Treasure Hunters: Danger Down the Nile Page 8

  CHAPTER 41

  While Tommy messed with his knobs and played with the steering wheel, the rest of us followed Dumaka to the small break area, where his crew was still relaxing with cold bottled beverages.

  “Thank you, Dumaka,” Storm said loudly. “We’re off to find King Solomon’s Mines.”

  “Are you sure this is wise?” said Dumaka. “Some say the legendary diamond mines are just that: a legend. They say these mines do not actually exist.”

  “They do exist,” said Storm. “And we know exactly where to find them.”

  “We have a treasure map,” said Beck, playing along like we had agreed we would. “We’ll be heading south. To Kukuanaland.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Kukuanaland. For we know that the treasure lies in a cave just beyond the, uh…”

  Beck jumped in. “The Suliman Berg Mountain Range. Remember?”

  “Right. What she said.”

  Beck made a big show of gripping Dumaka’s hand. “So long, good friend. Thank you for equipping us with everything we need to, at long last, bring home the treasure of King Solomon’s Mines!”

  As the three of us walked back to the Safari Extreme Global Expedition Vehicle, Storm whispered, “Thanks, you guys.”

  “Um, did you notice the guy in the greasy watch cap?” I said, my voice hushed.

  “Yeah.”

  “He was jotting down notes.”

  “Because he’s a spy,” said Beck.

  “Probably, yes.” said Storm.

  “Uh, hello?” said Beck. “He’s going to tell all those other treasure hunters exactly where we’re going! He might even work for Merck!”

  “I know,” said Storm. “It’s all part of the plan.”

  “The plan you and Tommy won’t tell us about?”

  “Yeah. That one.”

  “Fine,” said Beck. “Like we said, we’ll play along. But when this treasure quest is done, you and Tommy are gonna owe me and Bick big-time.”

  “We know,” said Storm. “And so will Mom and Dad.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Most of the lingering anger and resentment toward our older sibs was baked out of Beck and me by the time we were an hour outside Cairo.

  Unrelenting desert sun and nothing to look at but miles and miles of sand, sand dunes, and sandy brush on both sides of the sand-swept road—which, by the way, is really just a narrow strip of sweltering black asphalt slicing through all that sand—will do that to you, even if you’re traveling in a supercool, air-conditioned safari truck.

  I guess sometimes you just have to trust your big brother and sister. Not too often. Just every now and then.

  Okay, it’s a long drive from Egypt to King Solomon’s Mines, so here are some more history and geography facts for your reading pleasure. The Sahara is one of the world’s hottest deserts. You could fry an egg on it if you didn’t mind sand in your egg sandwiches.

  It’s also the second-largest desert in the world. Technically, Antarctica is the world’s largest desert. Who knew? Antarctica is a desert! But, trust me, it’s nowhere near as hot as the Sahara.

  After miles of endless sand dunes (some as tall as 590 feet—about the height of the Space Needle in Seattle), we cruised through Luxor, the home of Hatshepsut’s Temple, which is dedicated to the sun god Amon-Ra.

  Farther down the road (we’re talking hours and hours of sun and sand and license plate bingo, which is very hard to play when there aren’t many cars on the road), we reached Aswan, where they have a big dam. And more sand.

  Next we crossed the border into Sudan and the Nubian Desert.

  I don’t really know why they give these deserts names. They all kind of look the same. Although the Nubian one does seem to have more rocks and wadis, which I learned are dry riverbeds that only have water in them when it rains real hard. The rivers made a really bad call when they decided to flow through a desert.

  Yes, all this desert stuff is actually pretty amazing and fascinating, and learning about it will no doubt make you a better person and help you get into Harvard or maybe even high school. This information is way more important to know than trivia like the names of the Egyptian gods, or, say, the names of all of Tommy’s ex-girlfriends—which we got Storm to try to recite. (She got about halfway through before Tommy admitted he had no way of telling if she was right.)

  But all was not fun and games.

  When we were a few miles north of Khartoum, I decided to check out the expedition vehicle’s superslick rearview periscope. It was a lot like those cameras some cars have in their rear ends that help you park without banging into people’s bumpers, only this camera was up on a pole and could swivel.

  I could see a shimmering wall of rippling heat waves rising up off the asphalt road behind us like in a mirage.

  I also saw something else.

  “Tommy? We have company,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Guy Dubonnet Merck.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Tommy jammed the pedal to the metal.

  Our super RV roared like a lion and took off. We were moving so fast our tires were kicking up a swirling sandstorm behind us.

  But apparently Merck’s jeeps and army trucks had souped-up engines, too—not to mention a lot less bulk and weight. Merck and his men emerged out of the angry brown dust cloud with their goggles down and their weapons up.

  “He’s going to shoot us!” I shouted, keeping my eye on that video periscope.

  Bullets started pinging and bouncing off the back of our truck.

  Good thing the design specs Dad gave to Dumaka included armor plating and bulletproof glass.

  “Initiating evasive maneuvers!” shouted Tommy as he started twisting the steering wheel left, then right, then left again. We weaved back and forth, lurching from side to side on the bumpy road. Tires squealed as Beck and I bounced against the galley walls and then tumbled into the living room sofa. The whole time it felt like we were on the verge of flipping over.

  Using seat backs and countertops for handholds, Storm worked her way up to the cabin and plopped down in the passenger seat.

  “Tommy?” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Take the next exit. Cross the river. Head into Khartoum.”

  Khartoum, of course, is the capital of Sudan. We took the Fitayhab Bridge into the city.

  Merck was right behind us.

  When we got into the city limits, Tommy’s expert driving skills allowed us to finally lose the crazed Merck caravan in the crowded streets.

  For, like, five minutes.

  “They’re baaaack,” I announced from my perch with the periscope.

  “We need an alternate route,” said Storm, punching buttons on the sophisticated GPS.

  A very pleasant female voice instructed us to “Take the second left on Othman Digna Avenue.”

  Tommy did as he was told.

  Seconds later I saw Merck make the same turn.

  “Turn right on Gamma Avenue, then left onto El Mek Nimir,” said the GPS lady.

  Tommy executed the right and the left. Merck did, too, and narrowed the gap.

  “You guys?” said Beck, who was peering over my shoulder at the rearview video screen. “They’re gaining on us.”

  “Where exactly is that GPS thing taking us?” I shouted.

  A few more tire-screeching, hairpin turns and we were heading for the cargo terminals at Khartoum International Airport—and a fifteen-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with coiled concertina wire.

  Tommy slammed on the brakes.

  “Proceed to the guardhouse and wave at Samir,” said the pleasant GPS voice. “He is expecting you.”

  Tommy eased the truck to a stop and waved at the scowling man with a machine gun inside the guard shack.

  “You are Thomas Kidd?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am Samir. Please hurry. You do not wish to miss your flight to Zambia.”

  The gate slid open.

  “In one hundred meters,” cooe
d the GPS lady, “drive into the cargo hold of the C-17 Globemaster military cargo aircraft.”

  “What the…” was all Tommy said.

  The instant we were inside the C-17, hydraulic arms raised the aircraft’s tail ramp into its upright and locked position.

  Cargo handlers in flight suits and helmets started working tie-down straps around our axles and bumpers, lashing us securely to the cargo hold’s floor.

  Someone tapped on the driver’s side window.

  Tommy lowered it.

  “Welcome aboard, Kidds. I am Dumaka’s brother, Nanji. If there is anything I can do to make your flight from Khartoum to Lusaka more comfortable, please do not hesitate to let me know. Now then, if you will please fasten your seat belts, we have been cleared for takeoff.”

  Talk about an amazing expedition vehicle.

  It could fly like the wind on the open road.

  Or, if you took the right alternate route, it could just fly!

  CHAPTER 44

  We figured we had a pretty good jump on Monsieur Merck when we landed in Zambia several hours later.

  The roads between Khartoum and Lusaka are kind of sketchy, and there are very few rest stops or Holiday Inns along the way.

  Then again, Merck might’ve hired a transport plane, too.

  He might be only a few hours behind us.

  “I wish you luck, brave children of Dr. Thomas Kidd,” said Nanji as the rear cargo door lowered at the Lusaka airport.

  “Thank you, Nanji,” said Tommy as the two of them bumped fists. “We owe you, man!”

  As we drove north, it was obvious that we weren’t in the Sahara Desert anymore. The air was thick and steamy; the foliage lush and green. We were definitely in the tropics.

  On the Great North Road between Lusaka and Kabwe, we passed a lot of small villages and police checkpoints. Misty green mountain peaks and towering white clouds lined the horizon. We saw giraffes for the first time, lapping water out of pools left by a passing rainstorm. We also saw a couple of monkeys and a zebra herd.

  And then we saw our first pirates—of this trip anyway.

  They were in a fast-moving Toyota pickup and started chasing after us on an empty stretch of road miles away from any of those handy police checkpoints. I counted six pirates crammed into the bed of the truck—all of them with bandoliers of bullets draped over their shoulders—ammunition for their Russian-made AK-47 machine guns. One pirate was toting a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

  “They look pretty fierce,” said Beck, staring out the rear window. “A lot fiercer than Frenchy.”

  They were also faster.

  The Toyota pulled alongside our expedition vehicle, which Tommy had pushed to do over a hundred miles an hour on the bumpy road.

  One of the men threw a grappling hook onto the roof of our bucking truck, where it caught onto the satellite dish. The pirate with a machete gripped in his teeth swung over to board us.

  “Bick?” Tommy shouted. “Take the wheel!”

  “What?”

  “Take the wheel. I’m going topside to deal with Captain Hook.”

  I jumped into the driver’s seat the instant Tommy jumped out. Then I grabbed hold of the steering wheel and jammed my foot down on the accelerator. Fortunately, the road ahead was a straightaway, because this was basically my first driving lesson. The truck was rocking and rattling so much I thought my teeth might fly out of my head.

  In the back, Storm had pulled back the carpet and was working open the hatch on the gun and ammunition compartment.

  Tommy was standing on the control console between the two seats up front. He had popped open the moonroof and was reaching out to grab at the pirate’s ankles.

  I heard Tommy grunt.

  Then I saw the bad guy slide down the windshield, smack our hood, tumble off to the road, and roll into a ditch.

  “They’re still chasing us!” Beck reported. “The Toyota pirates didn’t stop to rescue their friend.”

  “They want our truck!” I said.

  Tommy slid down from the moonroof and shut it tight.

  “Well,” he said, “they can’t have it!”

  CHAPTER 45

  “Give me back the wheel!” Tommy shouted.

  I slid out, and he slid in.

  “Bick?” Beck called from the back. “Give me a hand. I have an idea.”

  Her lap was filled with boxes of Twinkies, Yodels, Ring Dings, and Sno Balls.

  Our secret stash of junk food.

  “Hurry,” she said. “I can’t carry it all.”

  “What’s the plan?” I asked as I scooped up half the boxes.

  “We open the rear window and toss them out. They go for the baked goods and leave us and the expedition vehicle alone.”

  “Hurry!” shouted Tommy from the driver’s seat. “I don’t know how much longer this glorified Winnebago can keep up this kind of speed. Lug nuts are going to start popping off if I keep pushing it.”

  “Why can’t we just shoot them?” asked Storm, who had discovered a double-barreled shotgun inside the secret weapons compartment.

  “Because they have more and bigger guns,” said Beck.

  Tommy kept swerving our four-by-four back and forth across both lanes of the highway, forcing the pirates in the pickup to swerve behind our rear bumper.

  Beck and I stumbled to the rear of the RV and flopped onto the foam mattress under the window, through which we could see the guy with the grenade launcher taking aim.

  “Kick open the window!” Beck shouted. And in one fast motion, I did. “Toss ’em!”

  We jettisoned all the boxes out the back.

  A fruit pie splattered on the Toyota’s windshield. Twinkies tumbled through the air. Plastic-wrapped cupcakes rolled down the road.

  The driver slowed down because his comrades were banging on the roof of the pickup’s cab, frantically pointing to the packages littering the highway.

  The Toyota slammed on its brakes and squealed to a stop.

  Five pirates jumped out the back and hurried off to collect their gooey goodies. Sweeter than gold! No one can resist a fully stocked Kidd snack stash.

  Meanwhile, Tommy drove us off the highway and onto a rutted gravel road. Maybe a quarter mile down it, a huge herd of wildebeests—at least a mile long and four or five wildebeests thick—appeared out of nowhere, crossed the road, and basically created a massive moving roadblock behind us.

  Tommy eased off the gas.

  “Good work, you guys. The wildebeests will cover our tire tracks.”

  “Plus,” said Beck, “it’ll take them an hour to finish crossing. The pirates won’t be able to chase after us, even if they want to.”

  “They may not want to,” I said. “They looked pretty happy with the loot we threw at them.”

  “They should be,” said Storm. “Sno Balls are hard to come by in Africa.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said.

  Storm shrugged. “At least you didn’t give them our Oreos.”

  “We have Oreos?” said Beck. “You’ve been holding out on your dear little sis? Where are they?”

  “Ha! I’ll never tell.”

  We all laughed a little.

  The way you do when you realize you could’ve lost something much more important than cookies or cupcakes.

  We could’ve lost our lives.

  CHAPTER 46

  Tommy drove us deeper into the Zambian jungle. I could see elephants plodding beneath ropey-trunked trees. A leopard slunk through the underbrush in search of some food. It was like we were in a zoo but without any cages.

  “They’ll be back,” I mumbled about an hour after we’d lost the pirates. Beck nodded. “If not them, somebody else.”

  “That’s why we need to ditch this vehicle,” said Tommy. “It’s not exactly inconspicuous. We’re going to have to finish our trip to King Solomon’s Mines on foot.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Miles into the unbelievably humid jungle—after we forded a stream where the water
rose up to our RV’s door handles—we came upon a small village.

  The people living there were extremely friendly, so, after some back and forth, we stashed our Safari Extreme Global Expedition Vehicle in a large thatched hut (after paying the owner handsomely for long-term parking privileges) and made our way to a very convenient Rent-A-Guide stand, where we tried to hire a safari team to take us farther into the jungle, up into Kukuanaland and on to King Solomon’s Mines.

  That wasn’t so easy, actually.

  The guides and porters, including a man named Sonkwe, who ran the hut, basically laughed in our faces.

  “We will not take orders from disheveled children,” said Sonkwe. “That is a surefire recipe for disaster and possibly death.”

  “What if we gave you a ton of money?” said Tommy.

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred dollars?”

  The men all laughed.

  “Tommy?” said Beck. “Step aside.” And the Kidd family’s chief negotiator took over.

  Meanwhile, Tommy drifted off to explore the rest of the village.

  There were some very pretty girls about his age, all of them dressed in matching skirts, bikini tops, and brightly colored head wraps, practicing some awesome dance moves over in a clearing where some guys were whaling on big, oblong drums. Of course, Tommy got distracted and was no help at all.

  After about twenty minutes of haggling, Beck sealed the deal at the Rent-A-Guide hut. Sonkwe and six others would lead us through the jungle and up into the mountains for less than Tommy offered but with a 15 percent royalty on everything we found inside King Solomon’s Mines, “which might be worth millions,” according to Beck.

  “This is a very fair deal,” said Sonkwe when he and Beck shook on it. “We shall leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Storm, Beck, and I hurried off to tell Tommy the good news.