The Flaming Mountain: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story

"Reminds me of the amphibious exercises we used to have in the Marines," Scotty commented to Rick.

Nearby, Hartson Brant and the other scientists were deep in conversation with a group of civilians and Navy officers. The officers were the engineers, from the Naval Construction Battalion. Last night had been spent in working with them on the details of the problem. It would be their job to drive the big hole down into the earth below El Viejo, working against time to intercept the rising magma.

Scientists had arrived, too, and they were taking over much of the detail of keeping track of the magma. Each scientist had his own special field of interest, but all were anxious to have the data from tracings. There were geophysicists, including volcanologists and seismologists; mineralogists and more geologists.

"Nothing much left for us to do," Rick said, a little sadly.

"Except watch," Scotty corrected. "That's enough! Great crumbling craters, what do you want? A mystery every day?"

Rick had to grin. "I guess this is enough. But one thing I want to do is go over to the volcanic pipe and see how Guevara and Connel are making out."

"You will have an escort," a voice said from behind them. They turned to greet Ricardo Montoya. "Now that we can turn our attention to that pair, I think we should have a talk with them. To make the talk easier, we will put bars between us."

"You're going to arrest them?" Rick asked.

"Of course! What did you think?"

"Right now?"

"If you want to come along, join me. Now is as good a time as any. If we can find them, of course."

The boys joined Montoya in the front seat of a military vehicle. The back was loaded with his men. Montoya at once steered for the trail to the volcanic pipe. It was only a thousand yards to the north from the point selected for the big hole. Even around the site of the hole there were diamond seekers, and it was hard to find a piece of ground that had not been tried with a shovel.

As they got closer to the diamond field the numbers of treasure hunters increased until, as Scotty remarked, they were thicker than fleas at a mutt show. Montoya had to lean on the horn continually, and even then the San Luzians paid little attention.

Finally the group got out and walked. It was easier to move on foot through the frantically digging mob. Strangely, there was little noise. Each individual seemed intent on his own little hole. But the digging was futile. There was no yellow ground under the flying shovels.

Then the group did reach yellow ground, and met rifles in the hands of Guevara's peons. Evidently Guevara had put a ring of men around the volcanic pipe and planned to hold it by force of arms.

Rick looked at Montoya. What would he do now?

The young officer looked haughtily at the nearest peons and demanded in Spanish, "Do you know me?"

One of them nodded respectfully. "Sí, Señor Capitán Montoya."

"Good. You will stand aside. I am inspecting Señor Guevara's mine." He stalked through as though there was not the slightest question that the peons would allow it. The boys and the police officers followed on his heels.

A shelter had been erected on one side of the volcanic pipe. Only blue ground showed, and there was a power scoop digging out more. Watching the shovel were Guevara and Brad Connel.

Montoya walked up to the pair before they were even aware of his presence.

"Good afternoon, señores," he greeted them courteously.

Guevara snapped, "What are you doing here, Montoya?"

"Arresting you, señor," Montoya replied calmly.

Connel looked worried, but Guevara gestured toward the ring of men with rifles. "Don't be a fool. We outnumber you five to one. You haven't a chance."

Captain Montoya smiled affably. "But, señor, it is you who haven't a chance. Consider, señor. The honor of the Montoyas requires that I take you to my uncle, eh? Well, I allow the chance that perhaps I will not survive to take you to my uncle, but I can assure you that you will become a lifeless body on the instant a rifle is raised. Surely you do not doubt me, señor?"

Guevara looked at the officer, looked at the capable hand on the cocked gun in the holster. Then he looked into the fierce Montoya eyes, and his swarthy face turned pale.

"Not even a Montoya would throw his life away for so small a thing," he said harshly.

The captain smiled gently. "Call my bluff, señor."

Rick had no doubt whatever that Montoya was not bluffing. Apparently Guevara was convinced, too. But he tried once more. "How do you expect to get us out of here?"

"Simplicity itself. You will walk to my truck, arm in arm with Señor Connel. That is all. Of course if you should be so unfortunate as to have a peon lift his rifle, you would never reach the truck alive. But perhaps you are lucky. Shall we try, señor?"

Guevara hesitated, then shrugged. "Very well."

Connel spoke for the first time. He demanded hoarsely, "Are you going to let him get away with this when our men have all the rifles?"

Guevara smiled wryly. "You do not know the Montoyas, Brad. Call his bluff yourself – only not if you wish to live."

The ex-lieutenant governor walked slowly toward the ring of men. After a moment Connel joined him. Montoya stepped behind them as though taking a stroll through the Calor public gardens. The ring opened and let them through. Rick breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't been quite as confident as Ricardo Montoya appeared to be.

Guevara paused. "May I make an announcement?" he asked.

"Certainly, señor."

Guevara called, "Amigos!" Montoya translated the Spanish for the boys. "You know what you have been guarding. Now I must leave. What is left is yours. Work as fast as you can and find many diamonds. May good fortune be yours!"

The ring broke as the peons rushed to grab shovels. Guevara led the way to the truck.

It was all so easy, Rick thought later, if you were an aristocratic Montoya with a code of honor that permitted no yielding, even unto death. No one else he had ever met could have carried it off quite so superbly.

So fast had the Seabees swung into operation that work on the big hole already was in progress when Montoya dropped the boys off. Pneumatic drills hammered into the congealed lava, cutting holes in which charges would be placed. As the boys watched, explosive was thrust into the holes, a warning was yelled through a portable loud-speaker, and the charge fired. Tons of rock were loosened.

Even before the dust had begun to settle, huge machines were lifting the rock out, or dragging big chunks, and dumping them down the mountainside. Bulldozers kept the rock moving, keeping the entrance clear. Within minutes the hole was empty of rock and the pneumatic drills were hammering again. The cycle was repeated.

The Seabees joked as they worked, and warned each other against shoving a hole right through into hot lava, but the pace never slowed for an instant.

Hour after hour the big hole deepened until the Seabees ran into noxious gases. Then they donned gas masks and continued. Deeper and deeper the hole was driven, until the temperature at the hole's end was over a hundred degrees. The Seabees merely shortened working time and operated in relays so efficiently that no time was lost.

Rick and Scotty got back to the hole as often as they could, but there was much doing elsewhere. The Hot Springs Hotel swarmed with scientists and observers, and there were heated conferences and late evaluation sessions. The Spindrift scientists were always in demand, and their faces grew gaunt as the days passed.

The hole gave its own location because of the shock waves it sent through the earth to the recorders, and even Rick's untrained eye could see the traces slowly closing with the magma front.

Earthquakes increased in frequency until Rick and Scotty felt as though the ground never ceased shuddering.

The air became noisy with planes as the Military Air Transport Command began ferrying in troops. Flight after flight of huge transports roared in for a landing at the Calor airport, discharged the soldiers, and took off again at once.

And still the diamond hunt continued.

Then, at one o'clock in the afternoon, Hartson Brant called a halt.