by Brandt Legg
Gaines’ narrative grew bolder. “As the evidence mounts, I believe we are on the brink of discovering an artifact that comes from the gap periods, something that cannot be swept away. And it is my contention that this impending discovery will not only show intelligent human activity, prior to the accepted timelines, but rather it will show an advanced civilization, which vanished. The question is no longer, what if it’s wrong; the question is, how wrong is it?”
Hall glanced at the photo of San Francisco de Asís Church on his laptop screen. It was no wonder the Vatican didn’t like Gaines; they were barely comfortable with evolution, and this crazy archaeologist wants to prove the existence of something akin to the New Age dream of Atlantis. But the bigger question at the moment was, if what Gaines found proved his Cosega Theory; then why not just come forward? The Vatican and Gaines were both acting as if much more were at stake than the founding dates of some ancient settlement.
Barbeau hung up the phone and looked at his orange juice, as if appalled there wasn’t vodka in it. “The Director believes the initial tip came from a Vatican source working at the dig site.”
“The Vatican coincidentally had an agent on an obscure dig in Virginia?” Hall asked.
“It wasn’t an obscure dig. It was a Gaines-affiliated excavation. And it wasn’t an agent. The Director says there is evidence that the Vatican covertly places young church loyalists on digs around the world. Because of his notoriety and controversial theories, the digs of Ripley Gaines are likely the highest priority.”
“Highest priority for what?”
“Don’t you get it? The Vatican expected something to be found. And they thought it likely Gaines would be the one to find it.”
Hall looked back at the image of San Francisco de Asís. “What the hell did he find?”
Chapter 3
Kruse, a security specialist for Booker Lipton, stared at the tattoo of three bullets penetrating a heart that covered his right wrist – and waited for his boss to answer the phone.
“Are you in Taos?” Booker asked.
“Yes, sir. Is Gaines?”
“We’re almost certain he is. And so are the FBI, NSA, and Vatican agents. You’ve got to find him first.”
“Why is he here?”
“He must be trying to figure out the artifacts. There is a Taos connection.”
“Any idea why he hasn’t called you?” Kruse asked with the detachment of an intelligence operative trying to collect all the facts necessary to do his job.
“He’s scared they’ll find him.”
“That’s why he should call.” Kruse operated from logic. It was his only religion. Trying to understand the emotions and impulses of people wasn’t easy, but if he had enough facts, knew enough about them, it was possible. “Why is he trying to figure out the artifacts when he should be hiding in a country without an extradition treaty?”
“I think he knows his life is over. Hiding may only prolong it a very short time. No one wants to prosecute him; everyone wants him dead. The artifacts are the only things that can save him.”
“The town of Taos has about 6,000 residents and fewer than a dozen stop lights. The NSA, FBI, and Vatican employ the highest technology and intelligence methods in existence. Their agents are the best trained in the world . . . Gaines should last about ten minutes in this town,” Kruse said.
“You’ve got to be better. Harmer is on the way to help. Her plane lands in twenty minutes. Be there to meet her. My pilot will remain on standby; he won’t leave the airport in case you need a speedy exit. Let’s hope you do.”
Kruse shook Harmer’s hand. They’d worked together once before; he remembered the cough. She remembered his tattoo – the three bullets representing the three people he’d killed, but the heart was his. Although denying the deaths haunted him, he did admit each did a little damage to his heart. The tattoo had originally featured only one bullet, after his first kill, but had been designed to accommodate many more.
“Never figured why a bright woman like you smokes,” Kruse said.
“They’re addictive,” Harmer said, defensively.
“Ever hear of mind over matter?”
“Yeah, if it doesn’t matter, mind if I smoke?”
“Keep the window down.”
Booker called as they were leaving the tiny airport. “Bad news. There’s a standoff. NSA has Special Ops surrounding a remote, private residence not far from you. Gale and Rip are believed to be holed up there. Shots have been fired from inside the house. Here’s the address.”
Kruse wasn’t sure exactly what they were supposed to do and hoped they’d be able to get a good view. But from his experience, if Gale and Rip really were in the house with Special Ops present, they would likely be dead or in custody, even before Kruse and Harmer arrived.
The NSA commander on the scene had strict orders. Attract no attention and preserve the artifacts. Using lethal force was expected but tricky, given the directives. If the targets were still in direct possession of the artifacts, killing them would be the safest way to insure the items’ protection. Tough mission. In addition to retrieving the artifacts, his orders were explicit – keep them from falling into the hands of FBI or the Vatican agents.
With each minute that ticked by without surrender, the potential for failure rose, raising attention, other agencies arriving, the media; a brewing stew of uncertainty. The commander had men stationed to cover all exit points, property parameters, as well as hiding in two strategic trees. He resisted calling in air support because of the attention it might cause and the unpredictability it added – the artifacts were the mission. The instant shots began coming from the roof, things got way more complicated. The commander stood looking at what he called a “funky fortress” and wondered what kind of freak would live in such a bizarre building. He knew the man’s name, Willard Grinley, and he knew his arrest record, but understood nothing about him.
“Sir, we’ve confirmed the man on the roof is Grinley,” a soldier told the commander. “We may have a shot; should we take it?”
“Why would this nut bag take in two notorious fugitives?” the commander asked, ignoring the question.
“They probably don’t get much news out here, sir. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he did it for the money.”
“Then why fire on us? He could have just claimed he didn’t know who they were.”
“He’d have no way of knowing who we are. Maybe he thinks we’re from a Mexican drug cartel. He’s tangled with them in the past.”
“Take the shot, but only if it’s Grinley. Gaines and Asher need to be taken alive until I know where the damned artifacts are.”
“Yes, sir.” The soldier already knew Gaines and Asher were not to be killed, but the commander didn’t like mistakes. He relayed the kill order.
Grinley didn’t know who the soldiers were, but knew they were after his new friends and not him. And clearly they weren’t there to make an arrest. These soldiers came to kill people. “Get off the roof now,” he said to himself. He’d been able to set all the gun turrets. Now he could shoot from the safety of the house. Thick adobe walls protected him, at least until the invaders decided to use heavy artillery. He sat in his control room and counted seven soldiers on the small monitors, but knew there were more that his cameras were missing.
Chapter 4
Gale and Rip continued along the side tunnel for another hundred yards. The walls were so close together that Gale wasn’t sure they’d be able to turn around if it led to a dead end. The heavy air felt thick enough to see, but she couldn’t see anything. Rip’s body blocked the weak flashlight beam and she bumped into his back when he stopped unexpectedly.
“That might be daylight ahead.” Rip sounded desperate. He clicked off the flashlight.
“I hope so,” she said. They tried to move faster, every so often stepping on something slimy. Finally, an opening in a narrow shaft appeared above them, impossible to reach.
“Can you boost me up?” Rip asked. T
here was no way for her to get in front for him to raise her up.
“I’ll try.” She managed to get him high enough so he could grab hold of a crag, while his foot balanced on a narrow ledge
“It’s like a chimney. The opening is too small,” his voice strained. “Wait, the rocks are loose.” He pushed some of the smaller ones away. “I think the entrance was intentionally covered up.”
“Can you see out?” she asked, still worried they might be in the gorge.
“Not really. Let me move some more.” Rip wedged his body against the wall behind him and used his right leg to push away the larger stones. Some of the smaller pieces hit Gale so she moved back into the tunnel. A few bigger chunks landed inside. “I’m through!” he yelled. “We’re in some kind of ravine, the gorge is about fifteen feet away.”
“Thank God,” Gale said. She handed their packs up to Rip; then was able to climb partially up on the stones that had fallen through. He reached to pull her up. They laid there gulping the sagebrush-scented air and relishing in the sunshine.
“We have to keep moving; they could be right behind us,” Rip said.
Gale looked back into the hole they’d just come from. “I doubt it.”
“When they find the entrance . . . ” Distant gunshots interrupted him. The contours of the mesa made it impossible to see Grinley’s house, but it was still too close. Rip yanked the gun, flashlight, and envelope from his pockets; and stuffed the gun and light into his pack; and opened the envelope. “There has to be thousands of dollars in here.”
“What?” Gale said, leaning over to look. “Why would he give us all this cash?”
“I dunno. Guess he knows what it’s like being a fugitive.” More shots came from the direction of the house. “Come on!” Rip headed north along the edge of the gorge. Another burst of gunshots had him breaking into a jog.
“If they’re still shooting, that means the soldiers haven’t found the tunnel yet,” Gale said.
“Yet being the key word.”
Half an hour later they spotted a dirt road descending a series of switchbacks into the gorge. “I see a bunch of cars down there by a bridge. Maybe we can hitch a ride?” Rip said, breathlessly.
“Did you forget you’re wanted for murder?” Gale asked.
“And I’m armed,” he said, motioning to his pack where he’d stowed Grinley’s gun.
“We’ve got gas money. We’ll figure something out.”
By the time they reached the bottom, it had been close to ninety minutes since Grinley had pushed them into the tunnel. Gunshots punctuated a dire fate for the old man who had so eagerly helped them. Gale looked back for a second, clenched her fists and pushed on.
The cars all seemed to belong to people on balloon rides, or latecomers to a rafting trip. A school bus with a trailer full of river rafts was unloading by the water. Rip considered trying to steal a car, but even if he could get one hotwired, driving a stolen vehicle was likely the dumbest thing a wanted man could do.
“Why don’t we get on a raft?” Gale suggested.
At first Rip dismissed the idea but then thought it could be the perfect escape, depending on how far they went and assuming he wasn’t recognized. They wandered over to a young guy with a clipboard. Just before they reached him, Rip whispered to Gale, “Maybe you should do the talking.”
“Hi,” Gale said. “Any chance we’re not too late to join the fun?”
The guy looked the sweaty and dusty pair over and narrowed his eyes. “Is that blood on your shirt?”
“I fell climbing some rocks,” she pointed to the cuts on her arm and gashed leg. “It looks worse than it is.”
He nodded. “These trips require reservations.”
“We didn’t expect to be in town today.” She found his eyes and smiled.
Rip marveled at how she worked.
“It’s a seventeen-mile epic over endless flies of Class III and IV rapids. It’s been a super wet year; we’ll even hit a few Class V.”
“Do you have room?”
“We did have a group of four cancel this morning, too late to pull anyone on the waiting list.”
“Great!” Gail squealed.
“Yeah. Well it’s $150 a person.”
“Did you keep the payment from the other group?”
“Yeah, but . . . ”
“How about $200 for both of us?” Gale asked.
He looked over at Rip who was trying to look as innocent as he could. “Either of you been down Class V before?”
“The Rogue, the Cheat, Snake, Colorado,” Gale said.
The guy looked impressed and turned back to Rip.
“I did the Noce River in Dimaro a few years back,” Rip answered truthfully.
He nodded. “Okay. Cash?”
Rip pulled out two hundred dollar bills, silently hoping they weren’t counterfeit.
“Do you have a few wet-bags? We’ve got some papers with us that need to stay dry. Like I said, we didn’t expect to be hitting the river today.”
“Sure; she can get you bandaged up, too.” He pointed them to the bus where a pretty college-aged girl was excited to use her first-aid skills; she cleaned and wrapped Gale’s leg, then took care of her arm. They gave fake names on the release forms and tried to remember them. They got enough Ziplocks, plastic, and duct tape to protect the Clastier Papers, his laptop, and especially the Eysen – the eleven million year-old, hi-tech artifact that had everyone hunting them.
Rip unzipped the legs off his convertible pants; Gale was already in shorts. They both wore their packs over the life jackets against the protests of the river guide. After a quick orientation and introductions, each passenger was handed a helmet and an oar, and they were underway.
Rip couldn’t help but look skyward for an expected helicopter. As they eased through the calm waters below the John Dunn Bridge, Gale and Rip tried to relax. There were four rafts, six people in each; they rode in the last one.
Chapter 5
A state police captain explained to Barbeau and Hall that shots being fired on the mesa were nothing unusual. “Someone likely doing target practice, maybe shooting a coyote or what not. But you wanted to be told of every report.”
“Do you have officers responding?”
“Yes, sir, but it’ll take him twenty-five minutes to get there.”
“Can we get a unit in the air?”
“That’ll take more than an hour, with your clout, maybe a little less.”
“We’re in a Third World Country,” Barbeau said to Hall.
“He’s having a bad day,” Hall said to the captain.
“So, you’re saying he’s not always so rude and arrogant?” the captain asked irritably.
Barbeau laughed. “No, Captain, I’m always rude and arrogant. My apologies to you and the great state of New Mexico.”
The captain nodded and left the room.
“What’s your gut say?” Barbeau asked Hall.
“Why would Gaines draw fire? He’s unarmed.”
“Maybe the Vatican has more agents and they’re killing Gaines right now. Or worse, maybe the NSA has found him.”
“If he came to Taos for some kind of research, would he be out in some remote house? Unless maybe Booker has a property here.”
“Taos is the Wild West, the final frontier . . . you can bet Booker has a place close by.”
“Call the Director.”
“Right,” Barbeau said. “Meanwhile, peel one of our guys off the church stakeout and sweet-talk that state police captain into giving you the address where the shots were fired.”
The Director told Barbeau that DIRT had been working on Booker from day-one and so far all they had learned was that Booker had a talent for hiding and keeping secrets. They did, however, come up with some new and startling news; Gaines wasn’t the only one with important friends. Gale Asher and Senator Monroe were very close. Barbeau hung up more puzzled than ever.
“Senator Monroe, the presidential candidate?” Hall asked.
>
“Is there another?” Barbeau barked. He pulled a folded map from his pocket and carefully placed it on the table. Virginia and Washington, D.C. were printed on one side. He already had red dots marking: Gale’s house, Rip’s Harper’s Ferry place, Josh Stadler’s house, Ian Sweedler’s lab, and the location of his body, the dig site, and now he added a dot to the U.S. Capitol building. It comforted him to see it all in front of him. Another map charted their course along the parkway to Asheville through West Memphis and on to Taos. They both had the same information on their laptops, but Barbeau liked the feel of map paper, enjoyed making marks in ink, and highlighting roads.
“But Senator Monroe is a big-time Catholic, maybe not quite up to Attorney General Dover’s standards, but still he makes Kennedy look like an atheist,” Hall said.
“I know this.” Barbeau moved a long clear ruler around the maps.
“Well, the obvious conflict . . . DIRT tells us that the senator and Gale Asher were once lovers and are still close friends. Don’t you find the coincidence disturbing?”
“Sometimes coincidences are just that.”
“I don’t like them. Coincidences are always a sign of trouble. Look at the facts. Have you ever seen or heard of the Vatican being this aggressive on anything? Ever?”
“No.”
“And the presidential front runner, a devout Catholic with deep ties to the Church, is a former lover of one of the two people at the center of the turmoil.”
“Nothing about this case is normal - Booker Lipton, the Attorney General, the NSA – I wouldn’t be surprised if the British Royal Family files an expired colonial claim on their former Virginia colony, and sends troops to recover these damned artifacts.”
Hall almost smiled. “Be that as it may, we need to question the senator.”
Grinley had seen trouble from Colombia to Chicago, and accumulated vast tactical experience from plenty of street scuffles and guerilla-type fighting. His prison time, and many years spent moving drugs across the Mexican border, contributed to his knowledge and fearlessness. Every time he saw a soldier twitch, he fired a single shot toward them. Grinley was careful not to kill any of them, fearing that it would result in an immediate siege. He wanted a standoff, not a massacre; it was all about buying time.
