UNSEEN FORCES: SKY WILDER (BOOK ONE)

by Ed Kovacs

  “Forgive me for being so blunt, sir, but Simon Forte just killed your son who was working a sensitive op for you. Meaning he has penetrated your inner circle.”

  Klaymen hesitated, then, “Possibly, yes.”

  “Which is why you want me working alone, compartmentalized.”

  He took a deep breath. “I'm not going to sugarcoat it, Captain. These are dangerous, uncharted waters. Will you sail with me?”

  ###

  Diana Hunt's mind was spinning, weaving the possibilities, weighing the dangers, gauging potentials, scheming revenge. Simon Forte. It had taken years, but he no longer made daily appearances in her mind’s eye fueled by hate and a desire to cause him maximum harm. The emotional processing, a journey toward a semblance of neutrality with Forte, had been arduous and time-consuming. He’d been such an influence, had taught her so much. Ultimately, his defilement of her propelled her into her own honor and integrity. No one can take your honor away from you, you have to give it away. Or sell it.

  “Who’s the civilian Forte wants?” she asked.

  “An archeologist, but not your typical one. He’s an accomplished pilot, has studied martial arts, hell-of-a marksman and a pretty good knife-fighter. He single-handedly held off large bands of marauding rebels while protecting archaeological excavations in Africa. He’s kind of a kook who’s written a few best-sellers and has no idea how far in over his head he is. Name is Sky Wilder.”

  Hunt nodded. She'd read one of Wilder’s books and had found it thought-provoking. But that didn’t factor into her decision as she tuned in to his energy and got a sharp jolt of perception.

  “He’s in the desert, isn’t he?”

  “In more ways than one.”

  She knew firsthand that American intelligence is unfortunately sometimes a mere euphemism for sanctioned criminal activity, a tool of power, too often having very little to do with furthering either the cause of freedom or the immediate interests of the United States, whatever that means. For field operatives, it was nearly impossible to ever know where one stood in the larger scheme, much less the truth of the larger scheme. Was Klaymen one of the good guys? Or was this merely going to be a blood-letting to avenge his dead son? Diana knew many honorable men and women in American intelligence agencies who weren’t on the make for their own fortunes, but Klaymen was an enigma.

  “I need some time to think about it, sir. To get perfectly clear with myself.”

  “Time I don't have. But I'll give you an hour.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Sky Wilder had ditched the stolen minivan on a dirt trail off the highway leading into Cornville, then hiked a mile to a biker bar where, to the wafting sound of Toby Keith's “I Love This Bar,” he hot-wired a dirtbike. He drove the bike off-road, up into the wilds, into the canyon adjacent to the canyon he and Frank Bacavi had traversed about twelve hours earlier. At first light, he began climbing freehand, without gear. He'd jerry-rigged the bike’s saddlebag into a backpack, having stuffed it with water, snacks and other items he'd purchased at an all-night convenience store. The SIG he'd taken from the man he'd shot was tucked snug into his jeans.

  He assumed his attackers somehow knew of his discovery, but maybe they hadn’t found the site. Bacavi had insisted on waiting at the cave to protect the artifacts while he secured the tablet. If he hadn't returned in 24 hours Frank was supposed to leave on his own, but in the meantime, he was a sitting duck and Sky needed to get him to safety. So Wilder climbed in from the opposite side of the gnarled mesa finger, hoping to avoid detection.

  He made quick work of it, and by dawn plus two hours he looked down onto the site from the escarpment above. There was no sign of anyone. All around, sunlight warmed the ancient preternatural monuments, willing their rouged sheen to glowing life. But the light would be short-lived, as thunderheads were rolling in fast from the southwest. Inserting a team here in the dead of night would have been tricky; now with weather threatening, he patiently scanned the canyon for any sign of disturbance or ambush.

  He tore open the plastic shrink wrap on a cheap flashlight and inserted the batteries. Ready now, he broke into the open, bowling down the escarpment, landing hard onto the outcropping. The front slab hadn’t been moved, but lay covered with brush that also obscured the cave entrance. He considered calling out, but instead pulled the pistol and flashlight, pushed aside the brush, and entered.

  There was no sign of Frank; no note, no gear left behind. Artifacts, however, were missing: the coins, dagger, ceremonial ax, the carved perfume vessel. All smaller items which could be removed with relative ease. Did Frank take them? If so, why? They had agreed that if Sky failed to return in the allotted time, Frank was to make his way to the Wahweap Marina outside of Page on Lake Powell.

  A muffled beating sound, something mechanical from outside interrupted his ruminations.

  As he retraced his steps and neared the cave entrance, dust eddied in from what had to be the rotor wash of a helicopter. He stole a quick glance and saw three figures in black fatigues fast repelling from the helicopter onto the outcropping.

  Had they seen him enter? Either way, he was out-gunned and cut off. He scrambled back inside and hustled deeper into the cave, hoping the air vent would be large enough to allow more than just air to escape. Another incursion into the unknown underworld. And caving alone, without proper gear, rated as an exceedingly iffy proposition.

  The Mogollon Rim was created by uplifting earth and the subsequent faulting that bore large zones of fractured rock, as well as erosion due to retreating seas mega-millions of years ago. Most of the area’s caves are in limestone formations and the corridor Sky negotiated presented no exception.

  He made quick time as the passageway angled downward and shrank in dimension and the air thickened with dampness. The oversize sneakers he'd stolen from the restaurant pantry didn't provide firm footing on the slick surface, but he hurried onward as fast as he could.

  The sight of a small crystal pool confirmed his suspicion that this was a live cave. A short leap took him over the pool, but he lost his balance and went down hard, banging a knee. The denim ripped and he bled, but he’d held the flashlight and hadn’t made much sound. Maybe thirty meters in, Wilder stood still. He heard nothing, but felt sure the killers had entered by now.

  He moved forward in silence. The passageway angled right, then shrunk dramatically to a crawlway under ridges of roof crust. He tore a piece from the tail of his shirt and tied the flashlight to his forearm—he couldn’t afford to lose the use of both hands.

  Five meters on his hands and knees, scraping and scratching, he sliced his hand on a Dog Tooth Spar, a spear of calcite with acutely pointed crystal. No time to staunch, he crawled on his belly, over slippery algae-frosted rock, along what must be a rainwater conduit, perhaps formed as recently as 10,000 years ago.

  This cave, like most, was created by erosion, usually when rainwater slightly acidified by carbon dioxide in the soil, seeps downward through crevices and cracks in the layers of limestone. The mellow acid slowly ate away small passages, and as more rainwater entered the system, more limestone dissolved, enlarging the vein-like network.

  Rainwater. Sky juice. Gentle sweet rainwater suddenly grew very problematic. Had millennia of seepage opened this vein enough to allow passage? Passage to where? Equally worrisome, for all he knew, it could be raining outside right now, heavily, and nature’s drainage system would inevitably funnel water through this crawlway. A trickle or a torrent, but it would come.

  ###

  Simon Forte stood in the cave room opposite the main altar wearing pale mustard Ralph Lauren chinos and a stone-washed blue work shirt topped with a thin suede takeoff on a fisherman’s vest. At least he looked the part of the monied Southwest raconteur, even though he was just another interloper. A closer inspection, however, would have revealed unusual distinctions, such as an ultra-discreet earpiece, a microphone disguised as a vest button, and a solid gold Cartier pen which wasn’t a pen at all.

&n
bsp; Rene busily photographed the stelae. Daniel Pratt and several para-military operatives stood by awaiting instructions. Forte’s face soured as he noticed a hard candy wrapper on the main altar. He clicked his gold pen, and a spring-loaded four-inch long stainless steel spike, very much like an ice pick, deployed. Forte stabbed the wrapper and held it up for examination. “I hate sloppy archeology.” He clicked the pen again, the spike detracted and the wrapper fell to the floor.

  “You were right, of course,” Rene said smoothly. “Wilder has the tablet. And some other items as well, it seems. Where do you think he’s gone?”

  “Not far. Either he or Professor Bacavi should be turning up at any time. Isn’t that right, Daniel?”

  “We’re leaving no stone unturned, Mister Forte.” Pratt smiled, then immediately tightened his face.

  “After the artifacts are removed, sandblast the walls so there’s no trace remaining. Then upturn a few of those stones you were referring to, and seal the mouth of this cave. Permanently.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Pratt, almost snapping to attention.

  Forte pressed his earpiece closer to his ear and listened, then looked up. “Let’s go, Rene. We’ll send the helicopter back for these gentlemen. The pilot says it’s raining heavily.”

  ###

  Wilder crawled deeper into the ever shrinking cave shaft. Lack of clearance dictated that he take off his saddlebag / backpack, and loop it over his right arm. He eased the SIG from the front of his pants and secured it in the pack. Clearly, Bacavi hadn’t been here; he’d never be able to squeeze through.

  The flashlight batteries still shone strong, but he felt anxiety hit him like a sharp stalactite. As difficult as caving was for him, there was nothing worse than trying to squeeze through impossibly narrow openings that weren’t designed for the passage of human traffic. He’d been stuck in a snake-infested crawlway in the Andes once, where a much younger and thinner guide had been able to squirt through, but it took three hours of agony and a good bit of his skin before he broke free.

  Today there were no guides or companions. No radio. No certainty of anything, except that he couldn’t go back. Well, there was the certainty of panic. At least no one would see him. He especially hated to come undone in front of women, beautiful, brave young grad students who would watch with bemusement as their hero fell apart like a fifty dollar Hong Kong suit. He didn’t understand why others didn’t share his fear, why they didn’t grasp the illogic of shimmying through dark slits amongst hundreds of millions of tons of rock. Ancient crevasses destined to collapse, perhaps at any moment.

  The tension of space is arbitrary. The gap between the cocked hammer of a loaded gun and the firing pin didn’t bother him in the least, safety on or off. Standing at the very edge of station platforms as the train hurtled in, climbing flimsy scaffolding to the top of crumbling jungle ruins, spaces illogical and unwise to occupy, had no effect on him. Therapy hadn’t helped, self-hypnosis, nothing. One day he finally admitted to himself he had a strong sense he would die underground, and it was just as simple as that.

  He was slithering forward on his belly like a snake now, holding onto the backpack, when he heard it.

  Water dribbling, dropping into a chamber, the sound bouncy with echo. It wasn’t that Sky had approached the sound, the sound had suddenly switched on. That meant a cave room waited ahead! And rainwater. Rushing rainwater.

  Already gulping for breath from fear, he forced himself forward, head turned sideways, rock scraping his shoulders as he pulled himself along. The sound grew louder and his feet felt wet. Water in the crawlway, wet and insistent, draining in from behind him, demanding its space, seeking it, finding it, filling it, and leaving him behind to fend for himself.

  His fingers rubbed raw from foraging for purchase, he kicked with his feet, demanding an anchor to push off for the next six inches of progress. Water and more water, louder now, spigots opening wider, the pressure behind him greater, the fight for space would not be won by him.

  Had to make it to the cave room, or else. Losing sight as his flashlight submerged, cuts from the rock unnoticed as the liquid numbed his senses. ROARING now, ahead and behind, level rising fast. He angled his head as best he could to suck in air from what was becoming a pocket.

  His head thudded into cave coral, speleothems of short stalks, bulbous-shaped but sharply filigreed. No way to pass these, had to break through, as the water rose in a hurried frenzy.

  He knew of cavers who had drowned because of thunderstorms taking place miles from their location. They’d gone in under clear blue skies without the foggiest notion of imminent danger, and with only seconds of warning, got sluiced into chamber rockfall like human pinballs by turbojets of screaming water seeking its level. And it only took seconds. So Wilder slammed his left palm into the reformed limestone formations and broke a few free but cut himself badly. He needed something hard right now, so he pulled the flashlight free and wildly slammed the heavy end into the coral, shattering and chipping away, trying to harvest a clearing as a rivulet of water suddenly spattered up his nose, fountaining like a fire hose into his face.

  Then the light was gone, carried away by the current. He turned his head, caught a pocket of air and sucked it in just as water forced it away. He must break free now!

  Still hooked to the saddlebag, he wormed his left hand inside and found the handgun. He’d once placed a drunken bet with military special ops guys in a Panama City hotel, a bet he lost. A 1911A Colt .45 will shoot underwater, and the inebriated soldiers proved it by jumping into the pool at 3:00 A.M. and shooting out the underwater lights.

  So Wilder blasted the coral point blank, shards ripping into his scalp and forehead. Lungs bursting now, maybe he was out of ammo, he didn’t know, he was underwater, the current his friend now, forcing him through, the shattered coral ripping his shirt, slicing his back in the blackness. Then he fell free, falling in a thunder dome... a gleam of light, deafening rumble, then shocked silence as he knifed into fresh water.

  But light shimmered, light above, so he swam and broke surface. The flashlight floated somewhere in the natural cistern formed in bedrock, below the stratified limestone.

  Water exploded in from three or four drainages and the room was filling quickly. He vaguely considered drowning since he couldn’t tread water forever, but still felt glorious to have air to breathe and to be out of that damn crawlway. The bobbing flashlight showed him a ledge maybe four meters up on the opposite side he fell in from.

  He surmised the water might rise to the ledge anyway, but if he wanted to live, he had to keep moving and find higher ground, now.

  The wet rocks, slick as oiled glass, offered no handhold. Then he felt a boulder under his right foot and instinctively launched himself, belly-flopping up from the water and catching the sharply angled edge of a formation—some kind of dripstone?—and pulled himself clear of the foaming cauldron.

  The dull light wavered, so he climbed. Without thinking, he climbed; purely by instinct, his body moved up the rock face. He collapsed on the ledge, panting. Alive. Badly bruised and cut, bleeding, cracked ribs, maybe some broken bones, but fabulously alive.

  Then he felt a breeze. Behind the ledge, a fault through the bedrock. A fault or a fault cave, he couldn’t tell, the flashlight floated on the water, but when he squinted through the swirling mist he thought he saw a reflection of light from the end of the fault. He weakly blinked his eyes and crawled closer.

  The diffused light remained, inviting him.

  CHAPTER 10

  The deerskin pouch containing Hui’s tablet and Sky Wilder's few remaining belongings lodged tightly bound to the handlebars of the stolen dirt bike. The rain showers had passed and the clock on Sedona's Red Rock Bank told him it was just after 4:00 P.M. Hard to believe, since he felt he’d aged several years since this morning.

  Dirt bikers are never the prettiest sight, a fact Wilder hoped would provide him cover as he rode into town. An absolute beat-up mess, he sported still spread
ing dark bruises, partially-scabbed cuts and scratches, and tattered clothing dirty and stiff with dried sludge and sediment and blood.

  He had cracked ribs, broken fingers on his left hand which made it difficult to control the bike, and felt nauseous from repeated adrenaline shock over the last eighteen hours. Only the immediacy of the wind and open road kept him focused. He needed to hide the tablet, he needed to make some calls, he needed rest. He couldn’t even fathom making it to the marina in Page at this point.

  His flawed reasoning was to hide in plain sight, so just south of the Y intersection of highways 89A and 179, he turned right into the driveway of Los Abrigados, a Mediterranean-style Resort and Spa. Los Abrigados sat next to Tlaquepaque, the rambling collection of galleries, salons, and upscale restaurants all done in the style of a Spanish village under giant Sycamore trees, and one of the biggest tourist magnets in Sedona.

  Wilder rattled past the circular driveway and giant urn-shaped fountain of the hotel and motored back toward the service entrance. There was nothing fresh about this, he operated on memory, remembering he once crashed the spa and used the facilities without paying. This comprised his “plan,” if he could keep from passing out.

  The grounds were designed for discretion and it worked to his favor. He entered the spa proper through the back without being seen, grabbed towels and gingerly showered, the pain helping to keep him awake. Beyond exhaustion, body stiffening up fast, he knew he couldn’t rest yet.

  He found a terry cloth robe, then padded over to the gift shop like he owned the place, keeping the putrid discoloration and cuts on his left hand out of sight. He bought a prepaid phone card, three Frappuccinos, and two candy bars, which he consumed to the amazement of the clerk in under two minutes, as he desperately pumped sugar and caffeine into his bloodstream.

  Next door, a clothing shop beckoned, and he used the last of his cash to buy a sweat suit and sandals, sunglasses and a baseball cap, the de rigueur dress code at Sedona spas. As he admired the new duds in a mirror, he made a mental note of Mrs. Perkins in B210 who charged an expensive, fringe jacket to her room.