Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) by Vincent Zandri Page B
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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Keogh’s way of offering a sort of crude, 3D blowup of the cave’s
interior. While the artistry is a far cry from 3D, there’s no disputing the identity
of the object that takes up the very center of the cave.
It’s a huge bird.
“If that’s a real condor nesting inside that cave, it would
have to be as big as a dinosaur.”
Keogh smiles as though in full agreement.
“Rodney, if you please,” he says.
“If you wouldn’t mind placing the map back inside the
bottle, Mr. Baker,” the big man asks, while holding out his bear-like hands.
I roll the map up, gently place it back through the bottle
neck, and hand it on to Rodney. I also peel off the gloves and hand those to
him too. As he makes his way back across the cabin to place the bottle back
inside its safe, another image appears on the HDTV. It’s a precise copy of
Keogh’s father’s map. But unlike the original, this map has been digitally
enhanced, making it go from crude drawing to detailed chart complete with GPS
coordinates, 3D geographical imaging, and color-coded enhancement in order to
separate those areas with heaviest vegetation from the more sparsely covered
areas, including existing walkways and paths.
“As you can see from this new map,” Keogh III explains, “the
very trails my father was hired to uncover did indeed exist. Problem is, he had
to crash in order to find them.”
“Did anyone ever try to find your father after he went
missing?”
“After the map was discovered washed up on the shores of the
Urubamba River, a rescue party was sent out after him, but not a single man
returned. A few months later, a native emerged from the forest. He was wearing
a ceremonial necklace that was said to contain the six shrunken heads of all
the expedition members. A second expedition was not attempted.”
“I can see why,” I say, trying to conjure up an image of a
half dozen shrunken heads hanging from a man’s neck by a leather necklace. “But
your father’s head was never discovered, shrunken or otherwise?”
“Strange, isn’t it?” he says. “But perhaps not so strange. I
can only assume he was injured in the crash, survived for a time long enough to
draw this map, and then perished. More than likely, some of his flesh was
consumed by the cannibals as part of a ritual that would have included the
burning of his body as an offering to a very special God.”
“What God?”
“The God of the sky. The same God who makes lightning. His
name is Apocatequil.”
I nod. “Which, I’m guessing, is where the big bird comes in.
The condor.”
“Not just any condor, Chase. That’s not a real bird my
father discovered.”
“If it’s not a real bird, then what the hell is it?”
“Let’s put it this way. When was the last time you saw a
bird with an elevation rudder?”
I glance at the drawing of the bird as depicted on Keogh
II’s map once more. For certain the “bird” contains a rudder, much like a
modern airplane.
“The condor is not a real bird then?” A question for which
I’m already discerning the answer. Or Keogh III’s version of an answer anyway.
“It’s an aircraft, Chase. A one-thousand-year-old flying
machine.”
11.
For a silent moment, I try to allow the concept of a
one-thousand-plus-year-old flying machine to sink in. Keogh must see the doubt
in my eyes, because he raises his right hand up as if pointing to the sky.
“Is the reality of an ancient flying machine really so hard
to believe?” he begins to explain. “There’s a tremendous amount of knowledge
that has been lost through the ages and the harnessing of flight could very
well be one of them. Ancients like da Vinci recognized that flight was indeed
possible when he engineered his early flying machines back in the fourteen
hundreds. The ancient Asian Indians also believe that flight was not only possible,
but that their Gods were able to travel to and from earth via spaceships
interior. While the artistry is a far cry from 3D, there’s no disputing the identity
of the object that takes up the very center of the cave.
It’s a huge bird.
“If that’s a real condor nesting inside that cave, it would
have to be as big as a dinosaur.”
Keogh smiles as though in full agreement.
“Rodney, if you please,” he says.
“If you wouldn’t mind placing the map back inside the
bottle, Mr. Baker,” the big man asks, while holding out his bear-like hands.
I roll the map up, gently place it back through the bottle
neck, and hand it on to Rodney. I also peel off the gloves and hand those to
him too. As he makes his way back across the cabin to place the bottle back
inside its safe, another image appears on the HDTV. It’s a precise copy of
Keogh’s father’s map. But unlike the original, this map has been digitally
enhanced, making it go from crude drawing to detailed chart complete with GPS
coordinates, 3D geographical imaging, and color-coded enhancement in order to
separate those areas with heaviest vegetation from the more sparsely covered
areas, including existing walkways and paths.
“As you can see from this new map,” Keogh III explains, “the
very trails my father was hired to uncover did indeed exist. Problem is, he had
to crash in order to find them.”
“Did anyone ever try to find your father after he went
missing?”
“After the map was discovered washed up on the shores of the
Urubamba River, a rescue party was sent out after him, but not a single man
returned. A few months later, a native emerged from the forest. He was wearing
a ceremonial necklace that was said to contain the six shrunken heads of all
the expedition members. A second expedition was not attempted.”
“I can see why,” I say, trying to conjure up an image of a
half dozen shrunken heads hanging from a man’s neck by a leather necklace. “But
your father’s head was never discovered, shrunken or otherwise?”
“Strange, isn’t it?” he says. “But perhaps not so strange. I
can only assume he was injured in the crash, survived for a time long enough to
draw this map, and then perished. More than likely, some of his flesh was
consumed by the cannibals as part of a ritual that would have included the
burning of his body as an offering to a very special God.”
“What God?”
“The God of the sky. The same God who makes lightning. His
name is Apocatequil.”
I nod. “Which, I’m guessing, is where the big bird comes in.
The condor.”
“Not just any condor, Chase. That’s not a real bird my
father discovered.”
“If it’s not a real bird, then what the hell is it?”
“Let’s put it this way. When was the last time you saw a
bird with an elevation rudder?”
I glance at the drawing of the bird as depicted on Keogh
II’s map once more. For certain the “bird” contains a rudder, much like a
modern airplane.
“The condor is not a real bird then?” A question for which
I’m already discerning the answer. Or Keogh III’s version of an answer anyway.
“It’s an aircraft, Chase. A one-thousand-year-old flying
machine.”
11.
For a silent moment, I try to allow the concept of a
one-thousand-plus-year-old flying machine to sink in. Keogh must see the doubt
in my eyes, because he raises his right hand up as if pointing to the sky.
“Is the reality of an ancient flying machine really so hard
to believe?” he begins to explain. “There’s a tremendous amount of knowledge
that has been lost through the ages and the harnessing of flight could very
well be one of them. Ancients like da Vinci recognized that flight was indeed
possible when he engineered his early flying machines back in the fourteen
hundreds. The ancient Asian Indians also believe that flight was not only possible,
but that their Gods were able to travel to and from earth via spaceships
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