by David Meyer
“I’m getting too old for this,” Graham groused as he slid out of the helicopter.
“Age is just a number,” I replied.
“I’ll trade my number for yours.”
“Pass.”
I walked to the edge of the forest. Leaves bristled above me. But instead of reaching toward the dying sunshine, they seemed to stretch backward, grasping at the growing tentacles of darkness. Other leaves were piled up between trees, partially covering thick, gnarled roots.
Soft rustling noises filled my ears. Turning my head, I saw a medium-sized critter racing along the ground. Seconds later, it darted into a hole.
“A chipmunk?” Graham scratched his chin. “How the hell did it get up here?”
“Well, it didn’t fall from the sky,” I said. “It must’ve climbed the mesa.”
“Those walls are way too steep to climb. And by the way, aren’t there stories of fish and other animals falling from the sky?”
“Okay, new theory.” I thought for a second. “Either it climbed the mesa or it fell from the sky.”
“You can’t have it both ways.”
I grinned. “I just did.”
Beverly rolled her eyes. “Age is definitely just a number. Because both of you are children.”
Chuckling, I pulled my machete from its sheath. “This is a long shot, but let’s do it right. Look for trash, old fire pits, evidence of a campsite, any sign of life really.”
We spread out and eased our way into the forest. The close-knit trees gave the summit a cramped feeling. But from my time in the helicopter, I knew it was deceptively large.
Using my machete, I hacked a path through the dense foliage. Occasionally, I heard rustling and skittering noises, along with that horrid shrieking.
The forest thinned a bit and I caught a glimpse of twin lines of weathered balls of dirt. Kneeling down, I shifted some leaves and saw more balls. They were overgrown with weeds and grass.
Picking up a stick, I scratched one of the balls. Discolored stone appeared before my eyes. Looking at the other balls, I realized they were also stones. Individually, they were nothing special. But together, they took on great importance.
“Well, how about that?” I muttered softly. “It’s a trail.”
CHAPTER 64
Heart racing, I grasped one of the stones. Its edges gleamed in the waning daylight that managed to fight its way through the canopy. The color was right and for a moment, I wondered if I’d stumbled upon a hunk of Fort Knox’s lost gold. But the weight was off and the stone emitted a peculiar garlic odor.
I returned it to the ground. Then I walked between the twin lines of stones, using my machete to cut through overgrown bushes along the way.
Darkness continued to fall as I pushed deeper into the forest. After a short walk, I pulled to a halt. Graham stood off to my left, Beverly to my right. Their eyes were fixed on the same thing that had caught my attention.
A stone platform stood fifty feet away, covered with leafy green plants and moss. It was about twenty feet long and stood just a foot or so beneath the canopy. On one side of the platform, I saw steps carved out of the rock.
“An ancient ruin,” Beverly said softly. “Centuries old from the looks of it.”
I eyed the platform. It looked like an altar, possibly one used for ceremonial sacrifices. If so, that could explain a few other things about the summit as well. The trees and plants might be descendants of an ancient garden. And the chipmunk we’d seen could be a descendent of a creature that had been brought to the summit many years earlier.
“I wonder who built it,” Beverly said. “And how they got up here in the first place.”
“Maybe they scaled the walls,” Graham suggested. “As part of a race. Plenty of ancient cultures pitted their warriors against each other in order to determine tribal leadership.”
I nodded. “Like the Birdman cult on Easter Island.”
“Exactly.”
Silently, we approached the platform. A closer look revealed it was made from the same garlic-scented material that had been used to construct the pathway.
Swiftly, I scaled the carved steps to the top of the vine-covered platform. The view of the surrounding mountains and forests and waterways, although partially obscured by foliage and darkness, was fantastic.
Glancing down, I noticed strange markings on the platform. Clearing away some vines with my machete, I caught a glimpse of rudimentary pictures. They were carved deep into the stone, yet still had a hurried look about them.
Graham and Beverly joined me on the platform. Graham took a small flashlight out of his pocket and aimed its beam at the images.
The first one showed tiny figures surrounding a giant object, which I took to be the mesa. Other figures seemed to be walking toward it from great distances. Meanwhile, a lone figure stood atop the mesa, looking down on everyone.
The second image caused my brow to knot up. The same figures still surrounded the mesa. But they clutched their throats and appeared to be in great pain.
“What’s that third one?” Graham bent down to get a closer look.
“It’s a bunch of dead bodies, piled up around the mesa.” Beverly glanced back at the first image. “This must’ve been a pilgrimage spot for ancient Native Americans.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Until it killed them.”
CHAPTER 65
Dirt kicked up as the helicopter settled into the secondary clearing. Looking around, I saw construction workers, half-finished modular buildings, armored cars, dump trucks, and helicopters.
“I need to check in with my C.O.” Price shot me a look. “After that, you owe me a picture.”
“Well, we’re going to be busy for awhile and—”
Beverly clamped her hand over my mouth. “He can’t wait,” she replied with a smile.
Practically glowing, Price turned back to the controls.
I slid the door open and climbed out of the helicopter. Before my feet hit the ground, a voice rang out from behind me.
“They’re waiting for you in Owl-One.”
I helped Graham and Beverly out of the cabin. Then I whirled around and laid eyes on Corporal Wendell. “Nice to see you, too.”
Grinning widely, he led us on a winding path through modular buildings in various stages of construction, vehicles, soldiers, and all sorts of equipment.
“What’s with those trucks?” Graham asked as we strode past a pair of dump trucks.
“Those are modified dump trucks,” Corporal Wendell replied. “It’s my understanding they’ll be used to transport dirt and rubble from the area in the event we need to dig. But more importantly, they’ll be used to carry any gold we find back to Fort Knox.”
We kept walking until at last, we reached a long, skinny two-story modular building, well-guarded by soldiers.
We passed through several security checks and were stripped of our gear and weapons in the process. Then we marched up a short staircase. After another security check, two soldiers waved us through a metal door.
We entered a central hallway, guarded by yet more soldiers. Men and women, some in military gear and others in business casual clothing, filled the hall. Overhead fixtures cast harsh light on them as they crisscrossed the thin area, constantly flowing from door to door.
Corporal Wendell led us up a flight of stairs to the second floor. Then we walked down a hallway, far less crowded than its first floor counterpart. After another security check, we entered a small conference room.
President Walters, seated on the far end of a long table, glanced up. A frown creased his distinguished visage. “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
“We took a little detour. Of course, that was the easy part.” I slid a chair to the opposite end of the table and sat down. Beverly took the chair to my right. “The hard part was getting through your security.”
K.J., seated to the president’s left, narrowed his eyes. “I assure you it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Lik
e this mini-city of yours?” Graham took the seat to my left. “Haven’t you guys ever heard of the word, discretion?”
“Unfortunately, we’re past the point of discretion. We need to find that gold and fast.” The president sat back and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “But first, we’ve got some news.”
Beverly cocked her head. “Good news?”
“We’re not sure yet.” K.J. looked at each of us in turn. “You know how ground-penetrating radar works, right?”
Graham chuckled.
“You could say that,” I replied.
Donovan, situated to the president’s right, coughed. “Actually, I don’t.”
K.J. glanced at him.
“Me neither if I’m completely honest.” Ben, sitting in the seat next to Donovan, crossed his arms. “We’re bureaucrats, not treasure hunters.”
K.J. nodded. “Yes, of course. Well, GPR machines work by shooting electromagnetic pulses at the ground. The pulses hit objects and bounce back to a receiver. The amount of time it takes for this to happen determines the depth of the objects. Our machines then take that information and use it to form a tomographic image of the subsurface.”
Ben frowned.
“In other words, a three-dimensional image.” K.J. produced a large computer tablet and positioned it so everyone could see. He touched the screen and a series of three-dimensional blocks popped up. He flicked through them until he found the one he wanted. Then he tapped on it, enlarging the image. Slowly, the block rotated in a circle. “This block represents a ten-foot square slice of land. My experts tell me its located southwest of the mesa.”
“Looks like you’ve got something,” Graham remarked. “About eight feet underground.”
“Mr. Graham is referring to this.” K.J. pointed at a black area. It stretched across the block’s entire north side. “It’s a metal box of some sort.”
“What type of metal?” Beverly asked.
“Unfortunately, our equipment isn’t sophisticated enough to perform that type of analysis.”
“Emma could do it,” Graham interjected.
“Uh, okay.” K.J. shot him a confused look. Then he swiped his fingers across the screen, twisting the horizontal block to its southeastern side. “Do you see those?”
“They look like pipes, extending out from the box.” I paused. The design reminded me of something, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “Where do they go?”
“Everywhere. My people have mapped twenty-six of them so far. They snake across the clearing to different places. Then they shoot upward, stopping about eighteen inches beneath the surface.” He used his fingers to shift the screen again, giving us an angled downward view of the box. “This pipe seems to be the shortest. It rises almost straight up.”
A memory clicked into place. “I’ve seen this before.” I produced Justin’s Capitalist Curtain papers and leafed through them. Before long, I saw a familiar diagram labeled Smokescreen. It consisted of a large box-shaped machine along with an elaborate pipe system and over a dozen little notations. “Here it is. The box looks like some kind of fancy smoke machine. The pipes must’ve been used to distribute smoke throughout the clearing.”
“That would explain why Milt saw smoke right before the trucks disappeared.” K.J. scrunched up his brow. “A system like that would’ve taken days to install.”
“Justin must’ve known the location in advance. Hell, he probably picked it out.”
“That’s quite possible,” he acknowledged. “Okay, we know where the smoke came from. But that doesn’t explain how the trucks disappeared.”
“Did your people find anything else?” Beverly asked.
“Well, yes. But it most likely predates the 1949 incident.”
“Let’s see it anyway.”
His fingers manipulated the screen. The blocks shrank in size and shifted backward, joining similar blocks. Then he stretched the blocks downward, turning them from squares into rectangles. “Okay, this is a deeper view of the clearing.” He pointed toward the bottom of the screen. “See that?”
“That white stuff?” Beverly squinted. “What is it?”
“My experts believe its a layer of bones, buried about twenty-three feet beneath the surface.”
I blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Nearly positive. As I mentioned, our ability to distinguish materials is limited. But analyzing shapes of objects within layers is a much easier matter.”
“That’s a lot of bones.”
“Indeed. They estimate we’re looking at dozens—possibly hundreds—of skeletons.”
I sat up straight. “We found an ancient altar on top of the summit. Someone carved pictographs on it. They depict people dying around the mesa.”
“Interesting.” K.J. looked thoughtful, but only for a moment. “But ultimately, unimportant for our purposes.”
“Perhaps. But a lot of people died here once upon a time.” I took a deep breath. “Let’s make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
CHAPTER 66
“Here’s your workspace.” Corporal Wendell opened a door and ushered us into a separate conference room. “I’m at your disposal until further notice.”
The room was nearly identical to the previous one, right down to the pitcher of ice water and clean glasses occupying the middle of the table. The only difference was a single laptop lying on a chair.
“Also, you’ve been cleared to visit the main clearing as well as the mesa,” Corporal Wendell continued. “Would you like me to take you there?”
I picked up the laptop and sat down. “Not yet.”
“Very good, sir.” And with that, the corporal exited the room.
I fired up the laptop and passed it to Graham. “See what you can find out about the history of tribes in Kentucky, particularly as it relates to the mesa.”
“What’s the point?” he asked. “Those pictographs were drawn long before your grandfather came here.”
“I know. But there still could be a connection.”
“How can I help?” Beverly asked.
I pulled the classified files out of my satchel and handed her two of them. “I need another pair of eyeballs on these.”
While Graham dove into the Internet, Beverly and I huddled over the files. My fingers turned pages as I reread reports and stared at black-and-white photos of Justin Reed and Dan Rellman.
We worked in silence for the next twenty minutes. Then Graham cleared his throat. “I may have something.”
I glanced up. “Oh?”
“Around 1400 or so, a prehistoric group known as Caborn-Welborn grew out of the old Angel chiefdom. They lived mostly along the Wabash and Ohio rivers.”
“So what?” Beverly said. “There must be hundreds of groups who’ve lived in this state at one point or another.”
“Yeah, but do any of them have pottery like this?” He twisted around the laptop and showed us the screen.
Looking close, I saw an image of an ancient bowl. It was buff-colored, unpolished, and featured a faded pictograph.
Beverly studied the pictograph. “It’s just like the one on the summit.”
Indeed, it was. The pictograph showed a bunch of dead bodies, lying in piles around the mesa.
“That’s just one side.” Graham clicked the touchpad a few times, revealing two additional pictographs painted on the same bowl. Both images matched up with the other ones we’d seen on top of the summit.
“Nice find,” I remarked. “What happened to the tribe?”
“That’s the other interesting part. Apparently, they disappeared during the 1700s.”
I recalled the radar image of bones around the mesa. “Or died off.”
Graham turned the laptop around and began to scroll through a webpage. “In the early 1800s, scholars collected oral histories in this area. One of the stories, popular at that time, described how a great tribe from the Ohio River area used to send its warriors on a sacred quest to pick fruit from a sky garden. The first to do so was
awarded leadership of the tribe, which was relayed to the others via a cloud of specifically colored smoke. At that point, the men would converge upon the sky garden and bask in the glory of their new leader. This practice continued unchecked for many years.” He paused. “That is until a race ended in controversy. Multiple smoke signals were released from the sky garden at the same time. This angered the gods. They sent a cloud of colorless smoke across the land, wiping the tribe from existence.”
“The sky garden must be that small forest atop the mesa. And obviously, the tribe didn’t disappear … its members died.” Beverly frowned. “But how? Where’d the smoke in that story come from?”
“Maybe nowhere.” Graham shrugged. “For all we know, it’s a metaphor.”
We sat in silence for a couple of seconds, consumed with thoughts of the ancient Caborn-Welborn culture.
“Well, that’s all I’ve got so far,” Graham said. “How are you guys doing?”
“These are fairly standard bios.” Beverly held up the files for Ross Howser and Chris Hatcher. “But there’s definitely a connection between them. Both of these men served in the U.S. Army during World War II. The 23rd Headquarters Special Troops, to be specific.”
Graham pecked a few keys into his laptop.
“Same with Justin and Dan.” I thought for a second. “Say, what kind of work did those guys do before the war?”
She consulted the files. “Ross taught sculpture at Stribel University. And Chris worked as an acoustic engineer at Thompson Labs.”
“That’s interesting. Justin designed sets for production companies and Dan drew comic strips for the Chicago Post.” I rubbed my jaw. “These guys weren’t factory workers. They were creative people. Artists and engineers.”
“Okay, I just did a search on the 23rd Headquarters Special Troops,” Graham said. “It was a tactical deception unit, formally known as the Ghost Army. It was tasked with building decoy U.S. Army units. The goal was to trick the Axis Powers into diverting their forces away from real units.”
“What kind of decoys?” I asked.
