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jungle.
    Al put down the box of noodles and the bag of oranges and the cases of beer. Ricky refused to do the same with his load, looking on with exasperation as his father took a turn with the binoculars.
    Can you see them?
    Yeah.
    They looked like little pill bugs poking up above the water on the horizon.
    What are they?
    I told you. They're submarines. I've even seen choppers lifting stuff and guys hanging from ropes.
    Al pulled the binoculars away from his face.
    How do you know all this?
    Let's just say I'm in on the play.
    Okay. So you're some kind of government spook.
    Like I said, I'm only telling you 'cause you asked and you seem like a nice guy. This place is about to pop.
    Robert scratched his head one more time. His eyes glazed and once again there was something forlorn and threadbare about him.
    Only thing is, nobody seems to be doing anything about it. I'm sending word up the line and I have yet to see any reaction. Task Force South is asleep at the switch. That scares me more than the subs.
    Ricky. Let me have the tablet.
    Da aad.
              Come on.
    Al gave the binoculars back to Newman , who put them away awkwardly in his bathing suit pocket. Ricky put his bags on the sand and Al took the bag with the tablet. He ripped the tape off the tablet and unwrapped it.
    What do you think of this?
    What is it?
    A Mayan artifact, apparently. Ricky bought it off Coconut Juan at the surf shop. Juan was very worked up about it.
    Didn't want to sell it to me at first , but I convinced him, Ricky added.
    Newman took the tablet from Al and turned it over, studying it.
    How did you convince him?
    I explained to him how the Mayans had the first fully written system and told him I'd read the Popol Vuh in fifth grade, which wasn't really true since Mom read it to me, but how they had the concept of zero before anyone else, and. . .
    This is very interesting . So Coconut Juan was the receptor.
    He’s a collector, I guess . I thought it was a fake.
    No, it's not . There's been all kinds of chatter about something like this. The Chocomal. There could be some people very interested in this.
    That's what he was all worried about. Said they'd kill him for it. Why?
    I don't exactly know. I do know some Iranian, Chinese and Russian scientists have been looking for some time, almost twenty years, for some archaeological clue. Their experts claim they know about a code underlying the frequency of sound waves, based on ancient secrets of Mayan astronomers, that they've been trying to use to build what you might call the ultimate weapon. There have been some disappearances. Researchers, anthropologists. Blamed on the drug cartels. Some say Samael Chagnon has an interest in it.
    Who's he?
    Very strange, secretive guy. Leader of the Santos Muertos gang.
    Well, what do you think we ought to do with this? asked Al.
    Keep it out of their hands. If I were you, like I said, I'd get out of town. It's been nice chatting.
    Okay. Let's go Ricky.
    Al wrapped the tablet and carefully put it back in its bag. Newman had disappeared down the trail and out of sight at a velocity that was surprising for someone as large and decrepit as he apparently was.
    Looks like the tide's going out, Ricky. Look at the surfers.
    There was a knot of them beginning to form again out beyond the breakers. It would have been nice to have binoculars to watch them from up in the dunes, but then again, it wasn't strictly necessary. The senses were our windows on the world and exercising them every day helped to keep them clean. Al was dismayed by people working on computers such as his half-blind brother Tony. Tony might be a genius but he had all but destroyed his senses not to mention his mind in the pursuit of his arcane academic interests. That's why he had wanted Ricky to play football, for the extra-alive richness of it, the mud and proximity to danger, the heightened sense of being connected to the source of all creation.
    All that talk about the drug