The Cosega Sequence: A Techno Thriller

by Brandt Legg

  For more than an hour, the commander was convinced that Grinley, Gaines, and Asher were all shooting at them. Shots came from all six turrets, but no shooters were spotted. The imaging and heat scanning equipment were producing inconsistent results. Their visuals had too many blind spots and the frustration level increased with each shot. Normally, he’d wait until nightfall, but once word came through that the state police and the FBI were minutes away, he ordered his men to take the roof.

  Chapter 6

  The river guide had the rafters practice paddling through the riffles during the first few miles of the trip. “It’s a seventeen mile run, and after yesterday’s monsoon, this could be extra fun. If it gets rough, pay close attention to my commands. Big Class V excitement! Let’s be careful.”

  Gale made friends with a couple from Des Moines who agreed to give them a ride into town after the trip. Soon, the water began churning and they navigated rapids called “Ski Jump” and “Dead Car.” Gale kept searching the sky for choppers as the raft pulled and jerked through the white water.

  When they entered the Power Line rapids, she realized this was no simple river. The guide told them that they were lucky the water was at its highest level in years. “Lucky?” Gale asked sarcastically. Twice she slipped as water pelted her and the raft bounced off rocks. White water swirled up and around as the rafts were pummeled through the winding canyon. Rip even briefly forgot their pursuers as he fought to stay in the raft.

  They were relieved to reach a calm section and stop for lunch on the banks of the Rio Grande. Self-conscious that everyone would think they were fugitives, Gale made animated conversation about past river trips; while Rip nervously scanned every direction. The deep gorge provided only a narrow view of the sky six hundred feet above; still he worried that agents would scale down the cliffs at any moment.

  Another group of rafts appeared up river. Rip, certain they were filled with FBI agents, moved closer to the shore, and his only hope of escape. Gale found him.

  “It’s just another party of rafters,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because no one knows we’re on the river.”

  “Yeah, like they didn’t know we were at Grinley’s.”

  The rafts floated to the edge and guides pulled them onto the beach. Rip studied the occupants tensely before agreeing that they were harmless tourists.

  Back into the water, they were alerted to upcoming serious Class V conditions, and the Rio Grande came to life again. “Rock Garden!” the guide called, and Rip vaguely remembered some sort of warning they’d been given about this stretch. Suddenly, they were sideways and went over a submerged boulder. The raft came down, almost folding in front. Rip knew the angle was dangerous as the raft tipped high out of the water.

  “We’re going in!” someone yelled.

  Rip grabbed at the upper side. Water slapped at him. At the last second, an eddy caught the waterside of the raft and spun them back level. The excited cheers of his raft mates signaled it was over. Rip exhaled and looked to Gale. Clearly shaken, she was checking her pack. He did the same, just before they went pounding through another set of rapids.

  They hit the Rio Bravo rapids where the river descends seventy feet per mile. The Rio Grande was raging. Rip was concentrating so hard on trying to stay in the raft that for the first time in more than a week, he forgot about the Eysen. Even the guide looked tense as they tore through the wild waters. It felt as if the river were trying to swallow them, like a furious serpent chomping at fat little bugs.

  Rip stole a glance ahead and saw a seething foaming swirl that no sane person should attempt. But what lay just beyond that took his breath. A recent slide had narrowed the river into a horrific funnel that the raft could barely squeeze through. It was obviously a new obstacle; as the guide was already looking for a way out of the river; there was none.

  The swirl pushed them in two harrowing three-sixties before spitting them into the funnel. It sucked them in with such a violent force that Gale, Rip, and another man slammed into the river guide at the back of the raft. Like a bullet, they shot out of the funnel. The force propelled Gale over the side. As she disappeared into the fierce froth, Rip lunged forward and tried unsuccessfully to spot her. In the same instant, with a skilled and practiced move, the guide leaned backwards over the edge of the raft, extended his arms an impossible distance, and pulled Gale back into the raft.

  While the guide continued to navigate them through the treacherous waters, Rip steadied Gale as she gulped in air. “Are you okay?” he yelled over the thunder of the river.

  “No. I think so.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  Before she could answer, the raft caught air and spilled them both backward. They barely managed to stay inside low slick walls. The guide kicked Rip and pointed toward more rapids. “Worry about her later, I need you paddling.”

  Breathless, Gale and Rip got back in position and helped keep the raft pointed forward and level; leaning and paddling whenever the guide ordered. Soon the river eased to Class IV and III, eventually it flowed to a calm Class II.

  Once at the take-out near the Taos Junction Bridge, they staggered to shore, soaked and exhausted, but relieved by their escape.

  Chapter 7

  Booker’s security force known as “AX,” was becoming increasingly involved in the situation. No one knew was sure AX stood for, but the smart and loyal army of agents would do whatever Booker needed done.

  Kruse and Harmer, were the two lead AX agents assigned to find Gaines and Asher. The odd couple had watched the raid on Grinley’s from a safe distance. They were out of their league with the elite Special Ops unit, but at least they would be able to report to Booker what had happened. Their view wasn’t great, as scrubby juniper and cedar trees were concentrated around the house. However, two gun turrets were visible from their vantage point, parked behind some large chamisa bushes, half a mile away. The state police and the FBI had passed their dusty pull-off with hardly a glance.

  At first they were surprised, when they heard shots fired from the house. It seemed out of character for Gale and Rip to be fighting back with automatic weapons. But Harmer had pointed out that the fugitives were trapped, and it was their final stand.

  “I wonder how Gaines and Asher wound up at this whacked desert outpost?” Kruse had asked.

  “Probably a decent hideout. If it hadn’t been the NSA after them, they might be eating chips and salsa now, instead of being part of a shoot-out,” Harmer said, lighting a cigarette.

  As the hours wore on, and no arrests were made, they were baffled. “Maybe the spooks got bad information. Is it possible Gaines was never in there?” Kruse asked. “I mean, we’ve been watching the whole area. Nothing has moved on the mesa.”

  “Then who was shooting back?” Harmer asked.

  “Some poor Second-Amendment-militia-separatist-freak, who probably thinks the government has finally come for his guns.” They both laughed. “I better call Booker.”

  “I haven’t heard anything from my source,” Booker said. “You’re telling me that they haven’t gotten them?”

  “Soldiers are in the house and no one has come out.”

  “Maybe they’re dead?”

  “Possibly, but no shots were fired once the soldiers entered.”

  “They could have escaped?”

  “We’ve been scanning the whole area since we got here; there is not a perfect view of the house, but we can see the surrounding sagebrush in all directions.”

  “I’ll make some more calls and get back to you. Let me know if anything changes,” Booker said.

  “Roger that.”

  “God damn it, Rip,” Booker said to himself after he hung up. “Call in!”

  It took a couple of hours before Booker finally got word that the raid had been a bust. The tunnel gave renewed hope that Kruse and Harmer might still get to Rip first.

  “How lucky can one guy be?” Kruse asked, hearing the news.
/>   “Apparently pretty lucky, when he’s walking through desolation toward destiny.”

  “What does that mean?” Kruse asked.

  “It means find him. Tell me what else you need. We’re running out of time.”

  Thirty minutes later, Kruse and Harmer were parked at a central location, waiting word. Gale and Rip were, miraculously, still on the loose. Booker was betting they hadn’t left Taos. Kruse believed remaining in such a small town would be an idiotic move, but one that fit with the professor’s previous steps. They spent the next few hours watching traffic.

  “I may not be impressed with how he’s done it, but I sure as hell am amazed that he’s done it,” Kruse said the following morning as he and Harmer drove up and down Paseo del Pueblo.

  She looked over at Kruse and understood why Booker sometimes called him the Commando. He looked so military – cropped hair, lean, and muscled build. She never could tell the color of his dark eyes, which were usually hidden behind shades anyway. Harmer glanced at the number “3” scratched into the barrel of his Glock-19, lying on his lap. He was always playing with his guns. The poor guy is a mess, she thought. She liked messed up people and might have made a play for him, if men had been her preference.

  They turned onto La Posta Road and took it to Ranchitos, not really expecting to find anything, but wanting to be ready. They’d spent the night in a chain hotel and were well rested.

  “I still can’t believe they escaped through a drug smuggler’s tunnel, “ Harmer said. “I would love to have seen the look on the Special Ops guys when they found an empty house.”

  “The bigger question is where did they go?”

  “Hopefully, the boss has some new intel for us. As yesterday showed, it’s going to be damn near impossible to beat the feds on this.”

  Kruse called Booker. “Did you get my wish list?” he asked.

  “We’re taking care of it. We should have it completed by tomorrow,” Booker said.

  “If there is a tomorrow. Any new leads?”

  “As far as I know, our three competitors are eating breakfast, and waiting for something to stir,” Booker said. Kruse knew that by “three competitors” Booker meant the FBI, the NSA, and the Vatican.

  “I’m surprised we’re not all bumping into each other. If he’s still dumb enough to be in Taos, I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he doesn’t survive the day, without one of us getting him.”

  “Make sure it’s us,” Booker said, ending the call. He leaned back in his chair and stared at a wall of computer monitors, frustrated that his vast wealth and various connections had, thus far, failed to get him what he most wanted.

  Chapter 8

  The river trip had taken more than three hours, and by the time the Des Moines couple dropped them at the Taos Plaza, almost six hours had passed since Grinley had pushed them down the tunnel. They were sure the soldiers had killed him.

  They ducked into a sunglass shop, paid cash for shades and ball caps, and anxious to get off the street, stopped at the motel on the plaza. Rip was impatient to check the Eysen for damage. Gale hoped the TV might have news of the raid and Grinley. The clerk told them there were no rooms available. They hurried toward another motel several blocks north. Everyone looked suspicious.

  On the way, Gale ducked into a vegetarian restaurant for takeout. Rip waited outside and leafed through the Taos News, a weekly that came out on Thursdays; already outdated, it had nothing about him. He found a USA Today at another paper box and scanned it as they walked. There, on the bottom of the front page, accompanied by his standard six-year-old publicity shot, was the headline, “Famous Archaeologist Sought.” The story quoted an Assistant U.S. Attorney who said that Gaines was wanted for the murder of Ian Sweedler, a lab technician. It had become a federal case, the story said, because the alleged murder had been committed in connection with possible theft of undisclosed government property.

  “The bastards are framing me. All the government has to do is accuse you of murder, and you might as well be guilty. No one is going to believe I’m innocent,” he said.

  “But you weren’t there. I’ll testify that you were with me.”

  Rip stopped walking and looked at her. “Gale, you’ll be dead.”

  She stared back at him. He regretted saying it. Her eyes, like his, were hidden behind dark glasses, but he saw the pain in her expression. No more words were spoken until they reached the motel.

  It was set off the main road, Paseo del Pueblo Norte. Gale checked in using Grinley’s cash and another new name. As soon as they locked the door of their ground-level room, Rip checked the Eysen and his laptop. Remarkably, everything seemed fine; although there wasn’t enough sunlight remaining in the room to make the Eysen come to life.

  “The papers are safe and dry,” Gale announced. “Hey, maybe you shouldn’t turn on your laptop?”

  Rip pulled his finger back from the power button. “They can’t trace my computer, unless I check my email or login somewhere.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rip looked over his computer and saw no trace of moisture. “I guess there’s no need to chance it.” He turned on the TV instead.

  They ate dinner watching the cable news coverage of Gaines. The segment was filled with footage from his many appearances on news programs. One commentator said, “I know Professor Gaines, and I must say these allegations are shocking.” Several colleagues being interviewed agreed, saying that the charges were impossible. The story didn’t mention Gale – only that Gaines was traveling with an unidentified woman.

  “See, some people believe you’re innocent,” Gale said.

  “Maybe a few old friends.”

  Exhausted, Rip fell asleep, while Gale showered. She made some notes in her journal, but didn’t last much longer. They woke just after four a.m., when Rip cried out from a heart-pounding nightmare. Gale reached across the king-sized bed they shared and found his hand in the darkness.

  “We’re safe,” she said, quietly.

  It took him a minute to remember where he was. “How do they keep finding us? No one knew we were at Grinley’s.”

  “Tuke and Fischer did.”

  “So first Booker turns us in, and then an ex-con and a truck driver betray us?”

  “All I know is if we don’t know who to trust, then we shouldn’t trust anyone.”

  “We need friends, Gale. We can’t get out of this alone.”

  “We’re not alone,” she squeezed his hand. He hadn’t noticed she was still holding it.

  “I can’t do a war zone romance,” he said.

  “Romance? I thought we were talking about needing friends.” She pulled her hand away.

  “Sorry, I . . . ”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Gale laughed. “If you weren’t so average-looking and unintelligent, I might consider it,” she added, sarcastically.

  He forced a laugh and sat up. “Coming to Taos was a mistake.”

  “They would have found us anywhere.”

  “I’m calling Booker.”

  “No, wait. Please, give me today. We’re here. Clastier is waiting. He brought you here across the centuries. Let’s see what he wants.”

  “He wanted me to find the Eysen. And I’ve done that.” Rip got up and moved the curtains to look outside. Only a few dim lights disturbed the early morning darkness; nothing stirred.

  “You know it’s more than that. We saw Clastier in the Eysen yesterday!” she said.

  “Yesterday, we killed another man. Grinley is dead. We haven’t even admitted that yet. I’m tired of causing this trail of death.”

  “You’re not to blame. We’re just trying to get away,” Gale said.

  “I know, I know. And if we stop, we’ll be killed too.”

  “We’ve seen the Eysen. They won’t let us live.”

  Neither spoke for a moment. Gale walked into the bathroom to brush her teeth, grateful she still had some basics in her pack.

  “Okay,” Rip said. “But we’re not sleeping in
the same place twice. We leave Taos tonight.”

  Chapter 9

  The commander had been stunned to find an empty house. It had taken just over an hour to find and disarm booby traps to gain entry; then twenty minutes to find the tunnel, forty-five more to disarm additional bombs, and another twenty minutes to follow the tunnel. There was no trace of any of them.

  The New Mexico State Police arrived before they had penetrated the dwelling. Even then, he had a bad feeling. When the police officer asked for credentials, the commander reacted badly and had his men take the trooper into custody. Before the same faux pas could be repeated with the FBI; the commander contacted Washington, and the agent withdrew.

  It was nearly dark when they finally left the house. If Grinley ever dared to return, he would find it empty. Most of the contents had been trucked away as evidence. The arrested trooper was released. It took intervention from the governor to avert a public relations nightmare.

  The commander briefed his superiors of the embarrassing failure and the information was conveyed to Busman, the NSA’s man in charge, who was still in the nearby town of Angel Fire. He took the news well, these things happened, which is why he always had a Plan B. Should that plan fail, another was waiting to be tried.

  Sean Stadler had been escorted off a Greyhound bus, in Asheville by the NSA. Because he was the younger brother of the now-dead photographer, who had taken the pictures of the artifacts at the dig site, and because he’d helped Gaines and Asher get out of Virginia, the fugitives trusted him, and the NSA needed him. He knew things.

  It had been Busman’s idea to pull Sean in, and he considered the mission important enough to do it himself. Although Busman was only five-foot, seven inches tall, he seemed a little taller, maybe because he was a fitness fanatic, and as he said, “I’m in beyond-perfect physical condition.” A precise man, he also said he had two point three children, but the point three were actually three Doberman pinschers.