t a true ghost town. It still had residents, diehard prospectors mostly, squatting in the best of the surviving shacks.

  Last year those diehards had been joined by Zeke Moyle, who’d bought Ophir lock, stock, and barrel. Moyle was a refugee from California where, he said, smog and cigarettes had turned his lungs into Marlboro Country.

  Upon taking possession of the town, Moyle named himself mayor and declared Ophir a tourist mecca in the making. His first official act was to rename the largest surviving shack the Emporium General Store. As meager and bedraggled as the place was, it served as a gathering spot for Nick’s students in the evenings after work. There was no place else.

  At first Moyle had been more than friendly, possibly because he thought Nick was there to help him realize his dream. But he was quickly disillusioned. Her interest was in what lay beneath Ophir, the artifacts that had been lost in the great fire. Her quest had been triggered by the discovery of pioneer diaries found in the archives at the University of New Mexico, where Nick’s father, Elliot Scott, headed the Department of Archaeology. The manuscripts were part of a bequest dating from 1936. They were, according to their own prologue, one of the few things salvaged from the fire.

  When Nick’s father came across them, they were buried in the basement of the university library, still in their original hatboxes. The diaries had been the life’s work of two sisters, Pearl and Lillian Benson, who’d come to live in Ophir in 1885 and stayed until the fire burned them out. Since Elliot’s field of expertise was the ancient Anasazi Indian culture, he turned the find over to Nick, whose specialty was historical archaeology, the study of the ne
ar past. Many classical archaeologists sneered at this specialty, considering anything that happened within the last two thousand years not worth bothering about.

  With her father’s backing, Nick had been named head of the Ophir dig for the University of New Mexico while on the summer break from her own employer, the University of California at Berkeley. If the dig went well, she hoped to publish a portrait of pioneer life that might help her gain tenure at Berkeley at long last, despite the fact that she topped her department chairman’s enemies list. Ben Gilbert had never forgiven her for having a world-famous archaeologist as a father.

  Reading the Benson sisters’ account of everyday life had made Nick realize that the image most people had of the old west came from movies, and had nothing to do with the day-to-day reality that confronted the two women. Nick wanted to change that misconception. Using references from the diaries, she hoped to locate their homesite and excavate the immediate area. Already, she’d uncovered numerous artifacts from the townsite: tools, metal buttons, glass bottles purpled by the sun, and a twenty-dollar gold piece that collectors would kill for.

  Today’s excavation had been special. She’d uncovered an artifact that had made the whole trip worthwhile. Her father was going to be surprised, though he probably wouldn’t admit it. To him, the gold at the end of the rainbow was a thousand-year-old Anasazi Indian relic. But for Nick, the study of the recent past rivaled any ancient civilization. To her, unearthing a covered wagon, or even an old airplane, was every bit as magical as walking into Tut’s tomb.

  When she’d explained her intentions to Mayor Zeke, he screamed duplicity. He’d only gone along with the university’s request to dig up his town because they’d enticed him by mentioning the gold of Ophir. Moyle had confused Ophir with one of the Seven Cities of Cibola, whose fabled wealth had lured the Spanish Conquistador Coronado to explore the Southwest in the sixteenth century.

  Sitting there now, atop boot hill, Nick blamed such tales of gold on early real estate agents, possibly the forebears of the one who’d sold her the musty place in Berkeley he’d called “a buried treasure of a condo.”

  How anyone could think a desert like this could support a civilization built of gold defied imagination. Even the cactus had a hard time surviving. As for wildlife, most of it had six legs or slithered.

  As she went back to her sketch of the town, weighing tomorrow’s likely excavation sites, Zeke Moyle appeared and shouted up at her from the foot of boot hill. “Stay put, Missy. I’m coming up.”

  With clenched teeth, Nick tugged the Cubs baseball hat from the back pocket of her jeans, and pulled its brim down over her eyes to hide her annoyance. Calling her Missy was typical of the man. His western drawl was pure Gene Autry; his bib overalls pure Rodeo Drive.

  He arrived out of breath, collapsed onto an over-turned tombstone, coughed viciously, and lit a cigarette. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, with skin tanned like Beverly Hills leather.

  After a moment, he blew a stream of smoke. “If you people are going to dig holes all over my town, you might as well do me some good and discover something I can sell to tourists.” The comment left him wheezing.

  “We’re going to be working around the old church tomorrow,” she said. In her diary, Lillian Benson had said she felt close to God, being a close neighbor of His church. The only problem was deciphering Lillian’s definition of closeness, not to mention the fact that Nick was running out of time. In two days, the six-week dig would come to an end. Her students would go home, having paid handsomely for two units of credit, and she’d be left to do all the grunt work herself.

  Moyle dug the toe of his boot into the sandy soil. “What’s wrong with right here?”

  “I’ve told you before. Digging up ancient civilizations is one thing, turning a spade on twentieth-century cemeteries can get an archaeologist into big trouble.”

  He stabbed a finger at a cluster of decaying wooden markers. “Who’s to say how old those are?”

  “We’re standing on mine tailings from the 1890s,” Nick said. “We’d have to go down twenty feet to hit the original strata that the Spanish conquistadors would have encountered.”

  “Okay, forget Coronado. All I’m asking is that you find me somebody famous enough to bring in tourists.”

  “Sure,” Nick said, envisioning a tombstone marking the death of her career. Here lies Nicolette Scott, archaeologist turned grave robber. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Tombstone’s got the OK Corral to bring in the customers. That’s what I need, somebody like Wyatt Earp.”

  “He’s buried in California.”

  “Billy the Kid, then.”

  “Try the cemetery in old Fort Sumner.”

  “Okay. Make it Wild Bill Hickok.”

  Nick shook her head. “Deadwood, South Dakota.”

  “Somebody important must have died here,” Moyle said, exasperated. “You tell me. You’re the expert. Or so you say. What is it you call yourself exactly, a historical archaeologist? Well, we’re sitting on history, aren’t we?” He looked skeptical.

  “I’ve told you before. Historical archaeologists deal with the recent past. In this country, that means the period after Columbus arrived.”

  “Gunfighters fit into that category. Or maybe . . .” He scratched his chin. “Some famous Indian warriors. That might help. The whole town could dress up in war paint and put on a show for the tourists.”

  “I told you before, Zeke. My project is life in a turn-of-the-century mining town. Maybe you ought to recreate that.”

  He scratched his head.

  “It wasn’t exactly romantic, of course,” she added, to pay him back for the Missy comment. “There was no electricity, no air-conditioning, no plumbing. Wells were dug by hand, and pumped by hand if the windmills weren’t turning.”

  Moyle shook his head. “Just find me a body and I’ll come up with a famous name to go with it. Outlaws are what sells.”

  Nick couldn’t help laughing. When it came to archaeology, Moyle was closer to the mark than was comfortable. Potential commercialization often played a major part in funding expeditions.

  “Maybe you ought to do your own digging,” she suggested. “With luck you might find some of Coronado’s gold.”

  “The gold here ran out a long time ago.”

  “You never know. Coronado led an army right through here more than four hundred and fifty years ago, fighting hostile Indians all the way. Would he have done that if there hadn’t been something to find?”

  He squinted. “Are you putting me on?”

  Nick coughed to keep from laughing. “In my business you never know what you’re going to dig up.”

  “What would happen if you did find some old Spanish stuff?”

  “Do you know where Ophir got its name?”

  Moyle shook his head.

  “The Bible says King Solomon’s mines were in Ophir.”

  “And you think that’s what those Spaniards were looking for?”

  Fighting to keep a straight face, she nodded.

  “There’s some old Indian ruins farther up Sulphur Canyon,” he said. “Maybe Coronado left something behind out there.” He gestured toward the canyon mouth. “Of course, I own that land out there too, so anything you find we’d have to divvy up.”

  Suddenly suspicious, she said, “How far are these ruins from here?”

  “Maybe a mile.”

  “I’ve been over that ground and didn’t see anything like that.”

  He lit one cigarette from another. “These days, there’s not much left standing out in the canyon, but there used to be. It was ten years ago, maybe more, when they found the Indian ruins. For a while now, me and the boys have been using them for target practice.” He shrugged. “Hell, I didn’t think anybody’d care about them.”

  Chances were he was making the whole thing up. On the other hand, she was willing to go for a walk before dinner, especially if there was the possibility of an archaeological rainbow at the end of
it. “Maybe I’ll take a look right now. Tell me again. Where are these ruins exactly?”

  “In a cave in the side of the cliff, just beyond where the canyon gets real narrow. It’s pretty high up, but you can’t miss it. There are some faded markings on the sandstone walls right below the cave opening. Squiggly lines, circles, stuff like that.”

  “Why don’t you show me?”

  Moyle coughed. “I’m not up to walking that far in this heat. Even this time of day, it’ll be a bitch out in that canyon. It’s thin as a needle out there, and runs east to west so the sun bakes it nearly all day.”

  Nick stood up and patted her jeans to satisfy herself that her pocket flashlight was where it should be. “Tell my students I’ll be late for dinner.”

  “You wouldn’t catch me wandering around by myself. The radio said it hit a hundred and five today. Those canyon walls hold heat like an oven. If you wait for morning then maybe I’ll guide you in myself.” Zeke looked uncharacteristically concerned. She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” The man didn’t understand what a real find meant to an archaeologist. To lay your hands on a centuries-old artifact was like touching history itself. That was worth taking most risks, including chasing fairy tales.

  “Suit yourself, Missy.” Moyle raised his hands as if to say she was just another foolish woman. “Just remember, that canyon can be a killer this time of year.”

  For an instant, she had an urge to wipe the smirk off his face and tell him about the courses she’d taken in desert survival. Graduation had been a solo trek across thirty miles of badlands.

  “I’ll tell your students to send out a rescue party if you’re not back by sundown,” Moyle said as he ground his cigarette butt into boot hill.

  “You do that,” she replied dryly.

  Nick watched him on his way before returning to her tent to pick up a larger flashlight and a canteen of water. Water was rule one in desert survival. Carry your own. Never depend on finding it.

  Then, moving quickly, she bypassed boot hill and headed into the canyon. She was fairly certain that the Indian ruins were nothing but a tall tale. It was too far south for the Anasazi, the “ancient ones” that her father loved with the same obsessive passion that she had for planes. But she had run across ruins in less likely places and this was the land of the Hohokam, “those who have gone before.”