Atlantis Found by Clive Cussler

nodded silently and set off into the darkness, his miner’s lamp lighting the way. The tunnel stretched on and seemed endless. At one point, Marquez stopped and asked Pitt to shine his stronger beam at a rock fill between the timbers.
    “This looks like what we’re looking for,” he said, pointing to a hard granite arch above the loose rock.
    The men immediately went to work clearing the debris. After several minutes, they had dug through. Pitt leaned in and aimed his beam into a passage barely large enough to walk through. Then he checked his compass. “It heads in the right direction. Let’s clear a crawl space and keep going.”
    This tunnel was narrower than the others, and they were forced to step over the ties supporting the ore cart tracks, making the going slow and torturous. An hour of endless walking over the tracks in the gloom, with only the miner’s lamp for illumination, sapped what little stamina they had left. Everyone caught their feet on the uneven ties and stumbled one step for every five that were unimpeded.
    Another cave-in that could not be penetrated caused a seemingly endless detour that cost almost two hours. Finally, they were able to bypass through a shaft that sloped up three more levels before ending at a large gallery that contained the corroded remains of a steam hoist. They struggled up to the top and trudged past the great steam cylinders and reels still holding a mile of cable.
    The strain of the past few hours was beginning to show on Marquez. He was in good shape for his age, but he was not conditioned for the exertion and emotional stress he had endured the last several hours. Ambrose, though, looked as though he were on a walk in a park. He appeared remarkably calm and unruffled for a classroom professor. The only amusement came from Pitt’s mumbled curses. At his six feet three, the hard hat, loaned to him by Pat because she was several inches shorter, struck overhead timbers with frustrating regularity.
    Trailing behind, Pitt could not see their faces in the dim and cavorting shadows, but he knew that each one of them possessed a stubbornness that would keep them going until they dropped, too proud to be the first to suggest a rest break. He noted that their breathing had become more labored. Though he still felt fresh, he began panting loudly so the others could hear his seemingly desperate plea.
    “I’m done in. How about stopping to rest a minute?”
    “Sounds good to me,” said Marquez, relieved that someone else had suggested it.
    Ambrose leaned against one wall. “I say we keep going until we get out of here.”
    “You won’t get my vote,” said Pat. “My legs are screaming with agony. We must have stepped over a thousand railroad ties.”
    It was only after they all sagged to the floor of the tunnel, while Pitt casually remained standing, that they knew they had been tricked. None of them complained, everyone happy to relax and massage sore ankles and knees.
    “Any idea how much farther?” asked Pat.
    Pitt consulted his computer for the hundredth time. “I can’t be absolutely positive, but if we can climb two more levels and are not blocked by another cave-in, we should be out of here in another hour.”
    “Where do you reckon we’ll come out?” asked Marquez.
    “My guess is somewhere right under the main town of Telluride.”
    “That would be the old O’Reilly Claim. It was a shaft sunk not far from where the gondola runs up the mountain to the ski slopes at Mountain Village. You do have a problem, though.”
    “Another one?”
    “The New Sheridan Hotel and its restaurant now sit directly on top of the old mine entrance.”
    Pitt grinned. “If you’re right, dinner is on me.”
    They went silent for the next two minutes, lost in their thoughts. The only sounds came from their breathing and the steady drip of moisture from the roof of the tunnel. Despondency gave way to hope. Knowing the end was perhaps in sight, they felt symptoms of fatigue begin