Tunnels of the Deep: Book 2 of the Star Walkers Trilogy

By Michael Cole

While The Star Walkers is a trilogy, each book stands alone with a satisfying conclusion.

Most people stay clear of the uncharted regions of Amazon and its perils, yet much like a nail is to a magnet, Dr. Eric Shade is attracted to the lure of ancient lost cities, Inca gold, and the age-old legend of the Star Walkers, a mysterious group of pale-skinned people the Indians claim are gods. Having served a stint with the Special Forces, Shade has learned to survive in the maleficent environment of the jungle, but even his skills as a tracker and guide are tested when he agrees to go into the depths of the Amazon to retrieve a hoard of silver.

On his quest for the silver, Shade and a beautiful woman companion enter a labyrinth of tunnels that leads them to a fabulous ancient city, a city that has eluded archeologists for centuries. There they meet two Indians who take them through a hidden passageway to a utopian village where a tribe of mysterious people live. During their stay, they convince Shade that the Star Walkers are more than just a myth. According to the natives, the Star Walkers had befriended their ancestors thousands of years ago. Although these Indians don't know where the Star Walkers had come from, they claim a group of pale-skinned men descended upon their ancestors in shimmering ships that supposedly had come from the sky. Shade is hard pressed to believe that part of the story, but one thing becomes abundantly clear. Someone had to have taught these natives how to travel through tunnels in total darkness and how to concoct potions and elixirs that contain superhuman powers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foremost Press
• Release date: Dec 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781936154920

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Eric Shade woke up feeling as if someone were driving a railroad spike into his head with a sledgehammer. He had sworn off liquor, but after receiving the abominable letter, he had gone on a binge. When he finally sat up, he realized he wasn’t alone. Then he remembered. He had gone to Rio de Janeiro’s notorious nightclub, the Calderon. More single women patronized the place than any of the other clubs, a regular meat market some would say. Since he had filled his pockets with gold from the treasure, literally a king’s ransom, he had spent the better part of a year searching for his father, and whenever the opportunity arose, he would drink booze and chase women.

Eric covered the woman’s naked leg with a blanket. He decided to let her sleep. What harm would it do? He pulled on a bathrobe and walked out onto the terrace of his high-rise apartment. Although the sun was still behind the mountains, there was enough light for him to see Pao de Acucar, the peak that juts from the narrow peninsula of Rio’s harbor. And at the crest of the peak stood the majestic white statue of Christ the Redeemer, the symbol of Christianity that has become an icon to Brazil. It stood upright with its outstretched arms in supplication facing the tranquil waters of Guanabara Bay. At this time of the morning, the water had a grey-blue sheen to it. Later, when the sun was higher, it would turn a deep blue.

He had rented the fully furnished apartment because of its fabulous view. That had been three months ago. Because he had fully expected the Brazilian government to give him his rightful share of the treasure, Eric had been living as if there would be no tomorrow. But now that the gold was almost all gone, he would have to go back to doing what he did before—chasing myths instead of women.

The woman whom he had eventually fallen in love with showed him a treasure map that had not only led them to a gold hoard, but also to an ancient mirror the Incas called the Golden Disk of the Sun. For a ten percent finder’s fee, he had agreed to tell the Brazilian government where the treasure was. After waiting a year for the money, a new government had voided the agreement and disallowed his claim. To say he had been furious upon hearing the news was an understatement.

When he came back into the bedroom, the woman was awake. That was some night we had, wasn’t it, Eric? she said.

Sadly enough, he couldn’t think of her name. A night to remember. That’s for sure, he replied, oblivious to any of it. I have an important business engagement, so would you mind getting dressed? He just wanted her out of there. He had to gather his thoughts. He had to decide what he was going to do. He’d need to give up the apartment, that was a given.

His friend, Chris Bordeaux, had told him of a job opportunity at a local college in Manaus. The city was in the center of the Brazilian state of Amazonas, which was the staging spot for expeditions into the Amazon. Eric figured if he didn’t land a teaching job, he could always fall back to being a guide. Since it was a duty free city, thousands of tourists shopped in Manaus and many of them stayed on to explore the Amazon and its tributaries. Eric didn’t want to admit it, but the allure of the jungle was still in his blood.

Dr. Eric Shade had gone full circle. Twelve years ago he had been teaching South American history in New York. He had even written a book. Not a bestseller by any stretch of the imagination, but at least it looked good on his resume. His teaching career had come to an abrupt end a little over a year ago when he received word that his father had gone missing. He immediately flew from New York to Manaus to look for him. Without knowing what part of the Amazon his father had entered, the search had been futile. Broke and with no immediate prospects for the future, Eric partnered up with Chris Bordeaux. The two led tourists into the rain forest. They also hunted for treasure. Well, he had found it and where did it get him?

He called Chris. I took your advice and applied at Republica Federal. If I’m lucky, they just might offer me a class or two to teach.

Are you kidding? Chris said. I’ve heard some of your lectures. You have the ability to breathe life into a dull subject. Don’t sell yourself short.

Eric thought back to his days as a teenager when he had gone into the Amazon with his father on an archeological expedition the Smithsonian had sponsored. His father had found the lost city of Ingregil in the Amazon, a city most mainstream archeologists claimed never existed. Eric was barely seventeen at the time, but the discovery invalidated the assumption that the Amazon had no distant past. His name had appeared in an archeological magazine along with his father’s, but the reality of life was that people had short memories and yesterday’s news was just that, yesterday’s news.

Eric reminded Chris they had discovered the grotto that led them to the Inca treasure over a year ago. I tried to sell a publisher on the idea of writing a book about the quest and he turned me down. To tell you the truth, no one gives a damn. The government of Brazil is several hundred million dollars richer, and I have just about enough money for bus fare to Manaus.

Chris’s tone sounded conciliatory. You ran into some bad luck. You’ll bounce back; you always do. You’re welcome to flop at my pad. It’s a studio with a Bunsen burner for a stove, but we’ll make do.

Eric let out a sigh. Thanks, Chris. I’m going to take you up on your offer. It won’t be for long, mind you. Just till I get back on my feet.

The events leading up to the treasure and the recollection of finding the large hoard of gold brought back unpleasant memories, memories which Eric would just as soon forget. He had fallen in love with Catalina Rivera, the woman who had gone with him to look for the gold. He thought she had loved him, too, but once they returned to civilization she had decided to leave South America to live in the United States. She had wanted him to come with her, but Eric had made a decision a long time ago that South America was where he belonged.

He didn’t mind leaving Rio. In hindsight, he was sorry he had even come to the place. Upon returning from Muela Del Diablo, the cursed mountain where he had found the treasure, Eric had gone back into the Amazon to look for his father. He had spent nine months chasing down leads, but when none of them materialized, he became despondent and began drinking. And then he met a gold digger who persuaded him to follow her to Rio and rent this place, an apartment he couldn’t really afford. He should have known better than to get hooked up with the like of her, a spendthrift who ended up leaving him for a rich man. Good riddance! He had known all along that eventually he would return to the Amazon. He was addicted to the place, but he hated to go there broke and, even worse, having to depend on Chris for a place to stay.

CHAPTER 2

Eric’s rent on the apartment in Rio had been paid up through the month, but after his conversation with Chris, he decided to leave for Manaus that very afternoon. The two cities were almost three thousand miles apart, a long way to travel by bus.

It took him five days. He had to switch buses at least half a dozen times. With little money, he was forced to sleep on a bus or hard benches in bus stations. His diet had consisted mainly of hot coffee, french fries and cheeseburgers—a far cry from his lavish life in Rio, but he was okay with it. He’d been here before.

By the time he arrived in Manaus, he was tired, hungry, and dirty. Eric walked up the steps to Chris’s door with a leather valise, so beaten up it had to be held together with a rope.

Chris gave him a warm welcome. It’s been a while since we’ve hung out together, hasn’t it, buddy?

Yea. And although I’m older now, I sure as hell am not any wiser.

You don’t look any worse for wear. You’ll feel better after a shave and a bath.

That won’t make my scars go away.

You only have one scar, Eric. The one beneath your right eye.

I was talking about the scars inside me.

Are you still thinking about that woman who jilted you? Chris asked. I’ve forgotten her name.

Catalina Rivera, and she didn’t jilt me, but I don’t want to rehash my relationship with her. However, I am pissed. How naive I was not to think the Brazilian government would end up screwing me. I should have never given them the location of that tunnel, you know, the one where we found the fortune. You were smart to have taken the cash from the man who hired us to go on the quest for the treasure. I should have done the same, but no, I had to get greedy and ask for a percentage of the take.

You need to put all of that behind you, Chris said. Look at me. After the two of us returned from Muela Del Diablo, I went back to school after I bought this place. I know it’s a dump, but at least it’s mine. I now have a job with the Department of Agriculture. I even have a girlfriend, believe it or not.

I’m happy for you. Didn’t I always tell you that you wouldn’t amount to anything by hanging around me?

You’re being too hard on yourself, Chris said. As I told you before, you’ll be back on your feet before you know it.

Eric shrugged. Maybe, but first I have to change my ways. No more treasure hunting for me.

How about a beer? Chris asked.

No thanks. I’ve laid off drinking. It seems one beer always turns into two, and then I end up gravitating toward the hard stuff. Whenever I drink booze, I end up chasing women. Beer and liquor brings out the worst in me.

* * *

Eric had been living with Chris for a week when he received an email from Republica Federal. One of the deans at the university had asked him to come in for an interview. Maybe things were looking up. Eric had never been big on clothes, but he was thankful now that when his pockets had been brimming with gold, he had purchased a few quality items to wear. Other than the casual clothes he usually wore, his wardrobe consisted of one suit, a wool sport coat with leather patches on its sleeves, a half dozen shirts, some ties, and a couple pairs of slacks. Not much considering he had been promised twenty million American dollars for the treasure he had found.

Eric decided to wear the suit. What the hell? He figured he needed to look civilized for a change. He arrived on time and was led into the dean’s office. The woman who rose to greet him looked too young to have earned a doctorate, much less be a dean. She asked him to have a seat. He immediately noticed the photograph on the back cover of the book she had placed on the coffee table, his book. It was a younger picture of him wearing a hat, smoking a pipe. Eric never wore hats and he didn’t smoke, but his publisher thought the hat and pipe made him look distinguished. Cary Grant he was not, but then what was he to do? The publisher had insisted.

The dean said, I read your book, and I liked it a lot.

I’m glad you did. Now I know I have two fans. You and my mother. He didn’t know what had induced him to make a crack like that. It had been a foolish thing to say.

The dean laughed politely. Do you know why I wanted to talk with you about a teaching position?

No, Eric replied honestly.

It’s certainly not because of your credentials. Oh, I know you have a doctorate degree from the University of New York. But in this day and age I can hire a dozen professors with doctorates who have more teaching experience than you. I was in the process of interviewing some of them, but that was before I ran across your application.

You flatter me. May I ask why?

You don’t remember me, do you?

I’m afraid I don’t. Should I?

No. I guess not. I was a student in a course you taught on the indigenous tribes of South America.

Don’t tell me you found my lectures to be irresistible.

Actually, I never thought that much of you as a lecturer, but you were a great storyteller, a true raconteur in every sense of the word. What I liked best about your teaching style is you would recount some legend or myth and then set out to tell the class why you believed it could be true. You also discovered Atahualpa’s remains and some of his fabulous treasure, which proved once and for all that the proverbial room full of gold really did exist. When I was in your class, you managed to provide a relevance to your lectures, which is something few professors are capable of doing. You spoke from personal experience, Dr. Shade. That’s why I liked your class so much . . . and that’s also why I enjoyed reading your book.

When the dean crossed her well-formed legs, Eric’s eyes automatically gravitated toward them, but when she started talking, his eyes locked on hers.

I won’t beat around the bush, she said. Enrollment in the department of social sciences has been dropping at an alarming rate. As dean of the department, my objective is twofold. Not only do I need to continue to build a strong curriculum that focuses on South American history, but I also have to increase enrollment. That’s why I’d like to bring someone like you into the classroom, a teacher who will not only impart knowledge to students, but will do so in an entertaining manner.

The dean stopped to review a paper she had pulled out of a file folder. I see here that you apparently don’t adhere to rules and regulations. You rarely make an appearance at faculty meetings, you fail to complete reports, you argue with your superiors, yet despite of all I have just said, you manage to obtain results. I say that because if it hadn’t been for you, I doubt if I would have made it into the world of academia. You have an innate ability to inspire students, and that is something a teacher doesn’t learn in school.

The dean replaced the paper in her folder. I have just one question, Dr. Shade. If I hire you to teach a course and tell you that in order to keep your job, you had to fill a lecture hall full of students, how would you go about doing it?

Eric gave some thought to the question. The Brazilian government has recently declassified some rather interesting information, which they have uncovered with the use of ground penetrating radar. I’m talking about a labyrinthine underground system, a maze of tunnels which extend for hundreds of kilometers. I believe when the Spaniards began to plunder the Inca Empire, the Indians used these tunnels to hide their gold and silver. I’ve spent most of my adult life in the jungle. Since the Amazon is virtually impenetrable, it has been impossible to look for the fabulous lost cities that exist there. I would have my students take an imaginary trip through these tunnels. We’d talk about the legend of the Star Walkers and debate whether the story could have some semblance of truth to it or whether it’s just a myth. I would act as their guide and together we would unravel the past, a past that I find to be as mysterious as it is intriguing.

You’ve just answered my question, Dr. Shade. What kind of a title would you place on the course?

Oh, I’d probably name it Tunnels of the Deep. I think that would be a catchy title, probably because most people think of tunnels as being dank, dark, and mysterious.

The dean smiled. The answer you just gave me is the reason I want you to teach at the university. I need someone who can pack an auditorium full of students, and if anyone can do it, you can.

Eric was slightly taken aback. I need this job. I need it in the worst way, but I also have to be honest. I’ll take it for one semester. I don’t want to commit to teach for any longer than that. I’m still not convinced teaching is my calling in life.

I admire honesty, came the reply. Most teachers can’t wait to receive tenure. And here you’re taking a completely opposite approach. The dean stood and shook Eric’s hand. I accept your terms. The spring semester begins next week. I’ll personally push the paperwork through. I want you on board. We’ll use the title, Tunnels of the Deep. I like it. It has a good ring to it.

CHAPTER 3

Raul Estavo was reclining on hand-embroidered silk cushions by his poolside cabana. Two women, one a blonde, the other a brunette, were at his side. Both worked as strippers in one of several nightclubs he owned near Praca da Matriz. Most of the city’s inhabitants stayed clear of that part of Manaus, particularly after dark. That’s where the town’s nightlife degenerates into a transient mix of sleazy whores, pimps, and pickpockets who typically loiter on street corners.

The women were attending to Raul’s every need; one was holding a glass of champagne, which Raul drank from, while the other would periodically place a cracker laced with Beluga caviar in his mouth.

I bet Nero never had it so good. You girls have heard of Nero, haven’t you? Raul asked.

The blonde arched her brows. Has he ever been to the club?

Raul laughed. He was the emperor of Rome at one time, you silly thing.

The other girl turned to face him. I was in Rome once, and I never heard of anyone by that name.

Raul turned away from the two women. Never mind. His thoughts gravitated toward Canstancia. She was the only woman he knew who had beauty as well as brains.

These two bimbos, although eager to please, tested his patience. His lithium phone buzzed, breaking his thoughts. Only a dozen people in his organization had the number. That meant the call had to be about business, and Raul always placed business ahead of pleasure. Okay, you two, scat. Go play in the water or something.

Once the girls were out of earshot, he picked up the phone. This is Felipe. He sounded out of breath. I know you don’t like to be bothered on weekends, but this might be important. Felipe ran an antique shop which Raul owned. The store was located in downtown Manaus in a square across from the opera house. Because the trendy area was populated with artists, it was extremely popular with tourists who congregated there to drink beer and to listen to music.

Did someone talk you into buying another fake Indian artifact? Raul asked.

No, no. Nothing like that. There’s an Indian here. Looks like he came straight out of the jungle. He wants to sell something very unusual. He talks in an Arakwan language I don’t understand. One of my customers overheard him speaking Xiriana. He’s a Korubu. Most of them live deep in the Amazon. I have no idea how he got here. The poor guy looked like he was starving. I gave him something to eat and . . .

Okay, I don’t really need to know all the details of your generosity, or should I say mine, as whatever you gave him I’m the guy who will end up paying for it. What’s so important that you had to take me away from my guests?

Well, he’s got the damnest thing he wants to—

Raul interrupted. I don’t want you buying any more of that tribal shit. All it does is take up space in the shop, and it doesn’t move quickly.

Mr. Estavo, let me finish, please. He brought in two balls of silver. I’ve never seen anything like them. Each one is about the size of an old cannonball. The two together weigh close to twenty kilos. I think he wants to sell them.

You mean forty troy ounces, don’t you?

No. I weighed them on the scale, you know, the one in the back room. They weigh close to ten kilos each!

Raul stood up. Mother of God. That’s a lot of silver. Where did he get it?

I don’t have the slightest idea. The guy seems desperate so you might be able to strike a good deal.

All right. Keep the Indian there. I’ll call you right back.

Raul punched in Canstancia’s number. She picked up the phone on the second ring. Can you speak Xiriana?

I’m not fluent in the language, but yes, a little. Why do you ask?

I need you to drive to my shop.

Can I at least ask what this is about?

You’re proficient in languages, and I need an interpreter. I’ll meet you there.

Raul called Felipe and told him he was on his way. He glanced at the two girls frolicking in the pool. He would take his pleasure with them later. If he could purchase forty pounds of silver at a good price . . . Raul jumped into his Range Rover and headed toward Manaus. Hell, if he was lucky and if that Indian really did come out of the jungle, maybe he could make himself eight or nine thousand euros.

By the time he pulled his car in front of the store, he spotted Canstancia’s Porsche nearby. Although she was hard to handle at times, she always did what she was told. When he walked in, Canstancia was talking to the sorriest-looking Indian he had ever seen. The man was bare-chested and wore a tattered pair of pants. There were scratch marks all over his chest, the deeper ones oozed blood.

Raul immediately took command of the situation. He faced Canstancia. What have you managed to find out?

"The Indian used to live in a settlement near the Purus River in a valley not far from the Andes Mountains. He’s a Korubu, a cecetiero."

A clubber? They are supposed to be mean as hell. I was told they live in isolation. What the hell is this guy doing in Manaus?

Canstancia posed the question to the Indian. Her speech was somewhat stilted and on occasion she would use her hands, but the Indian seemed to understand her.

What did he say? Raul asked.

"I think he said he and several others had an argument with the tribal leader so they decided to leave. Their settlement is on the Negro River about fifteen kilometers from here. Fishing has been bad and there is very little food. The guy caught a ride on a river barge heading for Macapa. How he ever found your shop, I’ll