El Dorado - Book 1 - Search for the Lost City: An Unexpected Adventure: The Lost City, #1

By Ben Hammott

One of the world's most legendary and elusive treasures, sought after for centuries.

An ancient mystery.
A Lost Treasure.
A Hidden City.
An impossible location.
An unimaginable adventure.

Included in Aztec and Mayan legends, Conquistadors had heard rumours of its existence when exploring the New World, but never found it.

During World War 2, Nazi inspired archaeologists were convinced they had pinpointed its location. They packed a U-Boat with supplies and set a course for the Amazon Jungle. They disappeared!

Many adventurers eager to claim the legendary gold as their own entered one of the most inhospitable places on earth, the Amazon Jungle. Most were never seen again!

Yet the exact location of El Dorado and its fantastic hoard of Mayan, Aztec and Inca treasure remains a mystery. Any who may have stumbled upon it never returned to tell the tale. It was as if someone, or something, was protecting it...

1925: Victorian explorer Colonel Percy Fawcett enters the Amazon Jungle to search for a Lost City. Like many before him, he was never heard from again. Until now!

When a message from the past is washed up on an English beach, it reveals new information about the ill-fated 1925 expedition. A modern day expedition sets off to follow in the footsteps of Colonel Fawcett in an attempt to locate the Lost City and its legendary hoard of priceless treasure.

El Dorado Book 1 & 2 will take on a journey filled with danger to seek out and enter the fabled Lost City. A thrilling story of adventure and discovery that weaves together an exciting blend of fact and fiction linked to the legends surrounding El Dorado, the lost Fawcett expedition and the mysterious Amazonian Jungle.

Rumoured to be guarded by remote, mist-veiled mountains, the fabulous treasure hoard was hidden from the greedy clutches of Spanish conquistadors somewhere deep inside the unforgiving and mysterious Amazon jungle. As far as anyone knows, it is still there. Waiting to be discovered by those brave or foolhardy enough, to try their luck.

"If you like reading Clive Cussler, Matthew Reilly, James Rollins or Michael Crichton, you will enjoy this action adventure from Ben Hammott."

"Has all the ingredients for an instant success: great plot, interesting characters, a large dose of mystery, impressive locations , unexpected twists and discoveries, deception and betrayal and even a touch of romance and a spattering of humor. This story will keep you entertained from beginning to end.

"The Mysterious and Dangerous Amazon Jungle, Subterranean Rooms, Tunnels, Pyramids, Ancient Aliens, Nazis, Traps, Thrilling Escapes, Chases, Strange Creatures, Dangerous Enemies, a Lost City and Great Characters, are just a few ingredients that make this exciting adventure thriller a must read for fans of this genre." (NY.Post.book.reviews)

"From bestselling author Ben Hammott this action packed adventure takes you into the Amazon Jungle to follow in the footsteps of lost Victorian Explorer, Colonel Percy Fawcett. What we have here, in part, is an excellent dramatization of what may have happened to Fawcett and what he may have discovered in the unexplored regions of the Amazon. The well written plot is seldom predictable and some of the characters you think are safe, and will be alive by the time the book reaches its climax, are not. Sights and sounds of the Amazon are described well and help to set the atmospheric tone the explorers travel through."

An exciting archaeological mystery thriller with flashbacks to Colonel Fawcett's 1925 Expedition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Hammott
• Release date: Mar 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386470960

Book preview

PREFACE 2

Amazonian Jungle - Dead Horse Camp

May 29th 1925

You will make sure this reaches the city, Simeos, said Fawcett, more of an order than a question as he handed the envelope addressed to his wife to one of the four Kalapalos Indians who had been helping them. The colonel regretted the delay caused by the Indians decision to return to their village for a few days, and though he attempted to change their minds, they were adamant they would leave.

Yes, Colonel Fawcett, Simeos replied as he bundled it with the other messages and the photographs he was taking with him. He turned to glance at his three companions waiting by the edge of the clearing, eager to leave, then turned back to face the colonel. Goodbye, Fawcett. He stared for a few seconds before turning to leave with the others. After just a few yards the thick jungle undergrowth swallowed them, leaving the colonel and the other expedition team members to their fate.

Even after they were out of sight, Fawcett continued to stare at the point where they disappeared. There was something in the way Simeos voiced his farewell, the look in his eyes, a finality that suggested that although they said they would return, they would not be back. Although he regretted their loss, in the last few days they had become practically useless, slowing the expedition down and causing unnecessary delays. The reason for this was their fear of the cannibals whose territory they would soon enter. Fawcett was also concerned, but not enough to abandon the expedition; he knew at the age of fifty-eight, this would be his last chance. There were only three of them left now, as well as the eight (at times ill-tempered) mules, but it was still doable. His past expeditions into the jungle had taught him that a smaller group, which needed less food to sustain them, was also less of a threat to any hostile Indians they may encounter. He looked around at his two faithful companions, his oldest son Jack and Jack’s close friend Raleigh Rimmell. They were men he knew he could trust and rely on. He had given them the chance to return to civilization – or at least what passed for it in this part of the country – with the Indians, who just left, but both declined, as he knew they would.

He smiled at Raleigh, a most unlikely candidate for this expedition. He and Jack were recording the expedition with a camera. Photographs had been sent back periodically to be dispatched to London where they would be published. Raleigh’s dream was to become a movie star and talked about going to Hollywood on his return. He treated the whole thing as an adventure, something to talk about around the dinner table and to help push his career, but to Fawcett, it was a far more serious mission. This expedition had been undertaken to find the Lost City he had heard so much about from the indigenous tribes during his years of mapping out the jungle and surrounding territories. Although none of the Indians had been there to see it for themselves, they had heard from one of the more friendly bad tribes that an ancient built of stone did exist deep within the unexplored parts of the jungle. He had discovered further evidence, which he believed corroborated the Indians stories, in an old document ingenuously labeled Manuscript 512.

He was so confident it existed he had already given it the name Z. Although he tried to ignore the ridicule and scorn he received from the so-called experts back in London, it dwelled on his mind constantly. Failure was not an option. He’d heard so many rumors and stories about a lost civilization that he was certain it did exist, and he meant to find it and prove them wrong. He knew there was no man with a better mindset, and the jungle experience required to achieve this than himself. He would find it or die trying.

How is it today, Raleigh?

Raleigh removed his sock and boot to examine his foot where he had been bitten by one of the millions of insects that infested the jungle. The morning after the bite, his foot had swollen to an incredible size. Unable to resist scratching at the itching sore, he had scraped away layers of skin. A lot better now, Colonel, he said glancing up. The swelling has almost gone and thankfully the itching has all but stopped.

Good man, Fawcett said with a smile, watching him ease his sock and boot back on. Do you think you will be able to ride tomorrow as I am eager to continue? Although he had been worried about Raleigh’s ability to survive the harsh jungle terrain, he had proven himself capable so far, but the hardest was still to come. Ahead lay unexplored territory, the unknown. He felt a shiver of excitement run down his spine. In a few weeks – a month or two at most – they could be standing at the entrance to a Lost Civilization. A city built of stone.

What about the Indians, father? asked Jack, just returned from tending to the mules. Are you not waiting for their return?

Fawcett glanced at his son. I am afraid they will not be returning. The cannibals we will no doubt run into on our journey have scared them away.

Do you think they will let me photograph them? asked Raleigh.  He had already sent many photographs back to England, some of tribes never seen before; a photograph of cannibals might make the cover of Times magazine. It might even get his name noticed in Hollywood. At the very least, it certainly wouldn’t harm his career.

I honestly don’t know. Although I know there are cannibals and head-hunters where we are going, I am hoping they are not as terrible as the friendly natives make out. The unusual sight of our white skin, which they will surely be seeing for the first time, should help the situation. Then indicating the packs on the ground by the mules, We also have our gifts of beads and trinkets they seem to like so much, so I am sure we will survive the encounter. They probably only eat their enemies, the other tribes, so we must ensure they think of us as their friends.

And if that doesn’t work? asked Jack.

In my experience the Indians, although hostile, are also inquisitive. If they don’t kill us on first sight, I should be able to befriend them as I have done many times in the past.

I trust your judgment, father. If you say we will be okay and will not become their next meal, I believe you as surely no man on this earth knows the Amazon jungle and its inhabitants as well as you.

Quite right, replied Fawcett with a smile.

Talking about food, said Raleigh, I’m starving! How about we have something to eat?

Good idea, the colonel agreed. Nothing seemed to get Raleigh down. We will start off tomorrow morning to head for the waterfall the Indians mentioned. It seems to be pivotal in our quest. I am also eager to examine the stone they mention with the strange carving nearby the waterfall. Then we shall go into the unknown to discover the Lost City of Z.

He had planned to stay longer at Dead Horse Camp (named on a previous trip because of the nearby horse skeleton he had shot in 1921, the closest thing to an identifiable landmark) to wait for the Indians to return, but now they were not it made good sense to continue the journey, especially while the weather was so amenable.

They were ready to leave by mid-morning the following day. Sat upon one of the mules, his long legs almost scraping the ground, Colonel Fawcett led the way out of the makeshift camp. Jack followed immediately behind, riding the lead mule. Raleigh rode at the back to make sure none of the animals strayed too far, taking their limited supplies with them. As some of the mules seemed to have a mind of their own, it would not be an easy task now the Indian mule handlers had abandoned them.

As Fawcett left the camp, he glanced down at the remains of the lame horse shot years earlier, the last time he was here. The jungle animals and insects had long since consumed its flesh, leaving nothing but bleached white bones sticking out from the leaves and earth; eventually, the jungle would claim them as well until nothing was left. He urged his mule forward and the Fawcett expedition disappeared into the Amazonian jungle.

Fawcett’s wife, Nina, entered the room and gently closed the door. She crossed the room to settle into the armchair positioned by the window to take advantage of the light streaming through its glass panes. She examined the stained and crumpled letter she had just received and saw from the postmark that it had taken many weeks to reach her, but this wasn’t unusual. The postmark date did not even account for the length of time it had taken to travel from the depths of the jungle to the nearest town, where it could finally start on its long voyage to England. It’s a wonder it ever made it at all. Though she was used to not hearing from her husband for weeks, months or longer when he was on one of his expeditions, it seemed different this time. She had felt a sense of foreboding ever since he left, taking their eldest son with him. She plucked an ornate letter opener from the small pedestal table beside the chair. Slowly, she eased the blade under the flap and ran it along its length to split it open. After placing the letter opener back on the table, she parted the ripped edges of the envelope and pulled out the letter. She unfolded the sheet of paper inscribed with her husband’s handwriting and read his words.

––––––––

"My dear Nina,

The attempt to write is fraught with many difficulties, thanks to the legions of flies that pester one from dawn till dusk – and sometimes all through the night! The worst are the tiny ones that are smaller than a pinhead, almost invisible, but sting like a mosquito. Clouds of them are always present. Millions of bees add to the plague, and other bugs galore, stinging horrors that get all over one’s hands. Even the head nets won’t keep them out, and as for mosquito nets, the pests fly through them!  It is quite maddening.

We hope to get through this region in a few days and are camped here for a while to arrange for the return of the peons, who are anxious to get back, having had enough of it – and I don’t blame them. We go on with eight animals – three saddle mules, four cargo mules, and a madrinha, a leading animal that keeps the others together. Jack is well and fit and getting stronger every day, even though he suffers a bit from insects."

Nina smiled at the mention of her son.

"I myself am bitten or stung by ticks, and these piums, as they call the tiny ones, all over the body. It is Raleigh I am anxious about. He still has one leg in a bandage but won’t go back. So far, we have plenty of food and no need to walk, but I am not sure how long this will last. There may be little for the animals to eat as we head further in. I cannot hope to stand up on this journey better than Jack or Raleigh – my extra years tell, though I do my best to make up for it with enthusiasm - but I had to do this.

I calculate that I shall contact the Indians in about a week, perhaps ten days, when we should be able to reach the much-talked-about waterfall.

Here we are at Dead Horse Camp, Lat. 110 43’ S and 540 35" W, the spot where my horse died in 1920. Only his white bones remain. We can bathe ourselves here, but the insects make it a matter of great haste. Nevertheless, the season is good. It is very cold at night and fresh in the morning, but the insects and heat are out in full force come mid-day, and from then until evening it is sheer misery in camp.

You need have no fear of any failure ...."

Nina stared at the final sentence and hoped her husband’s words would come true. She then placed the letter in her lap and stared out of the window.

She would never hear from her husband or son again.

The fate of Fawcett, Jack and Raleigh remain a mystery to this day.

PREFACE 3

Amazonian jungle - Six Years Later

The uakari monkeys screeched out warnings to each other as they watched the creature below move silently through the undergrowth. Although they were in no immediate danger, they knew the creature was a good climber and could reach them if it wished.

The sleek night Black Panther glanced up at the noisy uakari high above. Though desperate for food, it knew they were watching and alert, making any climbing attempt pointless, for they would disappear at the first sign of danger. Suddenly aware that something else was nearby, it paused and lifted its muscular head to sniff the scent of prey in the air. Its keen sense of hearing then informed it that its next meal was coming closer. It slunk down into the undergrowth to wait for it to arrive.

The man, wearing nothing but a pair of ragged pants and shirt with a small rucksack slung on his back, suddenly burst through the thick jungle. Covered in scratches from his swift movement through the undergrowth that tore at his clothing and skin, he stumbled and fell to the ground. Desperation forced him quickly to his feet. He ignored the leaf-covered branches that whipped his face as he continued his mad dash through the foliage. The increasing sound of others crashing through the jungle behind was evidence his pursuers were gaining on him. Capture meant not only death but also failure. This was his last chance to save his friends. Although the large bushy beard, long straggly hair and his once white skin now heavily tanned, had drastically changed his appearance - making him all but unrecognizable from the last photograph sent back with the Indians when they left Dead Horse Camp six years previous, Raleigh Rimmell’s determination and stamina were still intact. He had escaped from his captors, the Morcegos, four days ago, and they had been chasing him ever since.

Raleigh risked a glance behind to see movement and a glimpse of dark skin. They were almost upon him. Temporarily not looking where he was going, he ran straight into a low branch that knocked him to the ground with a painful thud. Dazed, he lay there rubbing his forehead; a bump had already started to form. A bruise would soon follow if he managed to live long enough for it to form, something that seemed unlikely now. The crack of a twig and the rustling of leaves informed him that his pursuers had caught up with him. Then, there was silence; they had stopped to listen for any noise he might make to give away his position. The Morcegos were expert trackers. They would soon guess he had stopped and presume he was hiding. Then the hunt would resume. A different sound reached his ears. One not made by those chasing him but something much closer and just as life-threatening. He slowly turned his head towards the sound of deep shallow breathing to see feline eyes looking at him from the shadows. The eyes rose as the panther crouched in preparation for its attack.

Raleigh froze.

He knew it was useless to run.

Suddenly, narrowly avoiding tripping over Raleigh sprawled on the ground as he rushed into the small clearing; the Indian appeared out of the thick jungle. Decorated with streaks of red and blue that covered most of his all but naked dark body, he stared at his quarry. On spying Raleigh exposed before him, he smiled, raised his head and spear to the sky to let out a piercing warbling cry, an alert to let his companions know he had caught their escapee. Abruptly, his cry was cut short to be replaced by a scream of surprise that quickly morphed to one of pain.

The Panther, having assessed the sudden new arrival as more of a threat than the other lying defenseless on the ground, had leaped from the jungle knocking the Indian off his feet. Within seconds, its claws had torn deep gashes in the man’s face and chest. Its teeth then ripped out the man’s throat, silencing him forever.

Three more Indians quickly arrived. They froze at the sight of the panther feasting on their friend. The large cat snarled a warning at them, its vicious fangs dripping red with its victim’s blood. It eyed the men, ready to pounce and kill again if they dared to move any closer. The Indians quickly glanced around the clearing. Except for their dead comrade and the panther feeding on him, the clearing was deserted. The Morcegos cautiously backed into the jungle, leaving the panther to continue its much-needed meal.

Moments before, Raleigh had seen the panther leap and knew he was about to die. He hoped his imminent death would be a quicker and less painful one than being eaten alive by the cannibals chasing him. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. He felt the rush of air disturbed by the big cat’s movement, then the brush of a tail over his skin, but no claws or teeth ripping at his flesh. He heard a scream but thankfully, it didn’t come from him. He opened his eyes as warm blood splashed across his chest from the Indian’s ripped open throat. The man’s sudden appearance had saved his life. He grabbed the unfortunate Indian’s dropped spear and fled, running as fast as his tired body was able through the thick jungle around him. Every direction looked the same, offering no landmarks to keep his bearings. Trusting his sense of direction to keep him heading towards his goal, he swung left and jumped over a large anaconda slithering along the ground. After days of running with only small bouts of sleep, he doubted he could carry on at this pace for much longer. Suddenly, another of his pursuers emerged from the jungle to block his way, forcing him to skid to a halt. He watched as the Indian drew back his spear to aim the weapon at his chest. As the warrior’s arm shot forward, releasing the spear to send it flying straight at him, Raleigh dropped to the ground and glimpsed the spear whoosh by above him.

The Indian grunted angrily as his spear missed its target to shoot harmlessly into the undergrowth. However, it wasn’t his only weapon. He grabbed a knife from around his waist as he rushed forward and sprung at Raleigh.

Raleigh frantically grabbed at the spear that had missed him and pointed its sharp tip at the Indian flying through the air towards him.

In an attempt to avoid the spear, the Indian twisted his body in mid-air. The maneuver was almost successful but not quite. Although he had avoided a stabbing from its sharp tip, he failed to avoid it altogether and received a scratch along his side. This brought him no comfort as he fell to the ground beside his quarry. Although the actual scratch was far from fatal, the fast-acting poison covering the spear tip that now flowed through his bloodstream was. It would soon claim his life. The Indian stood to search for the knife dropped from his hand when he fell, but it was lost to the undergrowth. He snatched the spear from Raleigh’s grasp, but before he could use it, he fell to his knees and then writhed in agony on the ground as the lethal poison did its work. Raleigh climbed to his feet and was just about to retrieve the spear when he heard the sound of the remaining pursuers rushing through the jungle towards his position; out of time, he reluctantly abandoned the weapon and fled.

He soon found himself on a small path. Hoping it led to his objective, the river, he quickly followed it to find out. However, after rounding a bend in the trail, he found himself at the entrance to a village. This was not all bad news, as villages, habitually built near water, meant that a river was probably close by. The plethora of human bones and skulls decorating the village indicated the tribe that lived here were cannibals, most likely the Macahiry, thought Raleigh, recognizing the colored patterns daubed on the skulls. A quick scan of the village revealed no sign of its inhabitants. Apart from a few pigs and some fowl, it was devoid of all life. This wasn’t unusual as often everyone in the village would leave for a gathering or a celebration ritual at a neighboring village. It was something he had experienced many times during his six years of captivity. Taking advantage of the situation, he entered to search for a weapon. Too close to avoid a confrontation now, he would need something to defend himself with when his pursuers caught up with him.

With no weapons in plain sight, he quickly made his way to the meeting hall, the largest building in the village and the likeliest place to find a weapon. He paused to peer through the entrance, but its pitch-black interior hid everything inside from view. He grabbed a burning log from the smoldering fire outside the hut and entered. Though the torch did little to light up the vast interior, it did highlight some crude shelves just inside the entrance. He hurriedly searched through them for a spear, a knife, bow, and arrows or anything he could use as a weapon. As he searched, he sensed something wasn’t quite right. If the village was deserted, a fire would not have been left burning. It would have been extinguished before they left. The dry, straw-thatched dwellings of the village were vulnerable to an unattended fire; a tiny ember blown astray could set them aflame.

A creaking noise came from behind him in the darkness and then the sounds of shuffling. Raleigh spun, holding the burning log aloft. The flickering flames highlighted the faces of many dark-skinned Indians as they stepped into the ring of light emitted from his torch. All were staring at him. Raleigh sensed even more hidden in the darkness where his light failed to penetrate. Those in front that he could see had blood on their hands and around their mouths. Some held pieces of raw flesh still dripping with blood. One of the men stepped forward, a bone he had been chewing the flesh from, held in his hand like a club. He recognized the bone as a human thighbone. It seems the Macahiry were at home after all, and he had interrupted their dinner. There was movement as spears, knives, and axes were passed from behind to the men at the front. Raleigh glanced enviously at the array of weapons. The foremost Indian, now armed with an axe, dropped his thighbone meal, much to the satisfaction of the swarm of flies that settled on the bloody flesh to feast and lay their eggs as soon as it hit the ground. Raleigh stared at the unfriendly faces of the cannibal warriors as they took a step towards him. The smiles on their lips were a deep contrast to the hunger and hate in their eyes.

Shadows suddenly blocked the bright sunlight streaming through the hut entrance, halting the Macahirys advance as they turned to look at the three Morcegos Indians standing in the doorway where Raleigh’s trail had led them. One of them spoke to the Macahiry chief, gesturing towards the white man in their midst as he spoke. The Macahiry briefly spoke rapidly amongst themselves and afterward reluctantly took a step back, relinquishing ownership of the intruder to his initial pursuers.

With cruel smiles and brandished spears, the three Morcegos stepped forward to claim their prize. Raleigh threw the burning log at them and without pausing rushed at the nearest wall. The flimsy branch and straw construction crumbled as he fell through. Barely avoiding tumbling to the ground, he fled into the jungle. Behind him came the sounds of fresh pursuit.

After about a hundred yards, he heard the sound of rushing water, an indication that he had almost reached his goal. If he could make it to the river, he stood a chance of escaping. It wasn’t a good chance, but it was the only one he had. His plan had been to steal a dugout canoe from a village and then row downstream until he reached a friendly tribe. From there he could get word to the city that he, the colonel and Jack were still alive but in desperate need of help. The rushing of water grew rapidly louder as he approached the river. Arriving at the water’s edge a few moments later, he saw its source, the top of a waterfall that he recognized as the same one they had found six years earlier, the starting point of their route to the fabled Lost City. Unfortunately, he would have to reach the bottom of the waterfall before he could risk entering the fast-flowing water and make his way down river. He then spied what he was searching for, some crude dugout canoes drawn up the bank a few yards away. Hoping it would survive the journey to be retrieved further downstream so he could make his escape; he quickly rushed over and pushed one out into the fast-flowing water. Gripped by the swift current it soon sped over the falls. He turned, planning to head back into the jungle to make his way along the riverbank down to the river below, but halted when he saw his pursuers approaching. He was trapped between the strong currents of the river behind and the bloodthirsty Morcegos in front. Unarmed he wouldn’t stand a chance against the Indians, so turning back to the river, he entered the shallow water near its bank. Even here close to the edge, he could feel the drag of its strong current. Carefully, he waded towards the top of the waterfall and peered over at the turbulent pool far below. He saw the canoe had survived its journey over the falls, bobbing in the river, caught by a swirling eddy close by the bank; it would be easy to retrieve if he made it down. However, the rocks directly beneath him would prove fatal to anyone jumping. He then noticed a small spray lashed ledge a few feet below, which he thought might just be wide enough to save him. Cautiously, but knowing he had to be quick before he was seen; he lowered himself over the edge until he felt his toes touch the ledge. It was lower than he had first thought, but now committed to his course of action, he let go. The ledge was only about a foot wide and slippery. Keeping his body pressed as flat to the rock as possible, he managed to edge sideways until he was between the torrent of rushing water and the rock.

Meanwhile, the three surviving Morcegos, having followed Raleigh’s trail to the water’s edge, scanned the river for any sign of him. One of them pointed out the canoe at the base of the falls. A short discussion followed that ended with the conclusion that their escaped prisoner must have attempted to row across the river but the strong current had carried him over the edge. To make sure, they made their way along the riverbank and down towards the base of the waterfall to find his body. It might be wet and probably dead, but he would still be edible.

Through the cascading water, Raleigh saw the hazy figures of the three Indians making their way along the riverbank. He watched them for a few minutes until they were gone from his sight before letting out a sigh of relief; he was, for the moment, safe. He decided to remain where he was until he was sure they had gone. Perhaps then, he could move further under the waterfall, away from the rocks directly below and jump. It wasn’t something he relished doing, but now he was on the ledge he doubted he would have the energy to climb back up, even if it was possible due to the slippery rock. As he shifted into a slightly more comfortable position, a spear struck the rock where his head had been only a second before. A shard of stone chipped from the rock, struck his cheek, drawing blood.

The Morcegos had seen him.

Having involuntarily flinched when the splinter of rock struck his face, his foot slipped on the narrow ledge. Unable to regain his footing, he began to fall. He frantically reached out to grab hold of something to prevent his plunge onto the deadly rocks directly beneath him, but found the rock, worn smooth by the hundreds of thousands of years of water flowing over it, offered no handholds to stop his fall.

The Indians watched him fall and then become swallowed by the cascading torrent of water. They rushed down to the bottom of the waterfall to wait for him to emerge, alive or dead, but he never did. Believing him claimed by one of the whirlpools in abundance at the base of the waterfall, the Indians finally called a halt to the chase. More than a little disappointed that the hunt had ended with no trophy, but more importantly no feast, they entered the jungle to start their long journey home. 

Knocked unconscious when he struck the ledge that halted his plummet into the swirling waters below, an hour later Raleigh slowly regained his senses and immediately grimaced in pain. He had landed awkwardly. He looked towards the source of pain to see the bloodstain in his trousers grow ever larger as he watched. He ripped the material to see shattered bone protruding from his shin and blood pouring from the wound. He grimaced in agony as he tore off a strip of cloth from his pants leg to use as a tourniquet. He wrapped the strip of cloth around his leg a few inches above the wound and tied it tightly to lessen the blood flow. Disoriented, he looked at the waterfall only inches away, and then studied his surroundings. He had fallen onto the ledge of a small cave hidden behind the waterfall. He leaned out over the edge to see the rocks protruding from the swirling water. They were a little closer than before but still promising death to anybody unlucky enough to land on them. With no way back up, his only way to escape the cave would be to run and leap through the water rushing past the entrance and hope he missed the rocks altogether to splash safely in the river. However, with a broken leg, he wouldn’t be running or leaping anywhere for a long time. He winced in pain as he dragged himself towards the side of the cave and rested against the cold rock. He knew he would die here. He had experienced many horrors dished out to those less fortunate prisoners of the Morcegos and the other cannibal tribes, but as trophies, they had been treated relatively well during their years of captivity. It was not much of a consolation but at least his death would be a far better one than those eaten or skinned alive by the bloodthirsty tribes he had encountered.

His thoughts turned to the colonel and Jack. They would probably die in captivity now he had failed to escape. He was supposed to have brought back help to rescue them, but that wouldn’t happen now. It was little consolation that he knew they would not blame him for his failure. He gently eased off his backpack whilst trying to keep his leg as still as possible and placed it on the ground beside him. He then reached inside and pulled out a flask of water from which he took a long gulp. With the waterfall only inches away, he would not have to worry about dying of thirst. Though he had enough food to last for a few days he would probably bleed to death before hunger ever became a problem. He stared at the metal flask and ran his fingers over the lettering etched into its surface, Colonel Percy Harrison Fawcett. An idea popped into his head. It was a long shot born of desperation and perhaps more fitting to a scene from a Hollywood movie he would never appear in, but it was all he could do now to try to save them. At the very least, it may eventually inform people as to their fate. Even more importantly, if it were ever found, it would let the outside world know what the colonel and they had discovered.

To carry out his plan, he emptied the remaining water from the flask and placed it upside down to drain the last few drops. He then took the journal from the rucksack the Colonel had entrusted him with to show the world if he reached civilization. After removing the animal skin wrapped around the journal for protection, he ripped out a blank page. He used the small pencil kept in the binding’s sleeve, worn to a stub, to write his message. When he had finished, he tore off another strip from the trouser leg and dried the inside of the container as best he could. Using another remnant to pad out the flask, he then took something from his pocket and wrapped the message around it. After slipping the package inside the flask, he forced another piece of cloth inside to protect the message. He screwed on the watertight stopper as tightly as he could. Next, he undid his belt and used the buckle to scratch something onto the flask. Satisfied with his handiwork, he crawled to the center of the opening and with all the might he could muster, flung the flask through the waterfall. It was up to fate to play its hand now, but he knew whatever happened, it would happen too late to save him.

Raleigh was not bitter at his predicament, nor did he blame the colonel or Jack for bringing him into the jungle. It had been his decision to come. Even though the hardships had been many and the good times few, he had enjoyed the adventure. His only regret was that they had not managed to return to civilization to tell the world about their adventures and their discovery. They would have been famous. Hollywood would surely have welcomed him after hearing their amazing exploits. He sighed as he shuffled down into a laying position. His thoughts turned to the flask as he wondered if the message would be found in time to save his friends. Tired from his many days of pursuit, he closed his eyes and slept.

The flask shot through the waterfall to fly through the air until gravity forced it into an arc to splash down into the river. It was the swift currents turn now. It did its job well, too well, in fact. The flask floated down the river as planned, but unfortunately for the colonel and Jack, the current sped it past any villages whose inhabitants may have chanced upon it. Caught under the root of a tree growing at the water’s edge for many years, a passing crocodile finally dislodged it, and again, it headed towards the sea. By the time the flask reached the Atlantic Ocean many years later, Raleigh had long ago died from his injuries. However, even in death, he still had his part to play.

PREFACE 4

U-boat 553

North Atlantic Ocean January 1943

The mayhem and the dim red glow of emergency lighting shrouding the interior of U-boat 553, made it all but impossible to perceive the horrific events taking place. The crew’s screams of agony and fear mingled with the unholy guttural shrieks from the invader aboard the sub, left no illusions they were under attack. By whom, or by what, the captain had no idea. He slowed his flight to the rear of the sub as the screams behind him fell to silence and turned and look back. With the batteries being conserved there was hardly enough light from the small red bulbs to pierce the blackness before him. He listened to the silence and found it just as frightening as the sudden bout of