Legend

8

Robby was alone. All he knew was that he was near the point of collapse. The heat in the lower levels of the mine was close to unbearable. Exhausted, he let his own weight work for him as he slid down the damp wall. His worn-out body came to rest on the rudimentary thousand-year-old wooden tracks that coursed through the ancient shafts like a million miles of twisting and undulating snake.

The tunnels had gone quiet as a tomb in the last forty hours as he fought his way through the darkness only to find he wasn't climbing but descending deeper into the great mine. The cascading water that had been engineered a millennium ago by unseen and mysterious hands flowed through the shafts beside the old transport track and wooden ore carts. Robby had taken the time to examine these strange canals and found that they had been carved out of the sheer rock flooring of the immense structure. He surmised that the canals were used to transport much heavier or larger loads to the lowest depths of the shafts. But that was the riddle. Why send gold to two different areas for processing? He had discovered rocks inside one of the old ore cars; they were speckled with large streaks of gold. These cars were on tracks that led from down below and went on toward the higher levels. He had tried to follow these upward but the tracks most times eventually traversed through small openings into shafts that were close, and he was afraid he would get caught in one. Try as he might, he would eventually lose the track and then before he knew it, he was heading down again. Disoriented and confused, he had decided to quit fighting it and follow the canals down.

As he tried to slow his breathing a noise caught his attention. He tried to penetrate the darkness to see what was around him. Then he heard it again. It sounded like whispering. Then suddenly a light flared from down below the next bend. His heart started pounding in his chest. He could now see the reflection of a large orange flame as it bounced off the water of the canal.

He steeled himself. "Hey!"

He heard two sharp yelps, as if his voice had caught someone totally unaware. Robby closed his eyes in thanks nonetheless when the flame around the bend started to advance toward him.

"Who's there?" he called out.

"Robby, is that you?"

"Oh God, Kelly?" he called and fought to gain his feet.

The next thing Robby knew, he was being embraced by the most welcome vision he had ever seen.

Kelly kissed him all over his face and hugged him until he had to pull away for air.

"You're alive, I can't believe it!" she cried as she pushed him away and looked him over. The girl holding the torch was Deidre Woodford, Professor Zachary's office assistant, who couldn't help but smile at the reunion.

"The others, how many are with you?"

"We have about twelve in our group," Kelly said as she nervously looked around her. "Come on, we have to get back. We can only be out for twenty minutes at a time."

"What…what are you talking about?" he asked as he was pulled along.

"It will take too long to explain, Robby, but just to let you know, we're the houseguests of the owners of El Dorado."

He was pulled along until they reached a great carved-out chamber and, as they entered the light of several torches, Robby gaped at the spectacle before him.

"Something, isn't it?" Kelly asked as she led him around a large grotto of clear, clean water that filled the center of the huge, once natural cave.

"Look at that!" Robby was gazing up at more than a thousand life-size statues of the beast they had seen and been attacked by. They lined the walls as if they had been arranged to have their stony gaze watch the interior of the enclosure. Situated between each statue was a small opening and in some of these openings firelight flickered. He was looking at over five hundred living quarters that had at one time housed the slaves that worked this mine.

"Come on, we have to get inside before the creature comes back. It's almost lunchtime," Kelly said as she looked at her watch. "Every twelve hours like clockwork. And that big bastard is never late."

"What in the hell are you talking about?" Robby asked as he was led into one of the enclosures. He saw that very old animal skins, along with a strangely woven cloth, covered the mouths of these strange dormlike rooms.

"The thing that attacked us out on the beach?"

"Yeah?"

"It thought we were trying to escape the valley and these mines," Kelly said. She lit another torch. And in that light she could see he wasn't following her. "Robby, that creature is our jailer. It's been trained to keep us right here. To keep us close to our work and to stop any attempt at leaving the mine." She reached down to retrieve something, and thrust it into his right hand. "Here, you must be starving."

He saw that she had given him cooked fish. He crammed it into his mouth, just now realizing how long it had been since he had eaten. The white meat tasted as good as anything he had ever dined on before in the best restaurants. When he finished, he leaned over and kissed Kelly.

Robby couldn't make out the reasoning behind what she was saying. The dots that were supposed to be connected swirled before his eyes. Then in the torchlight he saw the cave paintings of long ago, rendered by a very primitive culture, possibly the Sincaro Indians. Their whole story was there for him to read and finally get a mental grasp of. As Kelly held the torch out for him to follow, he saw a long and brutal history of slavery and mass murder as depicted by a long-dead hand.

That was when a warning call sounded from outside in the grotto. "It's coming!"

Kelly quickly placed the torch on the floor and stepped on it until it was extinguished. Then she took Robby's hand and pulled him back to the mouth of the small cave. Kelly held her index finger to her lips as he started to ask a question. She gestured out toward the semidarkness of the giant cave.

Then he saw it. The creature was standing right at the water's edge, watching the people inside their small enclosures. The beast grunted three, four, five times. It was enormous. The long arms, muscled and sinewed, hung leisurely at its side, then the waters of the grotto erupted with sound and splashing water as the small amphibious monkeys broke the surface of the large underground lake. Robby watched as they struggled to the rock shoreline and saw that each had its own burden to carry ashore; each had one, two, or three struggling fish in its clawed hands. One by one the monkeys tossed a flopping handful toward the humans who cowered inside, watching. Then the amphibians splashed back into the strange grotto and vanished. The giant beast looked around and then slowly stepped back until it was covered in water and disappeared.

"If I make it out of here alive, I've got the making of one hell of a thesis," Kelly said with a grin. Then she saw the confused look on her fiance's face.

"Don't you understand? It's lunchtime for the slaves. And our guard and his trained staff just brought the food."

He couldn't say anything as his mind raced. These prehistoric creatures had been trained to watch and keep human slaves? But why?

"I can see the questions racing around that Stanford-type brain of yours, so let someone from Cal-Berkeley and real higher education explain it to you. It didn't take that long to figure out. Why would the ancient slave masters of the Sincaro go through the difficulty of training the wildlife here to act as prison guards when they could have just as easily watched over their slaves themselves? The answer is simple. They didn't want to die as their slaves did by the thousands. I'll bet my eventual master's degree that not only were the Sincaro driven to near extinction, but five or six other large tribes throughout El Dorado's history were murdered till not a one survived in this place."

"For what? Gold?" Robby asked incredulously.

Kelly lowered her head, then took Robby by the hand and pulled him out into the enormous cave. Then she turned and called for the gathered survivors to douse their torches. As they did, little by little the cave went dark.

"I don't get—"

"Watch," Kelly said as she turned toward the walls.

As Robby's eyes adjusted to the blackness around him, he saw first the many statues of the creatures start to give off a dim glow. Next, the very walls around them became alive with a green luminescence that grew in intensity. Then, as his jaw fell open in amazement, he discerned long streaks of ore coursing through the rock strata. They glowed as if they had an inner fire.

"No, Robby, they didn't die mining gold, they died digging that out of the earth. And why should the slave owners risk their own lives guarding what could be done by the highly evolved amphibians of this lagoon?"

The giant cave was now awash in the soft glow emanating from the carved stone and the streaks of strange ore that shot through the stone like rivers of green fire. Then Robby suddenly understood. Everything fell into place and he realized what he was looking at. With a shudder, he knew what their fate would be at the same time Kelly voiced it.

"If we don't escape the hospitality of our guards soon, I would say we'll all die a very long and agonizing death."

The twenty-eight department heads had been notified that an Event had been called, and so the Group went into action. At Department 5656, when an official Event is called, it means that something bordering on an important history-altering situation has occurred, one that could affect the lives of people in the present, an event that may have to be passed on to the president, or something that was beyond mere investigation by a group field team.

Pete Golding, in Computer Sciences, was in charge of doing the investigative work in several areas, including the timeline of the Events. Both the Padilla episode and the incursion in 1942 now fell into that category. He had the assistance of Assistant Director Virginia Pollock. The computer section would be running three shifts in an effort to uncover all the facts they could on the legend of the Padilla expedition, and most important, on the cryptic lead Helen had given in her letter regarding the papal medalists and the lost map. Niles had decided to take a silent part in Pete's investigation, working on his own.

Communications would also be diverted to the computer center because they would be using the Group's KH-11 satellite, code-named Boris and Natasha, to sweep the Amazon Basin from Brazil to the Peruvian Andes. They immediately started with the elimination of anything west of the mountains, for obvious reasons. The technicians, the best recruited specialists from the most advanced corporations in the United States, would be taking high-resolution images of the rain forest and jungles in the basin, and maybe with a little luck they would uncover something that would shorten the search for the tributary that led to the lost valley as described in the legend. But for now, the only descriptions were fictionalized accounts by very obscure and long-dead Italian authors who had claimed to have seen the journal or map — scenarios very unlikely, as the accounts varied wildly in their reporting and descriptions.

The three departments covering religion would be hard at work trying to uncover all they could from the Vatican Archives. The Cray computer system, Europa, would be set loose on the Vatican's formidable cataloging and supposedly secure IBM Red Ice system. The Europa was a system that Cray had built for only four federal agencies, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and covertly, as a favor to former director of Event Group Garrison Lee, Department 5656. The Cray was able to break in, or go through, the backdoor security of any system in the world, including the supposedly impenetrable Red Ice mainframe. Pete Golding called what Europa did "sweet talking." The three religion-based departments would try to sweet talk their way into the Vatican system and find out all they could on the diary, the map, and the reputed gold samples that had always been a rumored part of the story. It was a task that would be more than just a little daunting, being as the Holy Roman Church was the most experienced body in the world for burying secrets.

Heidi Rodriguez and her Zoology Department was joined by the Paleolithic Studies, Archaeology, and Oceanography divisions, to find out all they could on the species of animals that may have existed in the past that were no longer viable, or extinct. Heidi had already committed heresy in her three departments by requesting the assistance of a department no one spoke about in the sciences divisions. The strange group was located on the deepest level of the department, level thirty-one. Some said they were buried so deep by Director Compton just so they couldn't contaminate the labs of the real sciences. But Niles knew, more than anyone, the importance of this department and insisted it had value.

Niles had started the Cryptozoology Department three years ago as a fallback contingent to the extinct animal sciences group and nobody, absolutely nobody other than the director and Heidi, took them seriously. Their desire to find out about the Loch Ness monster, Bigfoot, and werewolves, among other laughable studies, was a running joke in the science levels above them. The department was chaired by a crazy old zoology professor named Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw the III.

The three departments had met for exactly fifteen minutes before an argument broke out between members of the Crypto Department and Paleontology. Will Mendenhall had the complex security duty for the day and tried, along with Heidi Rodriguez, to bring the team back together. But Mendenhall found himself staring at the head of the Crypto Department, entranced by the long, wild, white hair of the man. Finally he was nudged by Heidi.

"Now what is this about?" Mendenhall asked, his eyes still on Ellenshaw.

Everyone started talking at once. Wild gestures and pointing fingers were jabbed by the people surrounding Sergeant Mendenhall.

"One at a time, please!"

"We don't have to stay here and be insulted every two minutes by these people; we're just as valuable to this facility as they are," a young woman with thick glasses said, staring a hole through Professor Keating.

"Just because your science is getting national recognition because of television, doesn't make you a viable scientific resource."

"Dr. Ellenshaw's theory, that a species of vertebrate separated from outside influences and has its own ecosystem, is a viable one!"

"B movie stuff!" Keating shot back.

Mendenhall shook his head. This is going to be a long day, he thought.

Niles was sitting in the Europa direct contact center. The system was networked throughout the complex, but it was here that a person could interface with the Cray system on a one-on-one basis. According to Pete Golding, interacting with the system directly helped both the technician and the Cray, because it was a binary learning platform that could think light-years ahead of its questioner and actually feel the line of interrogation to reason out a solution on its own.

The director wanted to work alone, separate from the others, for reasons of a personal nature. He had tried earlier to distance himself from Helen's possible plight and allow his people to work without micromanaging them. He wished to continue his own duties, of which there were plenty, but he had soon found that he kept coming back to Helen, her face, how she had looked in the morning those many years ago. He figured being by himself would help him concentrate, especially while conversing with nothing as sentimental as a bunch of new-generation silicon bubble chips.

His first line of questioning was simple. He would start at investigating the lead Helen had given them in the letter regarding papal medalists.

"What have we got so far?" Niles asked as he leaned back in his chair.

From the accounts taken from public records and clandestine facilities, the total sum of papal medalists alive in the year ad 1875, were six hundred seventy-one, said the female auditory system of Europa.

"And that is with the elimination of Spain and Italy as home to these medalists?"

Yes.

Niles was slow to proceed. He knew he was shooting from the hip; after all, all they had to go on were written accounts of rumors that had started as far back as 1534. He surmised along with Pete that since the diary had been delivered to Spain by Father Corinth himself, they could safely eliminate that nation as one of the hiding places for the map or the reputed ore samples. And obviously, since Helen said that these papal medalists were all foreign born, they could also subtract Italy, the home of the Vatican. Now it was simple, that left only the rest of the world as their haystack.

"Access Vatican Network," Niles said.

Access has already been gained by the Computer Sciences Department, P. Golding authorization.

So Pete had already started sifting through the archives. Niles knew he should leave Pete to it, since he knew his way around not only Europa but all the security that had to be in place in the Vatican, which was there to keep someone from doing exactly what they were doing.

"Is there any correlation between San Jeronimo el Real, in Madrid, Spain, in 1874, and papal medalists?" Niles asked, as he was interested in verifying the fact that one of these knights did indeed deliver the diary to Spain, and to a knight there for the diary's safekeeping.

Formulating.

Niles was thinking of eliminating coincidence from his obvious guesswork. Catholic cleric Father Sergio de Batavia, papal medalist, 1861, for actions while serving with the Battalion of St. Patrick's during the time of his service in Ireland, when he was asked to join the Papal Guard in 1862 as a reward for services at Castelfidardo, Ancona. He was awarded the Pro Petri Sede and Ordine di San Gregorio medals ofSaints Peter and Gregory, for bravery. At the time his service to Pope Pius IX was ended, he was given leadership of San Jeronimo el Real in Madrid, Spain.

"I wonder what the odds had been that it was he who was given the diary for safekeeping," Niles said as he thought aloud.

Is the question directed at Europa for answering? the female voice asked.

Niles let out a small laugh. "Not unless you can calculate the odds."

Formulating.

Niles lowered his glasses and stared at the large liquid crystal display. It went dark for a moment, sending the entire room into blackness. He couldn't believe that Europa was going to figure the odds.

The number of papal medal recipients who received orders to Spain in the year ad 1861, according to Vatican archives, was four. The calculated odds are three to one.

"Pretty good, low enough to place a bet on," Niles said. "Question. How many recipients of the papal order were from the Battalion of St. Patrick's?"

Six received the order of Pro Petri Sede, two the order of Ordine di San Gregorio, and two received both honors.

Niles quickly reread the letter from Helen and made sure of the facts she had mentioned about the trail's leading to the map would be found through research of the medaled knights of the papacy. He refolded the letter and looked back at the screen. Helen had given him a starting point for trying to find something that she had claimed was unrecoverable, but it was the only real lead they had as to her whereabouts.

The last words spoken by Europa were still there, written on the large screen. Niles unzipped his clean suit and let in some air.

He pursed his lips as he thought. The odds were in favor of the map and diary having gone to highly placed men who Pope Pius IX had trusted, which would most likely have entailed the pope's having met them in person. So, papal medalists seemed the appropriate road to search, and that was how Helen had tracked at least the diary, and supposedly the map also. And since they would never have access to the diary, thanks to Farbeaux, they would have to follow the same trail as Helen had. The legend stated that the diary was separated from the gold samples and map by sending them in different directions — the diary to Spain, the map to the New World, and the samples to the Vatican Archives under lock and key. The diary and map had been despatched their separate ways in 1874. He removed his glasses and bit on the ear piece.

"Question," he said. "How many papal medalists were still alive on North and South American continents in 1874?"

Formulating.

Niles knew it was a long shot, but hoped anyway.

According to public records, seventy-five medalists were in the United States, sixteen in Canada, twenty-one in Mexico, and one in Brazil.

"Question. How many served with the Battalion of St. Patrick's and received both papal medals?"

Formulating.

Niles placed his glasses back on and looked at the screen.

Four recipients of both papal medals were also veterans of the Battalion of St. Patrick, Europa answered. One recipient in Canada, one in Mexico, one in Brazil, and one in the United States.

Niles sat up. It couldn't be that easy. "Question. How many of the four were stationed at the Vatican in 1874?"

Formulating.

Niles waited.

No recipients at the Vatican in ad 1874.

Niles felt deflated, but then decided to take a shot in the dark. "Question. Number of the four alive in 1874?"

Formulating, Europa said as the screen flashed again.

Niles started to stand, feeling his side investigation was going nowhere.

According to Royal Canadian death records, the general census of citizens of Mexico, the official census of Brazil, and the state and territorial records of the United States, one member was still alive in 1874, Europa answered.

Niles looked at the printed answer on the screen with renewed hope. "Question. What was the last name of recipient?"

Formulating.

Niles knew for a fact it had to be a priest, probably in the very same order of St. Patrick's as the Spanish father's where the diary was sent. As he watched, he could hear through the glass in front of him Europa's robotic systems pulling programs at a fantastic rate. Normally he loved to watch the Cray system in action, but right now it would only make him more anxious.

All records of identity of medalist erased from former system hard drive 11/18/1993. No further account remains in center files.

"What? You mean the old Cray system file was erased?" Niles asked as he leaped to his feet in anger.

Affirmative. All records of case file beyond census data for 1874 of Vatican papal medalists has been dropped from the Nellis file system.

"Authorized user of last data query on current subject matter?" Niles asked but already knew the answer.

Professor Helen M. Zachary, 11/18/1993, clearance —

"Goddammit! You left us a dead end!" he said gritting his teeth.

Europa has failed to adequately understand question and/or statement. Please restate.

Niles didn't respond to the confused Europa; he stormed out of the clean room knowing they may have lost their one clear chance of finding Helen's team.

Alice sat and listened to the phone conversation between Niles and Senator Garrison Lee.

"The only thing I remember about some of those old files Dr. Zachary made off with is what I personally put into one of them in 1942. At the time of the theft I couldn't figure out, other than the obvious fact it was about Brazil, why she would have been interested; the file was just the After Action Report about the recovery of some scientists from the States. The rest were army and Corps of Engineers field reports from some sort of South American field operation that held no interest for the OSS or, later, the Event Group. Our part was to pull them out, nothing more; we weren't anywhere near the Amazon when the rescue occurred."

"If you weren't anywhere near the Amazon during the rescue, how could Helen have come up with anything that helped her in those files? The papal medalist leads, I can see her eliminating as a way to trace her actions, but this OSS file of yours, I don't get it," Niles said, leaning toward the speaker box on his desk. He was hoping beyond reason that Lee, having been one of "Wild Bill" Donovan's best OSS agents during the war, could come up with something to help.

"I haven't a clue, Niles; maybe she discovered something in the army paperwork that was forwarded with the file, I just don't know. And now that we're positive the file was erased from our former Cray archives along with any medalist's clues, you may never find out. But then again, although she knew she had covered her tracks, she knows you'll be able to uncover her tracks. But how, is the question."

"Perhaps the men you rescued in 1942 said something to you after you pulled them out, that could shed some light on this, Garrison," Alice suggested.

"Sorry, old girl, but army and navy intelligence kept those boys pretty much hushed up about their activities down there. There is one thing, though; we were supposed to be pulling out far more people than we ended up rescuing. And even as we made our way out of that hellhole, the men we rescued weren't much good; they were in shock and two of them were close to death from exposure. The only reason they were found is because they left their radio on and the army triangulated their position. That was when the military asked for help from the OSS contingent in South America to assist in recovering their team. That's all I have for you, Niles, with the exception of one item."

"And that is," Niles asked.

"This trouble in South America, with the file on that particular subject of papal knights being deleted from our files — where would you go to get something that is that old? Remember, the original file was transcribed from what to what?"

"Paper files to electronic," Niles said, knowing the answer to the senator's riddle immediately. The Event Group's original facility, built by then president Woodrow Wilson, was now a storage facility for all its paper files originated before 1943. They had all been entered into the original Cray system back in 1963. And that system was housed in Arlington, Virginia, at a place hidden far beneath the National Cemetery.

"There's your lead, my boy. There is no way Helen could have gotten into that facility, and she knew you could. She was smart enough to know where the paper files were stored in a closed-loop computer system. She knew that and the fact that you would have access to them when you hit the dead end here on Europa. You remember where the facility is, I take it?" the senator asked facetiously.

Of course Niles knew, and had to smile at the old subterfuge. Imagine, having the original Event Group housed in an underground facility not unlike the current complex. Woodrow Wilson had authorized the first complex built in 1916 and had placed it where no one would ever suspect.

"Yes, sir, I remember."

"Good, just be careful of the ghosts. And remember the first thing I taught you about the Group, Niles? We are what?"

"Alone and not trusting of anyone, and assume everyone is three steps ahead of us. I remember."

"Bingo. But there is one man you confide in, you know who?"

"Jack," he answered with a small smile.

"Right, tell him everything. Give him every detail, because I don't like the way this smells ever since you told me about our French friend."

"I will, and thank you."

"Sorry I couldn't be of more help, Mr. Director," Garrison said on the other end of the phone.

"Well, I guess all we can do is keep looking with Boris and Natasha, and hope the satellite comes up with something. In the meantime I'll get over to Complex One and see if I can find a certain file. Thanks, Garrison."

"Anytime, Niles; by the way, tell that old woman to bring home some real milk and not that soy crap," he said as he hung up.

9

The Banco de Juarez building was a glass and steel monstrosity, very out of place in one of the poorest neighborhoods in all of Bogota. It stood towering over the shanties as if it were a dark tower from the pages of a dark fairy tale.

Henri Farbeaux stood looking out of the plate glass window on the thirty-second floor, which afforded a panoramic view of the city below. They were far above the filth and poverty that permeated the city.

"So, are we prepared?"

Farbeaux turned to see Joaquin Delacruz Mendez standing in his doorway. The chubby banker was dressed ridiculously in a tan suit with jungle pockets in the front. The clothes were impeccably pressed and Mendez wore a brand-new pair of work boots. With great effort, Farbeaux kept himself from smiling. He, himself, was dressed in Levi's and a long-sleeved denim shirt. His black boots were broken in and waterproof.

"Yes, we are ready. The supplies have been received and are being loaded as we speak. Our helicopter is awaiting us on the roof."

"Excellent, and what of the boat?" he asked.

"We have chartered the Rio Madonna, a worthy ship that has plied those waters for twenty years. Her captain is a man who knows how to keep silent about certain aspects of our journey. His family has worked the river for generations," Farbeaux said as he turned away from the window and retrieved his Windbreaker. He didn't mention how much it was costing Mendez for the captain's silence.

"The weapons and my security staff, they are all ready?"

"All in place," Farbeaux answered.

"Very good."

"Shall we go, then," Farbeaux said.

"Yes, please go on, I will meet you upstairs. I must take my Dramamine for the flight down to Peru," Mendez said, the lie flowing easily from his lips.

Farbeaux bowed, catching the lie. He knew his employer never took Dramamine, as the man lived most of his life in one aircraft or the other.

Mendez watched the Frenchman leave and then he picked up the phone.

"Yes, senor?"

"Has there been any activity at Stanford?" he asked.

"No, jefe, we are monitoring every minute of the day. The phone rings but no one has answered, and no one other than the janitorial service has entered the professor's office."

"If there is in the future, use your own judgment as to the danger they pose, and adjust your reaction accordingly. I do not want interference in any way once we are on the river, is that understood?"

"Yes, senor, it is understood."

"Good," he said and hung up, and then rubbed his hands. Just thinking about El Dorado and its being him that discovers its hidden whereabouts — after all those centuries of men having looked for it, from Alaska to Argentina — was mind-boggling. The drug lords of the past would never have thought such wealth was possible. And that, coupled with the new information that the Frenchman had in his possession about a possible source of new energy in the same mine, was too much to dream for. No, no one could have the vision he had. He was the only man who always had the imagination to dream of higher things. Higher things that demanded he have the most advanced security force and black operations team in private employ in all of South America, not to mention most of the world. Yes, he thought, the adventure he had always craved was now upon him and the mysteries of Padilla would soon be his.

"That's where we are right now. Since I'm the only one not assigned to any research, I'll take Mr. Ryan and head for Virginia to see what we can uncover in the old files. And Everett, I have a job for you also. You are to meet our former Mrs. Farbeaux in San Jose and escort her to Stanford. Once in Palo Alto, you'll gain access into Professor Zachary's office and see what you can uncover; she may have left some clue there."

Carl wanted to protest about being the one to escort Danielle, but held his tongue.

"Yes, sir," he answered instead.

A knock sounded on the conference room door, and a blue-clad lance corporal walked in and gave Niles a note. He unfolded and read it, and then gave the note to Alice.

"More potatoes have been added to the stew," Niles said, looking around the table. "We ran the security footage recovered from the San Pedro shipping company responsible for getting Helen and her team into place. We now know her starting point was Colombia; from there all we can assume is that she went south toward either Brazil or Peru. But we have uncovered something else. It seems she may have had a second source of financing from someone we must assume has accompanied her on her trip."

"Second source?" Jack asked.

"According to the ship's manifest taken from a copy that was filed at their offices, the articles loaded onboard included several that did not belong to Helen and her team, but were in fact signed for by someone not on the original team roster and do not show up in any university records. This man, his name is Kennedy — he and five others were issued two cabins onboard Pacific Voyager."

"Helen, what did you get yourself into?" Alice murmured, shaking her head.

An hour later, Niles had their lunch brought into the conference room, where they made detailed plans on who and what equipment would be needed for an expedition if the Event Group found the route of Padilla.

"Before we get into what Boris and Natasha has or has not come up with on her latest pass, and before Carl has to leave," Niles said as he looked at his watch, "I want to discuss river transport. I want a secure vessel if at all possible, not a local river traveler. I want something that can be in place in a day, if and when we go. Jack, Commander Everett, any ideas?"

"Best if you ask the swabby," Jack said, looking at Carl.

Carl stopped toying with his plate of potato salad and looked up. "As a matter of fact, I may have just the man that can supply us with something along those lines," he said as he thought. "He's somewhat eccentric, but he's one hell of a designer. Built assault craft for the navy; he was in on the hydro-foil development until it was canceled by the Defense Department. I think the navy hid him away in Louisiana someplace, developing experimental river craft. But mostly they stashed him there to keep him out of trouble."

"As soon as you complete your assignment in Palo Alto, detour on the way home and find out. Anything you can add about this man?" Niles asked as he wrote in his notepad.

"Well, I know he may need a push because, as I said, he's a little strange. But he can be ordered. He's still a master chief petty officer in the navy. They haven't found anyone with enough guts to go down and retire him yet, so he's still building boats. Maybe you can tug on some official strings and get his cooperation," Carl said.

"Good enough, I'll do just that. Leave his name with Ellen outside," Niles responded. "You'd better be off to meet our French lady friend."

"Yes, sir," Carl said as he nodded to those around the table and touched Jack on the shoulder.

As Carl left, Niles absentmindedly pushed the plate with his ham sandwich on it away from him as he pulled the latest satellite imagery toward him.

"Okay, Pete, what in the hell is Boris and Natasha telling us?"

"Well, the KH-11 is on the very range of its ability to see into Peru and Brazil on its current track," Pete answered from his office in the Comp Center. "We would have to retask it to get to the areas we need to look at. But Europa has uncovered some covert stuff from NSA that was taken two weeks before Professor's Zachary's departure from Los Angeles, and that film has just confirmed what we already know. As you see," he used a pointer, tapping the monitor's screen, "the suspected area is mostly unexplored rain forest, and has tree canopies so thick that we can't see anything. Radar imagery," he pointed to a grouping of pictures, "picks up just what we would expect, thousands of miles of winding river, tributaries, and lagoons, not to mention hundreds of waterfalls. You could throw a dart at the images and have just as much luck as to which patch is our target site."

Niles shook his head. He wanted to shove the hard copies of the pictures away and off the far end of the table in frustration, but caught himself. Boris and Natasha was not the answer. He stood up and stretched, and then his eyes caught the still frame of the security video on one of the large screens. He froze. His eyes roamed over the grainy image. Then he moved quickly to his console at the conference table and started tapping keys. The others watched him for a moment as the black-and-white frames started to project in reverse. Then he stopped tapping as the picture caught the twin images of two people to the far right of Helen Zachary and Kennedy. Niles tapped a few more commands and then pushed the button on the intercom. "Pete, are you getting the image on the screen on monitor one-seventeen?"

"Let's see here, yeah, I see it, the dock security footage?"

"Yes, can you have the computer blow that frame up and enhance it? Order the shots to come in tight on those two kids by the ship's rail to the right."

"Yeah, Europa can probably clean up the footage," Pete answered through the speakers around the room.

As they watched, the camera footage went dark and then cleared and the two people became larger. The quality was now much better.

"Again, Pete, tighter, concentrate on the girl, the right image," Niles ordered as he stepped closer to the large monitor.

The picture on the screen fragmented again and then came together line by line until the smiling face of a young woman covered most of the screen.

Without turning to the others sitting at the conference table, Niles said, "You're all excused with the exception of Major Collins."

Questions were mumbled, but they all left their lunch and gathered their notes and walked out of the conference room. Even Alice left, though she knew the director well enough to know that Niles had spotted something that had caught him off guard and stunned him.

Jack stood up and walked to where Niles was standing.

"Major, we have a whole new priority here."

"What is it?"

"The girl, her name wasn't on the manifest, at least not her real name," he said as he stepped up to the monitor for a closer look. "If that's who I think it is, this Event has taken on a whole new, nightmarish perspective."

10

Carl immediately recognized Danielle Serrate. Her red hair was up but her features, despite her having a little more makeup on, had the same model beauty as before. She saw Carl and for some reason he felt gratified that she had recognized him. He was dressed simply in slacks and a short-sleeved blue shirt. He stepped up to her and took her suitcase from her hand.

"Ms. Serrate, you're looking…a bit cleaner."

"You have a singular wit about you, Commander," she said as she gave him the once-over.

"I'm like that, singular and witty," he said as he started for the door. "If you don't mind, ma'am, we have a busy day ahead of us."

"May I ask our destination?" she asked, catching up with the much taller officer.

"You may ask," he said as he flagged down marine corporal Sanchez, who would be accompanying them to Stanford. Carl lifted the trunk lid and laid her case inside, then paused. "Is there anything you would like to retrieve from your luggage?" he asked with his hand still on the trunk.

She smiled and opened the rear door of the rented Chevrolet. "No, I have everything I could possibly need," she said significantly as she entered the car.

Carl slammed the trunk and walked to the other side of the car and climbed in. Her answer meant that she wasn't armed. He wouldn't push the point of the illegality of her having a weapon even if it were still hidden in her suitcase; after all, he wouldn't like it if someone took his toys away if he visited France.

"Again, I'll ask you our destination." She looked at Carl over her sunglasses.

He tapped Corporal Sanchez on the back of his shoulder, signaling him to drive.

"Stanford University," he said curtly. "And I want you to know, I was 'volunteered' for this assignment."

"I look forward to spending time with you also, Commander."

Carl could see her mocking smile in the reflection of the window.

Professor Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III was deep in thought. He had been staring at the same CT scan for the last twenty minutes. He had compared the latest shots to that of the sample of material in the electron microscope. He couldn't figure it out. The film was cloudy around the third finger of the fossil, as if the film had a flaw in it. But it was the same on the first set of scans they had done. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought someone was playing a joke on him.

"Heidi, would you look at this please?" he asked, handing over the film.

Heidi Rodriguez took the X-ray and reviewed it. "Looks like bad film; is this a shot of the claw's third digit?"

"Yes, it is, but the same thing happened on the first CT scan, look," he said as he held out the second set of film. "And if you would take a look at this also," he said, pointing to a monitor that was connected to the electron microscope.

Heidi looked from the film to the monitor. "All I see is bone, Professor. Are you seeing something different?" she asked, looking closer.

"Right here, that spec, that isn't bone," he said, using a pencil to point out a black object that couldn't be seen with the naked eye.

"Dirt, or sand perhaps," she said.

"It's right in the area where the CT scan didn't take. It's as if the entire area was wiped clean."

"Interference?" she asked.

"I don't know, probably just coincidence. It does look like an outside contaminant, sand probably. It must have been placed there postmortem. But let's get some more film on it. If the blur continues to be in the same area, it may indicate a malfunction in the scanner itself, either that or our ancient friend here has been playing around with a radioactive isotope."

He glanced up but saw Heidi wasn't smiling at his small joke. Instead she was looking at the monitor with renewed interest.

"This is no flaw in the film or the machine," Heidi said as she looked closer at the image. "And you're right, Professor, the only thing that could cause this effect is…" she paused, "radioactivity."

An hour and a half after he picked his burden up in San Jose, Carl waited while a janitor let him and Danielle into the classroom that had been left vacant for the summer by the departure of Helen Zachary and almost a quarter of her students. The university's security department, after examining Carl's falsified identification, hadn't hesitated to cooperate. Oh, the FBI ID card was real enough, but the bureau had no idea that the Event Group had been authorized to issue them to nonbureau personnel by the president of the United States.

"Nothing more eerie than a classroom with no students in it," Danielle said as she looked around at the empty lab tables and displays.

"Especially one with a bunch of animal skeletons," Carl said, half smiling. "Here's the professor's private office." He tried the knob and found it locked.

Danielle stepped forward and eased Carl out of the way. She produced a small device; spreading its thin, wirelike probes, she easily slid it into the door's lock and jiggled. There was a click. Danielle turned the knob and the door opened.

"Standard issue?" he asked.

"Every woman should have one," she said as she stepped into the office and turned on the light.

Carl felt as though control of their small investigation had suddenly changed leadership.

Several filing cabinets had been left standing open. Danielle looked closely at one of the locks and called Carl over.

"What do you think of this?" she asked.

He could see small gouges in the chromed steel of the lock around the mechanism's opening. "It's been picked," he said. "Someone has cleaned this place out."

"I agree. Whatever your professor had here is now in the possession of another," she stated as she perused the maps on the wall. "Her interests in South America are clear nonetheless," she said as she traced a finger along the Amazon.

Carl opened his cell phone to call Niles but its indicator showed the signal strength was very low. He closed the phone, picked up the receiver of the office's desk phone, and listened for the dial tone. On a hunch, he punched the number nine and a new tone told him he had an outside line. Then he placed a cup-size instrument over the earpiece of the phone. Danielle recognized it as a programmed descrambler.

"Can't get a signal in here, so I have to be careful what I say. This won't be a secure line, at least on our end." It had taken Everett a few seconds to close his cell phone, enough time to allow a bad guy to track his usage number if the signal was bugged.

"You Americans, always so paranoid," Danielle said as she lifted a champagne flute and looked at it curiously.

In the parking area outside of the sciences building, four men sat in a panel van. The vehicle was full of state-of-the-art monitoring equipment purchased through a dummy corporation. The fine print on the invoices could easily have been traced back to the Banco de Juarez, if anyone had been interested. Each man monitored an area of the office that had either been bugged or tapped into.

"I have an outside line open on the office phone," one of the men said in Spanish.

"Contact Captain Rosolo," another of the men said.

The side door slid open suddenly, illuminating the interior and shocking the communications men. They scrambled to stand in the presence of their commander.

"Keep your places. What is it you are monitoring?" the captain asked as he sat himself in front of a computer and started typing commands. "I take it you are wired into the classroom security cameras?"

The four men were unsettled that Rosolo had been that close to them, and their nervousness showed. The captain had a reputation for unforgiving ruthlessness.

"There are two people in the classroom office. One is a large man and the other a woman," the supervisor said nervously. "We tagged the man's cell phone, but he failed to get a signal out so he has utilized the office landline. But once he's clear of the building, we'll be able to track his cell's movements and him also."

The computer monitor connected with the camera feed to the professor's area inside the building. Unfortunately it showed only the classroom, not the office. Rosolo typed in another command and the video rewound until the two people were clearly seen. He didn't recognize the man, but the woman was another story.

"Patch in the gentleman's conversation," he ordered.

Carl was speaking with Jack and Virginia.

"The place is cleaned out," Carl said.

Then instead of a voice on the other end, a series of clicks, beeps, and static filled the air around the speaker in the van.

"The other end of his conversation is scrambled," Rosolo announced, as he picked up a set of headphones and listened more closely.

"Uh-huh, yeah, we can do that. Have you contacted the Department of the Navy? I'll need some force behind me in New Orleans; as I said before, the master chief is definitely one bottle short of a six-pack," Carl said.

More beeps and screeches.

"Have you informed the director?" Carl asked.

Scrambled response.

"He's already left for Virginia?"

The noises once again.

Now, Rosolo could tell by a muffled sound that the man who was talking placed his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone. The captain still could clearly understand what was being said to the woman in the office.

"They think they have an outside shot at recovering the map of Padilla. The director will be landing there in about three hours," was the mumbled comment. Then Carl returned to his telephone conversation. "Yes, sir, I'll contact you from New Orleans."

Rosolo laid down the headphones as the connection was terminated. He looked at the frozen picture of the woman on the computer screen. Then he made a decision.

"Contact B team and have them ready the aircraft with an open flight plan ready to move at a moment's notice," he said without looking at his men. "Tell them we will leave within thirty minutes. We now have this man's cell phone tapped and flagged and what he knows, we know. He is not going after the map, so he and this woman are not going to be our target at this time. We'll wait and see what they uncover in Virginia. Inform our team at San Jose International to stand by for immediate departure when and if they discover anything worthwhile."

The four communications men went to work as Rosolo assigned a file name to the picture of the woman on the monitor. He quickly brought up a secured e-mail address, keyboarded the picture to it as an attachment, and hit send. Then he picked up a satellite phone and punched in a number, as he slid the side door open and stepped out.

"Senor Mendez," he said when the phone three thousand miles away was answered.

"Yes, Captain."

"I have sent you some information that is a concern for security reasons. Check your computer when it is possible to do so. Alone."

"Yes, I will do that," Mendez said.

"It seems our friend's ex-wife is on official business in Helen Zachary's office; she is with a man who has just conversed with someone using a scrambled and encrypted phone on a secure line. Therefore, we must assume this is not to our benefit."

"I agree; is there anything else?" Mendez asked.

"Yes, a very serious development. Whoever these people are, they may have stumbled upon a means to find the whereabouts of the Padilla map."

"We cannot allow that map to fall into the hands of those that could harm our quest. I assume you are in the process of handling this disturbing matter?"

"The order has been given. It may take time, but if they locate the map, we'll be there soon after." Rosolo hung up and tossed the phone back inside the van to one of the technicians. Then he walked to the entrance to the sciences building and waited.

It was only five minutes before he heard footsteps and talking through the double doors. He straightened his tie and opened the right side door quickly.

"Oh, excuse me," he said as he bumped into the woman and then moved out of her way.

Danielle smiled politely and she and Carl stepped through the doorway. As they did so Rosolo, still appearing to fuss with his own garments, adeptly placed a tracer bug on the woman's suit jacket. As he held the door open for a moment, he turned and watched Danielle and the large man leave the building. When he was sure they were out of sight, he returned to the large van.

Captain Rosolo, chief of security for clandestine operations for the Banco de Juarez International Economica, would make sure there was no interference from anyone, now that Senor Mendez was on his way to Padilla's golden site.

The trail to that same destination would end for these two people in New Orleans, if they proved to be more resourceful there.

Director Niles Compton was still shaken and Lieutenant JG Jason Ryan could barely refrain from teasing him. The director had unceremoniously lost his cookies somewhere over Kentucky on their flight into Andrews Air Force Base. The air force enlisted men acting as their ground crew wouldn't be too happy cleaning that mess up. But Niles had wanted to get here as fast as possible, and Ryan had just fortuitously two days before finished his transition from the navy's Super Tomcat to the air force's F-16 B, two-seat trainer, which they had used to get to Virginia. Niles hadn't been happy with the choice of aircraft but reluctantly borrowed one anyway from the Nellis AFB inventory. Every few minutes while they were aloft the director would glance at Ryan and try to catch him in the act of snickering. He knew he was going to have a talk with the lieutenant about the barrel roll as they descended from altitude. Their drive to Arlington was chilly at best.

As Ryan pulled the green government car up to the guard shack at the National Cemetery he rolled down his window, allowing the hot and muggy summer air into the air-conditioned interior. He flashed his naval ID; and Niles, his National Archives card, which indicated he was the equivalent of a four-star general. The guard waved them through. Instead of taking the main road that led to the cemetery's parking area, Ryan followed the directions Niles indicated and instead drove directly to the old mansion. As they approached the house on the hill, Niles was thrilled to see it once again, not only because of its historical significance, but because he knew this was the very first Event Group Complex, housing the very first discoveries from the early, heady days of the Group's formation by Teddy Roosevelt through the administration of Woodrow Wilson.

The nineteenth-century mansion seems out of place amid the more than 250,000 military grave sites that stretch out around it. Yet, when construction began in 1802, the estate had been intended as a living memorial to George Washington. It had been built by the first president's adopted grandson, George Washington Parke Custis, and eventually became the home of one of the most beloved men in American history, Robert E. Lee, and his wife, Mary Anna Custis. They had lived at the house until 1861, when the Civil War broke out. During the succeeding occupation of Arlington, several bases were constructed on the 1,100-acre site, including what would later become Fort Meyer. The property was eventually confiscated for the official reason of back taxes, but many influential people saw it as a punishment for Robert E. Lee for his participation in the rebellion. It became a cemetery in 1864.

As they went past the many-columned facade of the mansion, they followed the drive around to the back of the property. They saw several National Parks guards eyeing them. They drove directly to the maintenance shed adjacent to the back of the grounds, entering its open double doors. Once they were inside, the doors closed automatically and several dim lights came to life around them. Ryan reached to open his seat belt but was stopped by Niles, whose hand eased over and grabbed his arm as a hidden speaker gave an order.

"Please remain in your vehicle, Lieutenant Ryan."

Ryan grinned and looked around the dimly lit shed. He could see no one. "I take it we're in for more Event Group spooky crap?" he asked Niles.

Niles just shrugged and let go of Ryan's arm.

Suddenly Ryan felt his stomach lurch as the dirt floor of the maintenance shed began to descend into the ground. He couldn't help but become a little queasy as he watched the sides of on unlit giant elevator shaft quickly lower the car into the Virginia hillside.

"Don't like it, do you, Mr. Ryan? It's a lot harder when you don't know it's coming and some wise guy starts messing with you. Stomach a little upset?"

"Okay, I'm sorry for the barrel roll. I won't do it again. I get your point."

Niles smiled in the darkness surrounding them.

The elevator finally came to rest 1,700 feet below ground. As the lights of level one came into view, Ryan could see two men in Event Group coveralls awaiting the car. Then the two security men came forward to open their doors, inviting Niles and Ryan to step into the very first Event Group compound, which had been built in 1916.

"Welcome to the depository, sir."

"Thank you, gentlemen. This is Lieutenant Junior Grade Ryan; he's one of your security department officers."

Ryan nodded his head and glanced around the first level. The cement walls were clean and white in the overhead fluorescents and looked as if they were well maintained.

A lance corporal came forth and wrote the names of the visitors onto a clipboard. "Where will you be going today, Director Compton?"

"Archives. I take it the old Cray is up and working?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Golding keeps to a rather strict maintenance schedule."

"Good, good."

"Will you be going to level seventeen today?"

"No, we'll not be touring today, just research," Niles answered, even though he would have loved to show Ryan some of the first discoveries of the Event Group. Not the Ark of the Great Flood, which had been moved to the Nellis facility, or the other large finds like that, but the smaller ones such as the body — replete with armor — of Genghis Khan, or the mummified corpse of Cochise, the Apache leader thought to have been secretly hidden away by his people. Just the samples of the original plague from the Dark Ages would be enough to scare the bejesus out of poor Ryan. But that would have to wait for now, as they were desperately short of time.

"Very well, this way, sir," the lance corporal said.

Niles and Ryan fell into step behind the two security men. They walked down a corridor beyond which the secrets of worlds past surrounded them.

As Carl drove among the old docks, he could see his country's naval history as it was scrapped: cruisers, tin cans, and frigates were being dismantled and sold for recycling. There was nothing sadder to a naval man than seeing these magnificent ships meeting such an inglorious end.

Upon arriving in New Orleans, they saw a city that was still rebounding from the hurricane of '05. The people had returned in record numbers to rebuild to try and make the Big Easy the city it once was. The U.S. Navy had helped out by positioning ships earmarked for the scrapyard here, their part in easing the rampant unemployment of the damaged city.

As Carl counted down the numbers painted on the sides of the buildings, he saw that most of them were now rundown and dilapidated. They had gone unrepaired while the U.S. Navy decommissioned the entire dock area. The navy was now in the process of turning over the acreage to the money-strapped city.

"There it is," Danielle said, as she pointed out the large building coming up on their right.

Carl eased their rental car into a space that was crowded with old ship parts and skeletons of boats of all kinds. Some were navy, whereas others were nondescript and nothing more than junk. They could hear the barely audible thump of heavy metal music coming from inside the building in which they had been searching.

"What an awful place for your navy to put a man. Did you say he was once a master chief in your SEAL unit?" she asked.

Carl walked up to a large steel door and slammed his fist against it several times, making a loud banging that they could hear echo inside. "Still is a master chief and the meanest son of a bitch I've ever met in my life," he said turning back toward Danielle. "He was a SEAL before it was glamorous to be one. He was in on the Son Tay raid in '70 before I was even born."

"That was where your Special Forces tried to free your prisoners of war?"

He was impressed with her knowledge. "That's right," he said, banging again on the steel door, but keeping his eyes on the woman.

"I did my thesis on colonialism and the French involvement in Southeast Asia, particularly Vietnam. You look surprised."

"I admit, I may have underestimated you."

"Score one for the enemy," she said, her own eyes locked on his.

Carl stepped back from the large metal door and looked around.

"Go away, this is government property, dickwad," said a voice from the other side of the door.

"That's Master Chief Jenks all right, not a good word to say to anyone," Carl said as he stepped back up to the door. "Watch that mouth, Chief. You're addressing a United States naval officer!"

"I don't give a flying fuck if it's John Paul Fucking Jones, get the hell out of here. This is my project and I let in who I want."

Danielle placed her hand over her mouth, hiding her smile.

"Told you, Father Flanagan he's not," Carl said jokingly, then turned back to the closed door. "All right then, Chief, how about there's a lady out here who needs to use the head; she's been on a plane for three and a half hours."

"Lady? She good lookin'?"

Carl turned to look at Danielle. "Gorgeous," he said as he quickly turned away from her.

There was silence on the other end for about two minutes, and then they heard the hum of an electric motor and the music inside came blaring out of the opening door. "Welcome to the Jungle," a song by Guns N' Roses, drove Carl back a step.

The music was lowered. After their eyes adjusted they saw they were looking at a giant tarp that had been hung from the old rafters. It covered most of the interior of the building from view. A man in dirty overalls approached them, down a set of stairs. He was wiping his greasy hands on a red rag.

"Who the hell are you and where's this woman?" At that moment the man caught sight of Danielle. "Fuck me three ways from Sunday, you were right, she's a looker."

"The navy never managed to tame that filthy mouth of yours, huh?" Carl said.

The master chief looked him over, and then the light of recognition lit the older man's eyes like a lantern.

"I'll be dipped in whale shit. Toad?"

Carl turned red at the mention of his nickname, but grabbed the master chief just the same and hugged him.

"Commander Toad to you, you slimy bastard," he said.

The two men hugged and patted each other on the back as Danielle watched. Then Jenks pushed the younger man away suddenly.

"Hey, you didn't turn gay on me, did you, boy? Could have sworn you grabbed my ass there," he said as he smiled at Carl, then at Danielle.

"No I didn't, and that's not very PC of you. Chief Jenks." He gestured toward his companion. "This is Danielle, she's—" he hesitated for a split second, "she's a friend of mine."

Jenks looked her over, his eyes lingering on her chest a moment longer than necessary. He continued smiling but didn't offer his hand.

"As I said, she's a looker all right," he stated flatly. He looked accusingly at Carl. "She's also a spook, I can smell it. You should watch the company you hang out with, Toad," he said as he slapped Carl on the arm and walked away.

Carl frowned at Danielle. "He has a nose for people," he whispered, and then called toward Jenks, who had gone back to wiping his hands on a greasy rag. "She's not a spy, Chief, she's in the same line of work as me."

Jenks stopped but didn't turn. "And that is?" "Let's just say I'm still in the navy and we're the good guys and leave it at that, okay?"

Jenks finally met his eyes again. "Okay, Toad, you're a good guy. Now what the fuck do you want?"

"We came to see your project," Carl said.

"You're not getting it, so go away. Hell, it's not even finished and probably won't be before the navy shit cans the project and me."

"I may be able to help you there, Jenksy, now; just let us see the damned thing."

Jenks put his left hand on his hip, then removed his dirty white saucer cap and ran a still-filthy right hand through his crew-cut gray hair. Then he reached into his overall pocket and withdrew a stub of a cigar. Carl smiled, as these were signs that told him the man was relaxing.

"All right, but you're not getting her. I've still got major logistical concerns here; she won't be ready for river trials for…hell, maybe never." Jenks started for the giant tarpaulin covering three-quarters of the building. "Unless you have a check on you for about five and half million bucks."

Carl began to follow Jenks. Danielle came up close to his side. "How cute, your nickname was Toad?"

"Yeah, and I don't want to talk about it," he said as he stepped around a large empty crate. It was stenciled with a bright red logo that had several lines painted on it, depicting a bright light. It read laser device, handle with care.

"Come on, why did they give you that name?" she asked, smiling and ignoring Carl's curious glance at the empty crate.

"Because the stupid bastard used to jump six feet in the air every time ordnance went off around him in training, that's why," Jenks said as he started to pull the tarp aside. Then he stopped and looked at Danielle. "But he was still the best damned SEAL I ever trained and, as I hear it from people, he's the best there ever was, so as you can see, he worked out that little problem with loud noises he had when he was a kid." He pulled hard on the tarp. "Ain't that right, Toad?"

Carl smiled embarrassedly as the tarp was pulled away. His smile faded as he looked up and saw for the first time the master chief's project.

"Goodness," was all Danielle could utter.

"Damn," Carl mumbled as they stepped into the mad scientist's naval workshop of wonders to take in a gleaming jewel hidden away in a city that had come violently close to being deleted from the American landscape.

The vessel looked like something taken straight out of a science-fiction movie. The nose was enclosed and comprised mostly of glass except for the framing. It was shaped like a boat in the bow but that was where the resemblance ended. Except for the tri-hull shape of its body, the vessel looked more like a sleek submarine. It was over 130 feet long and was sectioned in twenty-two-foot compartments. Some areas were open on the top at the midway point, as an upper deck with seating around the gunwales. It had a high observation tower amidships that rose forty feet into the air, which included the ship's radar and antenna domes above the crow's nest. The vessel was gleaming white. Toward the stern, USS Teacher was in blue cursive and punctuated by a large illustration of a woman's eye, with the brow perfectly and beautifully arched over it. Large portholes, six-foot rectangles of thick glass, ran along the length of each section, both above the waterline and below. At the bottom of each section were four small protrusions that looked like the water jets of a speedboat.

Carl climbed a scaffold so he could see inside the glass nose and make out some of the command bridge. There were large chairs for the command pilot and a seat for a copilot. The interior of the bridge was dark save for a few glowing instrument lights.

"She's beautiful, Jenks," Carl said, admiring the composite graphite hull.

The master chief smiled and then looked hard at Danielle.

"She is that," she said quickly as Jenks grunted satisfaction with her late response. "But why did you name her Teacher?" she asked.

"I don't know, because she's built to teach, I guess… plus it was an old Jethro Tull song I liked, you know, I thought it was cool," he said, lowering his head, waiting for them to laugh at his mention of the old rock group.

"She's a river craft? She's long and looks too big to navigate tight waterways," Carl said as he came down from the metal scaffolding.

Jenks tapped the composite hull. "Let me tell you something, Toad, this baby only draws six and a half feet of water. She rides high but is capable of taking on ten thousand pounds of water ballast. She has a whole section in the middle there that lowers deeper into the water by telescoping her hull by fifteen feet for observation purposes. She has an enclosed two-man submersible and an observation diving bell. In her stern housing, she has fifteen different unmanned, radio-controlled probes for underwater research. She has cabin space for fifty-one people. Her galley is better equipped than any vessel in the navy. She's totally sealed and air-conditioned. Her electronics suite is state-of-the-art, and she has three labs on board and room for one more if we clear out some storage lockers. She has a glass-enclosed live well that holds five thousand gallons of water and is fully oxygenated. The sections can be separately maneuvered by independent water jets to match the tight turns involved in river operation, thanks to the expanding rubber gaskets between the sections; and the water jets are controlled by computers so accurate she can bring her bow all the way around and kiss her own ass. She can be dismantled and flown anywhere in the world and be in the water ready for action within twenty-four hours. Each section is light enough to be carried by a Blackhawk or Seahawk helicopter."

"This is the most amazing thing I've ever seen," Carl exclaimed.

"Took ten years of my life, and now the navy's trying to shortchange me," grumbled Jenks as he ran his hand lovingly along Teacher's side.

"This is an amazing science platform," Danielle said.

"Yeah, but I doubt if she ever has a chance to see the water," the master chief said glumly.

Carl walked straight up to him and smiled. "Chief, we need to borrow her and you, too."

"Look, Toad, she needs about another two tons of electronics. Hell, she needs her whole navigation and mapping system. So unless you can write me a check for about five and a half million dollars and get the Department of the Navy and the president of the United States to give her to you, you're up shit's creek without a paddle, boy. Besides, I'm done kowtowing to those bastards anyway. You can't have her."

"Well, Chief, I only go up the creeks I'm told to sail, so however much and what it is that you need, I'll have it here within the day, and the people you need to assist you in installing it," Carl said as he brought out his cell phone.

The master chief looked at Carl and then at Danielle, who smiled and nodded her head, letting him know Carl was serious.

"Put the damned phone away," he said. "I'm not the whore you seem to think I am, Toad. The answer is no!"

Carl stopped dialing. "Where we're going, we'll need one hell of a boat. This is your chance to get this baby into action and prove what she can do. They stuck you down here to keep you out of the way, Chief, so that means they don't think you have anything to offer the navy anymore."

"You think you can play me like a fiddle? Well, my boy, you have another fuckin' think comin'. I would just as soon burn this thing as to—"

"There are college kids down there, Chief. They haven't been heard from in weeks. We need you. And we need Teacher." Danielle held Jenks's glare with her own softer version. Then his features relaxed and his eyes traveled down to her chest once again, like a magnet drawn to steel.

"Kids, huh?"

"A few of them the same age as your granddaughter."

Jenks addressed Carl. "Low blow, Toad." He angrily tossed the stub of cigar away. "Well, you gonna make that call or not? I need a lot of shit to complete this tub!"

Carl made the call.

Danielle looked Teacher over again and hoped the vessel was everything the master chief said she was. They would need every possible advantage for where they were going.

As for Carl, he was more practical. He just hoped the gleaming white experimental boat would float.

Niles stood looking at the old computer center used by the Event Group. The complex contained custom-made filing cabinets and shelving that stored a million or more accounts of historical, mythic, or legendary events — everything from the location of Atlantis to the incredible stories of yetis, the mythical beast of the Himalayas, to the suspected ancient power sources discovered by Egypt three thousand years before.

"Some computer center you have here, Mr. Director. A little bit behind the times, aren't we?" Ryan asked as he ran a hand along one of the old filing cabinets.

"The information covered in these files, Lieutenant Ryan, is the whole of our ancient and modern world. Facts and stories, even rumors are stored here. The combined knowledge of the ancient world started this facility."

"And you expect us to find something here, sir?" Ryan said as he brushed some dust off his hands.

"Actually, we have the Librarian. One of the first Crays ever installed in a government facility," Niles said as he made his way over to a small cubicle. "At first it was one of those card-wielding Univac machines that we updated from time to time, but we eventually upgraded in 1980 to a system that was called, naturally enough, the Librarian."

Niles used a key to open the door to the cubicle that sat in the middle of the gymnasium-size storage area. The room was dark and dank and had a musty smell that made Ryan wiggle his nose.

"Smells like the old Librarian may have kicked the proverbial bucket, sir."

Niles ignored the comment and flipped on the overhead lights, illuminating the small computer station whose speakers were mounted on both sides of the large desk. There was only one chair and Niles sat in it. Ryan looked around and decided to just cross his arms and wait.

"The auditory system was installed two years ago by Pete and me to make research easier for historians of the group. I'm afraid this voice isn't as feminine as what we have with Europa, but it's kind of quaint."

Ryan watched as Niles adjusted a microphone in front of him and pushed a small button, activating a small but adequate monitor pop-up on the right side of the desk.

"Let's just hope what Professor Zachary erased on Europa back home is still in here."

"Hello, Librarian," Niles said into the microphone.

The monitor came to life as the speakers did.

Good afternoon, Dr. Compton, or would you like to be addressed as Director Compton now? the male voice asked, referring to his promotion since the last time they'd spoken.

To Ryan it sounded disturbingly like the voice of HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey, the same computer that went nuts and killed everyone.

"Dr. Compton is fine. Librarian, can you access my last log-on to your sister system, Europa in Nevada?"

Yes, Dr. Compton, I can; I enjoy interfacing with Europa. "I imagine you do," Ryan mumbled.

Rear Admiral Elliott Pierce was studying an intelligence brief, on the continuing withdrawal of Iranian armor divisions from the border with Iraq, when a knock sounded at his door. He summoned the person in and was given a note.

"This just came in from Signal, sir."

Pierce took the note from the young signalman and excused him. As he read the communication, his face fell. He immediately picked up the phone and called a number at the White House. The president's national security advisor picked up on the first ring.

"Ambrose," the voice said.

"We have a problem," Pierce said softly, for no other reason than he felt deceitful.

"What?"

"The Red Flag we placed on the National Archives file that Professor Zachary used, which is cross-referenced with our database, has just been activated."

"Jesus Christ, by whom?"

"It says terminal 5656, but there is no terminal 5656, according to our intelligence records."

"So, maybe it's a glitch," the national security advisor said in an annoyed tone.

"I don't believe that much in coincidence, do you?" Pierce asked smugly.

"Well, what can you do?"

"My signals team was able to track the terminal's location; you won't believe it."

"We don't have time for this. Where is it?"

"Arlington National Cemetery — the mansion's maintenance facility, of all places."

"Goddammit, what in the hell is going on here?"

"I don't know, but we'd better get someone over there or this could get rather sticky."

"Do you have access to outside nonmilitary people for this?"

"Yes, and they're right down the road. They can be onsite in twenty minutes with equipment that could trace this phantom computer terminal. Are you going to say anything to him about this?"

"Hell no, just take care of it, he's got enough on his mind already. He has a meeting with the president about an appearance at a fund-raiser for his campaign tonight. Just eliminate this problem any way you can, understand?"

"This is getting to be too costly. We're going to hang for this if we're caught."

"Then the object here is — what? Not to get caught. And don't inform the others about this development, they're getting cold feet enough as it is. Eliminate whoever is snooping into that file."

The director of Naval Intelligence hung up the phone and removed a small black book from his desk drawer. Whoever had accessed that unlisted computer terminal wouldn't live long enough to benefit from it.

"Okay, Librarian, is your interface complete with Nellis complex?"

Yes, Dr. Compton, Europa is online.

"Good, Europa, identify last three queries, Compton, Niles, Director Department 5656."

Yes, Dr. Compton, formulating, the female voice answered. Last three queries made by Director Compton to Europa at Nellis complex were: Question number one, Number of the four papal medalists still alive on North and South American continents in 1874; question number two, What was name of recipient? And question number three, What, you mean the information was erased from the old Cray system?

"Okay, Europa, thank you. Librarian, have you located said files?"

Yes, Dr. Compton, the HAL-like voice answered.

"Answer to first query, how many papal medal recipients were still alive on North and South American continents in 1874?" Niles asked as his palms started to sweat.

Searching, Librarian answered as the small screen flashed to Niles's right.

Niles shifted impatiently, hoping this hadn't been a wild-goose chase.

According to Royal Canadian death records, the general census of citizens of Mexico, the official census of Brazil, and the state and territorial records of the United States, one member was still alive in 1874, Librarian answered.

Niles read the duplicate printed answer on the screen with renewed hope; it was the same answer that Europa had given back at Nellis, so the file might just be intact after its initial transcription into the new system. "Question. What was the last name of recipient?"

Searching, Dr. Compton, Librarian answered.

"I guess this is it, huh?" Ryan asked. He, too, felt nervous and leaned closer to the monitor.

"It could be life or death for a lot of people lost down there in the Amazon," Niles said as he bit his lower lip, waiting for the much slower computer than Europa to disgorge the wanted information. Suddenly the voice activated and the monitor flashed to life with a green glow.

Name of remaining recipient; Keogh, Myles Walter; occupation, United States Army; born: 1840, County Carlow, Ireland; recipient ofearlier-described papal honors and veteran of the Battalion of St. Patrick's for armed service to the Vatican.

The name that Librarian had said was familiar; Niles was sure he had heard it before. So was Ryan. "Hey, that name, it sounds—" blurted the lieutenant.

"Question," Niles said, cutting off Ryan as he slowly sat back in his chair. In a low voice, almost as if he was afraid to ask the question, "Date and place of death?"

Searching.

Niles stared at the liquid crystal screen and waited, Ryan planted only inches from his shoulder.

Death occurred at present-day Crow Agency, Montana, United States, June 25, 1876.

Niles felt his heart start to sink. "Question. What was the unit Keogh served with, and the historical name of the location of death?"

Searching, Librarian said in its flat and insane-sounding voice.

As the answer came on screen, Niles lowered the volume of the speakers as history came flooding back in on him, burying all hopes of finding the map if it had been with Myles Keogh when he died. The map was indeed, as Helen had said in her letter, lost forever.

"Jesus Christ, we're fucked," Jason Ryan muttered as he looked at the screen.

Printed out on the monitor was Librarian's answer to his last two inquiries.

Place of death: Valley of the Little Bighorn, Montana, U.S. Territory. Captain Myles Keogh served with operational line unit, Company I, Seventh United States Cavalry.

Niles was linked by conference call from the center in Arlington, three thousand miles away, as the team at Nellis gathered for his briefing on what he and Ryan had just learned from Librarian. Jack and Virginia were at the conference table, along with Pete Golding. Alice sat in her regular seat beside Niles's empty chair.

"Okay, Pete, Virginia, did you get a chance to check my facts from this morning?" Niles asked.

"Yes," Virginia said as she picked up her notes. "Without looking at your research as you requested, we started our own track on the papal medalists, and came up with the exact same information when it dead-ended on the date of Helen's theft."

"May I ask what it is you are talking about?" Jack asked.

"I'm sorry, Jack. Let me get you up to speed. The Padilla diary, as we all know, has been stolen from the archdiocese in Madrid. We have a pretty good idea who took it, but the map seemed a dead end until we linked it to a Spanish priest who, in 1874, has been a papal medalist and a veteran of St. Patrick's Battalion. I won't go into it all here, but suffice it to say in Professor Zachary's letter to me, this was the way to uncover the facts of the map's whereabouts. We linked it to other veterans at that time with whom the Vatican had direct contact, men who could be trusted, and, to make a long story short, we believe we have traced the map to our own country. But just where and to who it was sent has become a major problem," Niles related mechanically over the speakerphone.

The director took the next ten minutes to explain the bad news about the map. The four people around the conference table shook their heads, knowing the odds of the map's being their salvation was now a moot point.

"I started making phone calls from here and I managed to contact descendants of Keogh, who currently live in New York State. Nobody has or ever heard of such a map. Whatever he had taken with him to the Little Bighorn were not among his personal articles returned to his family. His body was disinterred from the battlefield and moved to New York, and was buried with nothing other than his papal medals and uniform," Niles said. "The medals were returned because they were still on his person at the time after the battle by General Alfred Terry's column. He was also known to have had a large cross at the time that the regiment left Fort Abraham Lincoln in the Dakota Territory. This fact is mentioned in several memoirs, not only by other officers, but even in an account of Libby Custer's, the general's widow. She had personally given Keogh a package that was forwarded to him from New York by courier before the ill-fated campaign began. She even said it was a large, gaudy-looking thing that belonged on a wall and not around a man's neck."

"What do you think, Niles? Is that cross something the Vatican may have entrusted to Keogh," asked Virginia.

"I do."

"And records of items recovered at the Little Bighorn or Indian accounts of pillaged material at the site has never made mention of a large cross?" Jack asked.

"I asked Alice to get into the National Parks Service database. Alice, you have anything?" Niles asked.

"We are currently waiting on the most current archeological listings that were conducted by the National Parks Service. They have been unearthing so much since the big brush fire in the 1980s. They just conducted the last field hunt only five weeks ago, and have not published their findings yet," Alice said, taking a breath. "But the odds are good that some warrior may have taken the cross, since that item was very familiar to them, unlike the papal medals the captain was known to have worn."

"I see. Let me know when you get the information on the dig," Niles said. "Now, I want all historical divisions, and I mean everyone, combing through what we have on the Little Bighorn in case we uncover something about the missing map. Just in case it's found and is still in Montana, I want you, Jack, to head there right now. Take someone who knows something about the Battle of the Little Bighorn because I'm afraid I have the American History Department split in two helping Latin American Studies. Besides, we have to get stepping ahead of this thing or those kids down there may die."

"Yes, sir."

"And I have the perfect person to accompany you, Jack," Alice interjected. "She's quite an expert on the Battle of the Little Bighorn. It was her thesis topic."

Jack looked at his watch and saw it was only moments before the geology class let out for the afternoon. He peeked into the classroom window. He anticipated the instructor's wrath when she learned he had already gone into her room to pack some field gear for her, to hurry the process along. Unknowing of this, Sarah McIntire was enthusiastically explaining something with the use of a virtual diagram that was holographically projected onto a small podium at the front of the room. As she spoke, the three-dimensional diagram of an underground chamber rotated in colors of green, blue, and red. Jack stepped into the room, and gestured for Sarah to continue when she frowned at his intrusion. The fifty-two students, mostly military personnel, turned to look at him. Not just a few eyes lingered on the man who was quickly becoming a legend at the Group.

"Now as I said before, don't be fooled just because a room in a tomb has no apparent exits. Ancient designers usually had emergency egress points that only they knew about. Most didn't favor being trapped before their job was done." Sarah pointed to a seemingly solid wall on the hologram that was outlined in blue. "The key to these escape routes are usually found in some sort of ornamentation, such as this found in KV-63."

Jack knew that KV-63 stood for Kings Valley 63, a tomb uncovered more than sixty years before in Egypt's Valley of the Kings, not far from where Howard Carter had made his discovery of King Tutankhamen fabulous tomb.

"As you see," the hologram magically enlarged to show an ornate wall symbol that had at one time been a torch holder — several were placed strategically around the chamber, "this was discovered purely by accident."

The laser close-up became enhanced even more and, as it did, the ornate holder in the shape of a jackal's head twisted. The facing popped free of the wall.

"Surprise, surprise," Sarah exclaimed, "The cover was concealing a fulcrum release switch, which operated a gravity feed doorway."

As the students watched in awe, the laser hologram depicted a lever inside the wall being pulled down, which in turn activated a sand pour that went into a large container buried in the wall. As it grew heavy with sand (five tons of it, Sarah explained), the hidden escape door inside the closed tomb started to rise. Once it was up, a green laser stairway was presented that led up and out of the tomb.

"So you see, never think that the ancients were dumb enough to box themselves into a corner; they always had an emergency way out of a tight jam. This technology was not only discovered in ancient Egypt but also in many other places around the world, in Peru, Central America, and even China."

A soft chime sounded and Sarah looked up. "Okay, that's it for today. I'll see you next week and, don't forget, I want some more examples of the amazing fulcrum release points found in other areas, not just tombs. I want the modern-day equivalent."

There were a few moans but most of the students left the class knowing more than they had coming in. Every member of the Event Group had to take advanced collegiate courses in order to stay in the Group, and most heartily volunteered to attend them, in any case.

Jack nodded to the students who smiled and said hello as they exited the classroom.

"There's a rumor you're hard on homework," he said.

Sarah gathered up her notes and turned off the hologram. "Not as hard as I would like. But they do have their regular duties here; can't usurp all their time."

"Well, Teach, I have a duty for you. Your bags are packed, let's go."

"Where we going, Major Collins?" she mocked him just a bit.

"To play cowboys and Indians, Lieutenant." Jack picked up her briefcase and then took her by the elbow.

"Huh?"

"We're going to Montana. Someone seems to think you know something about the Little Bighorn."

"Okay." Sarah stopped and looked at him with her eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute, just who packed my stuff?"

Jack winked and led her out of the room.

As Niles and Ryan sat in the green sedan on their ride back to the surface, the young lieutenant could see the director was deep in thought. The camouflaged dirt floor above them parted to allow the massive lift to complete its journey to the surface, where they were met by a lance corporal. He waved and then disappeared into a small maintenance cubicle that doubled as the security office. Ryan started the car as the large double doors parted and bright afternoon sunshine once again filled the interior. He backed the car out and onto the gravel drive at the back of the mansion. With a last wave at the marine guard, he put the car into drive and headed toward the front of the grounds. As he passed two men in light Windbreakers, Ryan had the queer feeling they were being watched. He lifted his hand and adjusted the rearview mirror in time to see the two men turn and raise their own hands, only theirs weren't full of car mirror. Ryan immediately saw the submachine guns. He pushed Director Compton down hard to the left by grabbing his suit coat, and leaned down across him. Just as they both hit the seat, bullets smashed through the rear window and into the interior of the vehicle. Ryan felt flying glass as he blindly slammed his foot down on the accelerator and shot off the road into the cemetery proper. Niles had the good sense to keep down.

"How many?" he asked without attempting to rise.

"Three," Ryan said loudly over the noise of more rounds striking the metal skin of the car. As he lifted his head to see where to steer toward, he saw a dark green Dodge pickup truck with two men in the front and one standing in the back. It slid sideways in an attempt to head them off. Ryan threw the wheel to the left and turned the car around, narrowly avoiding a large tree. He tried to head back the way they had come. He was starting to wonder where the Parks Service men were when he saw one of them sprawled on the grass not ten feet from his spinning front wheels. "Five!" he called, correcting his earlier statement to Niles.

More bullets pinged and thumped into the moving car, and the passenger-side window blew inward as a larger calibered weapon opened up from the back of the pursuing truck.

"Goddammit, this ain't going to last long if we don't get some help!" Ryan shouted as he slid down again in his seat. As he did so, he crushed the accelerator down to the floor, again narrowly missing some of the outer white crosses that marked the resting place of fallen soldiers and statesmen. Reaching under the seat, he brought up the only weapon they had, an old Colt.45 he had brought along simply because Jack's regulation was that no security man left on a field assignment unarmed. So he chose a weapon he had first qualified with in the navy, the venerable Colt.

"Hang on, sir!" he cried as he swung the car into a complete 180-degree turn. He used his right hand to steer and with the left he pointed the.45 automatic out of the window and started pulling the trigger as fast as he could at the oncoming truck. Several of the large rounds hit the truck's windshield and one or two found their mark, striking the man standing in the pickup's bed. The bullets struck their attacker so hard he went flying out of the back; Ryan was amazed to see him bouncing like a rubber ball until his body struck one of the white crosses and came to an abrupt stop with blood misting the air around the memorial, staining the white marker crimson.

"Hah! Got one," Ryan cheered in momentary triumph.

Niles sat up to see. "Look out!" he shouted as he saw the first two men. They were both standing in the road, shocked that the car was speeding right for them once again.

Ryan pulled the wheel to the right just in time as the two men again opened fire. Several bullets hit the windshield and spider-webbed the safety glass. One of the bullets grazed by his head, only inches from his skull.

Niles reached out and pulled the gun out of Ryan's hand, swinging the weapon out of his broken passenger window. He was cursing up a storm, already angered by the futility of his computer search and, on top of that, at the indignity of being shot at in this hallowed place.

"Son of a bitch!" he screamed as he fired off the last four rounds in the Colt's clip.

Ryan quickly glanced out the side window and was amazed to see one man grab his face and careen into the other, sending his fire off target. Then an amazing thing happened. Ryan didn't see the tree and they slammed into it. It was a rear-right-side quarter-panel graze, but enough to stop the car. At the same time, the dark green pickup truck found the road and came screeching toward them. Ryan figured in a split second that was it, as he turned the ignition and there was nothing but the clicking of the solenoid. The car was as dead as they soon would be. As he thought this, the truck suddenly swerved, as loud popping noises sounded from a distance away. The truck's front window blew inward. The man in the passenger seat grabbed his chest just as his face disintegrated in a hail of large-calibered bullets. The driver of the truck slammed on his brakes and turned the big vehicle around, stopping only to retrieve the one man who was standing and carrying his partner. The driver waited only long enough for the man to throw his buddy into the back and climb in, and then sped away toward the front gate.

Ryan closed his eyes as the silence grew around him. He heard the ticking of the cooling engine and the heavy breathing of Niles, but that was all. He looked around and took stock of the damage. He shook the director until Niles looked at him with a blank stare.

"You okay, sir?" Ryan asked, himself a bowl of jelly.

"How does Jack do it? I mean, that's the first time I have ever been shot at," Niles said as he slowly laid the gun on the glass-covered seat.

"I'm sure he hates it as much as us, sir."

As they watched, several Arlington guards and the Group's undercover marines made their way to the car. Ryan opened the car door; it creaked loudly and fell to the grass. In the next second, the black hand of the lance corporal who had moments earlier seen them off was helping him out of the car, and then the director.

"Ballsy bastards, weren't they?" he said.

"Yeah," Ryan said. "They must have wanted us stopped from leaving here pretty bad."

The lance corporal checked Niles for injuries. "A few more minutes, you might have taken up permanent residence here."

Niles remained blank faced. How in the hell could someone send a team into a covert site, and how in the hell did they know he was there?

"We've got to get back, Corporal. Get us some transport, please," Niles ordered, "before the Parks Service starts asking questions about us."

"Yes, sir," the corporal said as he sprinted off back toward the maintenance shed.

"Mr. Ryan, someone knows what's up here in Washington."

"Yeah, and I would sure like to know who it is. I could have that F-16 trainer armed with no trouble…"

"I admire your sentiments, but we have to get back to the Group, ASAP!"

Three hours later, Ryan and Niles were in the F-16 somewhere over Nebraska when they received a scrambled transmission from the Group's information center. The director was surprised to hear Jack's voice on the other end of the call.

"Major, I thought you were heading out to Montana."

"Copy that, Doctor. We delayed in the hope of tracking down the identity of the man Lieutenant Ryan shot in Arlington."

"And?" Niles asked from twenty-eight thousand feet.

"Niles, the body was gone by the time our security arrived up top. Someone beat us to it."

"Who in the hell are we butting heads with? Major, we'll talk again when we arrive; hang tight until I arrive, then we'll figure out how to proceed."

"Roger. By the way, Mr. Ryan tells me you may have saved both of you with some good shooting."

"I was scared to death!" Niles said quietly into the face mask.

"All battles are fought by scared men who would much rather be somewhere else, Mr. Director. And pass along to Ryan, well done."

Ryan smiled under his mask. Praise from Caesar.

Niles had showered and was sitting in the conference room with Alice, Jack, Pete Golding, and Virginia Pollock; Lieutenant Commander Everett was on the speakerphone from New Orleans. The director filled them in on the details of his trip and the murderous attempt on his life in the cemetery. After they were all updated, there was a knock on the door. An army signals officer entered and gave Niles a sheet of paper. Niles read it and then reached for the remote. He punched a button and a ten-by-six-foot liquid crystal screen slid down from the ceiling at the head of the conference table. He then pushed another button and the numbers 5156 appeared on the screen. Then suddenly a face appeared, blurred and then refocused and stabilized. A woman smiled into the camera and she stepped aside and allowed an elderly man to step into view.

"Director Compton?" the man asked. "I can't see you; we have all of our monitors in use at this time. There is quite a bit of excitement going on here at the moment," the gray-haired man said as he turned and hushed everyone behind him.

"I can hear and see you, Nathan," Niles assured the excited professor as he looked around the table and spoke in hushed tones to the others. "Dr. Allan Nathan, expert on American history, has combined his department with Anthropological Studies to see what can be found out about the Little Bighorn archaeological projects."

"Good, good. We have just received the pictures from the National Parks Service on items they recovered on their most recent dig." Nathan disappeared from the screen for a moment, but his voice could still be heard. "I am forwarding the pictures to you now."

As they watched, over 150 small images of items filled the entire liquid crystal screen. Some were easily recognizable, such as arrowheads, a rusted navy Colt pistol with the wooden handgrips missing, a boot that had deteriorated to the point that it had no leather upper any longer. Buttons with "U.S." embossed on them, belt buckles with the same, and, most disturbing of all, bones. Finger bones, a pelvic bone, and what was easily recognized as a large femur.

The room was quiet as they looked at the images.

"The Parks Service had a real good dig this time out, as heavy rains removed even more topsoil than the fires had a few years back. Now what's so exciting here, Mr. Director, is the fact that for the first time they concentrated heavily on area 2139." As the professor spoke, the images of the artifacts disappeared from the screen and a Parks Service rendering of the battlefield took their place. On the illustrator, at a spot just north of Last Stand Hill, where Custer and his companies had met their grisly fate, was a yellow circle. Inside the circle was a legend with the letters C, I, and L. "This is where Captain Myles Keogh made his stand with the remnants of the three troops, or companies. We have found quite a few artifacts besides the brass and copper shell casings, which indicated, by the way, that the three companies had put up one hell of a defense; the Parks Service discovered thirty-seven military-issued and nonmilitary items in this group that they believed had been carried to the Little Bighorn by Seventh Cavalry troopers."

Niles stood and walked closer to the screen. Jack Collins remained seated, and was writing down the details of what the history department was saying. He had never studied the battle in 1876 the way he should have, only tactically at West Point, never thinking of, or trying to imagine, what it must have been like to have fought and died there.

"According to eyewitnesses, mainly a few Northern Cheyenne and Sioux, Keogh and his men fought bravely, with the captain standing firmly in the center of his dismounted troopers. Some say the image of him like that was the mistaken reason why Custer has always been depicted that way, but the Native Americans swear it was Keogh and not Yellow Hair that was directing the hardest fight."

"Professor, please, we can go over the Seventh's exploits at a more convenient time," Niles said impatiently.

"Yes, of course, I was just trying to set the stage somewhat for you." Now the photos of the total recovered artifacts replaced the map of the battlefield. "These items were recovered inside the areas defended by Keogh's three companies." As he said this, the computer images began to drop away, until only thirty-seven artifacts remained. "We have several items here that could have possibly contained the map: two army-issue saddlebags, ten leather pouches, most for tobacco storage, and three bottles. We do have several Christian crosses, but the most interesting item is this box here."

A yellow circle centered itself on a metal box that appeared rusted shut and heavily dented. As they watched, the item rotated 160 degrees to show the back, below the old hinges. In the center they could barely make out three letters. The first letter was totally wiped out due to rust, so all they could clearly see was "W.K."

Nathan continued. "So the initials were a blank, then W and K. Do you see what I mean? This may be the best lead we have, as it just might have belonged to either Myles Walter Keogh or a sergeant by the name of John William Killkernan, a sergeant attached to L Company. The odds are fifty-fifty."

"Have you contacted the Parks Service and asked if the metal box contains anything?" Niles asked, trying to hold down his excitement.

"That's the bad news, I'm afraid. They say they haven't examined the items as of yet, beyond the initial cleaning and photo stage. They are currently displayed at the battlefield as is, before any forensic work is performed. We requested access but it was denied by the University of Montana, as it was their dig, and the Parks Service gave us lip service about shared responsibility."

"Thank you, Professor Nathan. Pass along to your people that you may have saved our butts on this one, and continue your research. I'll get someone out there. Can you spare someone to accompany?" Niles asked.

There was silence at the other end of the speaker. Then Nathan came back on. "Yes, I can spare me. My team has their chores to do and I'm only in the way."

"Good, I'll set you up with security and another volunteer that knows something about the Little Bighorn. Again, thanks, Professor. Be ready to leave within the hour."

Niles walked a little more briskly back to his chair than when he had left it. He took a deep breath and looked at Jack.

"Major, I think it's time you get to Montana."

"I'll take Mendenhall and Jason Ryan along so I don't have to talk too much to Professor Nathan."

"Take Mendenhall, but I would appreciate it if you leave Mr. Ryan here. I need him to do something and I need you to plan it before you leave here."

"Okay. Alice, you said you had a candidate that knows something of the Little Big Horn?"

"Yes, Director, a certain Second Lieutenant McIntire," Alice said, looking at Jack.

"Good, gather your things and alert Mendenhall and the lieutenant. You'll have transport in thirty minutes at the base. And take care of Nathan, will you, because he's not really a field man."

Jack nodded and started for the door.

"Jack?" Niles said as he hesitated with the phone halfway to his ear.

"Yes?"

"You and Ryan come right back after you've alerted McIntire and Mendenhall as to your travel plans. Mr. Ryan will also be traveling, but a little farther south. And while you're at the battlefield, be careful, we don't know who else is after the map. If Farbeaux is in it, things could turn ugly real quick, and we don't need to lose more soldiers at the Little Big Horn."

"You have something for Ryan I need to know about?" Jack asked.

"I want him to liaise with a rescue element in Panama. I don't know how yet, but we need something in place down there."

"Good idea. We have to come up with a way to feed them real-time intel on what's happening, if we can get down there."

"Jack?" Carl had said nothing until this very moment, on speakerphone from New Orleans.

"Yeah?"

"Watch your ass, buddy. There are bad guys out there looking to stop you hard. The way they went after Niles and Ryan says they mean business."

"I'll do just that, and you and Ms. Serrate stay put and watch yourselves; they may be onto you, as well. Did you start getting the equipment we've started sending out from our stores?"

"Yes, sir, the master chief is like a hog in mud; he's working now with our techs, getting the first of our gifts installed."

"Very good, Commander Everett, see you as soon as we get back from Montana."

Jack winked at Alice and left the conference room, feeling pretty sure that the Little Bighorn could not claim any more U.S. soldiers.

Ten minutes later, Niles had fully explained to Jack his and the president's plan for Jason Ryan. Jack had concurred and he left quickly, going into Signals to request the equipment needed for Niles's South American safety valve, leaving Ryan standing in front of the director's desk. The plan was contingent upon Ryan and his team's meeting up with an experimental platform that might or might not be used. It was all they had, and using it would be a long shot, but Niles still wanted something, anything, set up in case Jack and his team ran into trouble down there.

"I have a job for you, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

"I've seen your training record. Jack's been running you ragged, hasn't he?"

"Yes, sir, he's a real hard—"

"I see you're up-to-date on your jump training, is that accurate?"

Ryan looked at Niles and became a tad off balance. He had indeed finished his jump training, but had quickly found out, after his ejection over the Pacific last year in a naval mishap, that he hadn't taken to parachutes all that much.

"Accurate…I…uh, yes sir, the record is accurate."

"Good, high-level jumps?"

Ryan closed his eyes and remembered Jack and Carl's laughter as he did his three required high-altitude jumps over the Nevada desert. He also remembered screaming for almost two miles through the air before he realized it would do no good.

"Yes, Dr. Compton, high-altitude rating."

Niles smiled at Ryan's fidgeting. He then slid over a large yellow envelope containing the lieutenant's travel orders that instructed him to report to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, to the officially nonexistent Delta force operational team complex there.

"With the apparatus you'll be flying in, you have to have high-altitude jump training for emergency reasons."

Ryan read his orders and then looked at Niles. He started to say something and then stopped, and then decided to ask the question anyway. "I'm not going to help on the Amazon River thing?"

"No, Mr. Ryan, you're helping on the Black Operations…thing."

Twenty minutes later, Alice stuck her head in through his office door.

"The president is on the red phone."

Niles nodded and Alice disappeared. He hesitated before touching the phone on the right corner of his desk. The report was in front of him on the physical comparison check Europa had completed on the girl in the picture taken in San Pedro, and the news had confirmed their worst fears. And now he would have to tell a worried father about his missing daughter. He wished he could have told him before, but that was when they were only guessing as to her identity. Now they were sure. Ninety-six percent accuracy was as sure as the supercomputer could be. And that meant Kelly was indeed in the Amazon with Helen. He steeled himself and picked up the phone's red receiver.

"Mr. President. I have several updates for you. But first I have to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind, and request that you prepare your computer to receive an e-mail attachment."

"Fine, Niles, ask and e-mail away. I only have more shmoozing to do for our esteemed secretary of state. It never ends."

"Mr. President, your oldest daughter is in Washington on summer break?"

"Kelly? No, she's out at Berkeley for the summer. As a matter of fact, she's in deep with me. She went and ditched her protection team to see some boy out there. She called and said not to worry; we traced the call and it was from a pay phone in Los Angeles. It's a secret around here, but I have about three hundred agents of the secret service and FBI trying to track her down before the press gets ahold of it. Why do you ask about her?"

Niles e-mailed the still frame through to the president. "Is this your daughter, sir?"

The president looked closely at the enhanced image. "Goddammit, where is she?"

"That photograph was taken on the very same ship that Professor Zachary sailed on a month ago."

A shocked silence, then, "I'll get the secretary of state down to Brazil and see if we can have their cooperation to send some troops into that area. In the meantime, Niles, get your people moving!"

The connection was terminated and Niles replaced the receiver on his phone. He ran his fingers across his bald scalp.

"This job never gets any easier," he mumbled.

Niles opened his computer's monitor to a large map of South America. His hand reached up and touched the jagged course of the Amazon River; the clear plastic of the touch screen felt cool to his fingertips. As he crossed the open flow of the giant river, his fingers traced red lines that were reactive to his light pressure. Then he saw that wherever he ran his finger, the tracking line followed, and he realized just how much the computer graphic looked like blood.

He removed his hand quickly and looked at the spots his outstretched fingers had been. The flow of red was not only the color of blood, but it was also in the shape of four long claw marks.

The man sat in the forward compartment of the Learjet. He listened to a single headphone jack and smiled as he caught the only intelligible side Everett's conversation. But it was enough. Captain Juan Rosolo, former commander of the Internal Security Division of the Colombian government and inside man for the Cali drug cartel, had the destination for his special squad of men. He made sure the team he was sending to Montana understood in no uncertain terms what the price of failure would be. The quest for the map would end tonight even at the cost of all their lives, either by this Major Collins's hand, or by his own.

"Where are you, Jack?" Niles asked into the scrambled security phone.

"Right now we're about five miles out of the battlefield on US 212; we landed at Logan airport in Billings about six forty. Why, what's up?" Jack asked, looking over at Mendenhall, who was driving. Sarah and Dr. Allan Nathan were in the back debating the merits of General Sheridan's ruthless three-pronged attack method used for the campaign against the hostiles in 1876.

"Jack, I'm getting ready to call the president. We have received some disturbing news about a couple of the passengers onboard the Pacific Voyager. They are Department of Defense employees, Jack, that's all I'll say on this line. Now more than ever, watch your behinds out there; you're a long way from help."

"Warning received and appreciated, Niles, thanks."

The connection was terminated and Jack closed his cell phone. No one spoke for a moment as Mendenhall turned off the highway at the battlefield exit. Jack reached out and turned up the air conditioner, then closed his eyes in thought.

"Look at this, Major," Mendenhall said, indicating a faraway sight outside of his window. The passengers in the backseat were also quiet as they, too, had caught the same image against the darkening eastern sky.

An eerie silence filled the rental car as they followed the asphalt track. A sense of history wasn't the term Jack would use; it was something else. He felt this way very rarely but he did recognize it. He gazed at the monuments sitting atop a small rise in the land, with the tallest in the center catching the late afternoon sun, and the whiteness of the grave markers gleamed. He had a feeling of loss, or more to the point, a feeling of being near a happening, a moment in time that transcends mere history.

The Little Bighorn Battlefield was a place that will be forever remembered. At Last Stand Hill, a man named Custer once stood and fell with over 265 of his men. It was also a place where countless indigenous peoples had fought and died for their right to exist.

Sarah and Nathan knew beyond any doubt it had to be one of the most haunted spots in the world. A small shudder traveled down Sarah's spine as their car traveled over a steel cattle guard that spanned the flowing Little Bighorn River.

"I always heard from people that this place was creepy; now I know what they meant," Sarah said as she watched the monuments fade over the rise.

"I don't know if soldiers were ever meant to be here, for any reason, Major," Mendenhall said, looking out of the window.

Jack didn't comment, only because he thought the sergeant was right — soldiers weren't meant to be here, then and maybe even now.

As they drove up the winding road, several cars passed them. As they entered the gate, they could see more than twenty Native Americans place picket signs into the backs of pickup trucks and vans, as they made ready to leave. A few even waved as Jack's car drove past them.

As they went through the gate and toward the visitor's center, they failed to notice the two large SUVs waiting about a mile away, well off the dirt road and outer RV camping area.

Jack, Mendenhall, Sarah, and Dr. Nathan walked down the path after parking in the lot next to the visitor's center. It was now close to seven thirty and the area was deserted with the exception of a green pickup truck that had a National Parks Service emblem on its door.

Jack tried the door to the battlefield museum first and found it locked. He leaned close and peered through the glass but could see the building was empty. Construction materials were strewn about, as the visitor's center and museum were readying for a much-needed expansion. But the workers had all left for the day hours before.

"Hi there, sorry, the museum closes at six on weekdays," said a man walking down the path toward them. He wore a Smokey the Bear hat and a tan uniform.

Jack stepped forward and held out his hand. "I'm Jack Collins; I believe you were contacted earlier by my boss in Washington," he said. He noticed immediately that the man was armed.

"You the army, Major?" the ranger asked, shaking his hand.

"That's me."

"We expected you before closing time, Major; my partners out front are locking up the gates right now, and the others are around on Reno Hill making sure no one gets locked in."

"Well, we have to see the exhibits. It's very important," Jack said, releasing the taller man's hand.

"National security, I heard your boss. What department did you say you worked with again?"

"The Smithsonian Institute, and Ms. McIntire and Dr. Nathan here represent the National Archives," Jack answered, the small deceit rolling easily from his tongue.

"Well, my boss in D.C. said to let you in, so I guess we'll let you in," said the ranger. "But I must ask that none of you handle anything in the museum. You're to look only, that clear?" he asked, looking beyond Jack at Sarah, Mendenhall, and Nathan.

They all nodded.

"Good, then welcome to the Little Bighorn. I'm Park Ranger McBride, and you're in for a treat if you've never been here before," he said proudly as he pulled a large ring of keys from his pocket.

McBride opened the door that guarded the past of Custer, his men, and the American Indians who had pulled off the biggest upset in the history of the American West, and they followed the ranger inside.

Another ranger was at the front gate saying good-bye and joking with a group of Northern Cheyenne protesters who were a part of the revitalized American Indian Movement (AIM), men the park ranger had come to know by name, as many were there every day in rotating fashion, just like clockwork, to let the public know their discontent on the current state of Indian affairs in Washington, which as always was nearly nonexistent and what little was there was very poor. The ranger laughed with them; he had grown very close with a few. About five of the AIM discontents were members of their separate tribal council police departments and wore their badges inside their coats. As the ranger started to swing the gate closed, he stopped when he saw two large Mercury SUVs coming down the paved road, nearly missing two of the Cheyenne as they drove past, drawing angry glares and a few curses. The ranger stopped with the gate partially opened and went out to greet the park-goers. He held up his hand as the first vehicle pulled up to the gate.

"Sorry, folks, we open again at eight in the morning," he said as he stepped up to the passenger window.

The window rolled down and the ranger was face to face with a man with a thick mustache. The ranger saw the silenced pistol as it was raised and aimed at approximately his right cheek. The rear door of the SUV swung open and he was quickly pulled inside. The ranger was knocked unconscious and stripped down to his underwear. A man of approximately the same size and weight quickly dressed in the ridiculous ranger uniform and then stepped from the SUV. He walked over and pulled open the gate, and the two vehicles entered the park, and then the man closed and secured the main gate with the keys that were still hanging from the lock. Then the imposter walked over to the ranger's truck and followed the first two vehicles as they went toward the visitor's center.

The strange scene at the front gate had not gone unnoticed. Fifteen Cheyenne Indians no more than three hundred yards away knew the park was closed to visitors at night. And they also knew that a place they held as sacred was filling up with white men once again, and that was bad news.

As the four visitors entered the exhibition hall, McBride turned on the fluorescent lighting and the museum came alive around them. There were magnificent representations of all the tribes that had taken part in the battle. Also mannequins dressed in uniforms of the Seventh Cavalry were there, and others were garbed authentically as Plains Indians. Behind glass enclosures were artifacts that had been recovered from the many sources they had eventually come to after June 25, 1876. There were horse bridles, several rusted and broken Springfield rifles, and Colt pistols. Bullets and balls of every caliber were on display, along with very old powder horns for old flintlocks used by some of the tribes. Broken lance points and arrowheads were well protected behind glass. There were reproductions of the Regimental flag, the blue and red swallowtail flag sporting Custer's personal choice of two crossed sabers. Jack perused these items and then turned to McBride.

"The artifacts we're interested in are the recent finds from the dig that was just concluded."

"Ah, I see, those are removed every day to the storeroom so work can be continued on them until noon every day; that was the price we had to pay to keep them on display. They're right back through here." He gestured to a door at the back of the museum.

"This is a going concern here; I didn't expect all this, to tell you the truth," Sarah said admiringly.

McBride stopped with keys in hand as he turned toward Sarah.

"We found out a long time ago that there is something that has lodged in the cumulative American psyche about the battle here, be it Indian or other cultures. It's hard to put a finger on because there have been so many far more devastating defeats on this continent for the American military," he said as he inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. "But for some reason the Little Bighorn haunts this country, maybe not because it was the last stand for Custer and his men, but maybe because, as it turned out, it was the last stand for the men and women he fought against. The tribes here may have won this battle, but it doomed them as a free-roaming people, thus in truth, destroying them. My personal belief is that Americans have always pulled for the underdog, and this place reminds them of what we did to these great people. Besides, all the men, no matter what side they fought on, in this place at least, had to have been the bravest there were at the time. You feel them here. You can even see them here when you're alone."

Sarah knew what the ranger was talking about. She knew they all did, from the moment they laid eyes on the fenced monuments on Last Stand Hill. This place was alive and they all felt it.

McBride turned on the overhead lights as he escorted the quartet into a room that had examination tables from one end to the other. The artifacts they had come to see were in varying positions on the tables, left as they were when the lab was closed for the day. Jack and the others took all this in with a feeling of awe.

"There you are, the latest field finds. Some amazing stuff, to be sure," McBride said.

Jack's eyes went immediately to the time-worn and — eaten saddlebag. The bottom was nearly rotted completely through as it lay under a circular magnifier-lamp. He walked over and snapped on the light, which lit up the lens, and then he pulled out a chair and sat.

"Hey, I said you're not supposed to touch anything!" McBride called out.

"Easy, chief, we're not here to harm anything," Mendenhall said as he grabbed the larger man's arm, restraining him. With his free hand he reached out and deftly removed the ranger's nine-millimeter handgun.

"What the hell is this?" McBride protested.

"I believe you were told there were national security issues involved," Mendenhall said.

"Really, we're not going to harm anything," Sarah chimed in, in an attempt to calm the ranger.

"Oh my," was all Dr. Nathan could muster, staring at the pistol that Mendenhall had removed from McBride's holster.

Jack was meanwhile engaged in looking through the magnifying glass. "Has anything been found in this saddlebag?" He looked across at the ranger, who was still in Mendenhall's arms.

"No, it hasn't even been examined yet."

Jack nodded and took a deep breath. He leaned over and examined the old leather pouch again. Taking a large pair of tweezers, he carefully lifted a small corner of the leather flap. It tore away and Jack cursed.

"You'll destroy it!" the ranger said angrily.

Nathan stepped forward and removed the tweezers from Jack's fingers.

"I think we can probably x-ray that, Major. That should show us the contents pretty clearly." Professor Nathan gently carried the saddlebag to the lab's X-ray area that was behind a screen.

"Just like a bull in a china shop," Sarah mumbled as she leaned over the table to examine the old steel box that had been recovered along with the saddlebag.

Jack shrugged his shoulders at Sarah's halfhearted reproach.

It took Nathan all of five minutes to get the shots of the saddlebag done. He reported, "The only items left in the saddlebags were more than likely organic in nature, perhaps field rations the Indians didn't find. Nothing even remotely resembling a cross, I'm afraid. There was no metal left on the leather at all; even the leather rivets had rusted away."

"Damn." Jack turned and looked at Sarah.

She was turning the metal box over and Jack saw it was the same box as they had seen in the pictures back at the complex. The initials W.K. were on the back in between the rusted hinges.

"Open it," Jack ordered.

"I'm not opening this; I can't do it without destroying it," she protested.

"So why don't you put it down?" McBride asked, fuming over the destruction these people could be causing to the valuable finds he was in charge of protecting.

"You know we're looking for a cross," said Sarah. "Why won't you help us?"

"Because my job description says nothing about assisting thieves and vandals, whoever you are," he said to Sarah's back. Then he turned halfway around and faced Mendenhall, who twirled the ranger's automatic on his right index finger and then quickly placed it back in McBride's holster.

"There, a gesture of trust and goodwill, Ranger. If she destroys the box looking for the cross, you can shoot me," Mendenhall said, looking over at Jack, who nodded his head.

McBride looked away for a moment in thought. Then he looked back at Will Mendenhall and actually brought his right hand up halfway to his holster. Then he dipped his head and relaxed.

"Dammit!" Sarah said. He'd called her bluff. She put the box down.

Jack shook his head and pursed his lips. "Well, that's that. They were the only items linked to Keogh."

McBride cleared his throat. "Don't ask me why I'm telling you this," he said as he stepped toward the examination table nearest him. Mendenhall looked questioningly at the major, who shrugged his shoulders. "But those aren't the only items Captain Keogh had on him at the time of his death." He reached out and pulled a black cloth away from a lone Christian cross that had been placed on the table for examination.

Sarah's heart raced when she saw what had been right in front of them. It was a large cross measuring seven inches by four in width. It didn't resemble any of the crosses they had seen in the original ISO photos at the Event Group meeting.

"That wasn't in the report and pictures we received," Jack said.

"Well, it wasn't cataloged until this afternoon."

"What makes you think it was Keogh's?" Sarah asked.

"Since its discovery, it's been cleaned and examined by experts." McBride addressed Jack. "And his name is on it, in small letters on the crossbar of the cross itself. And our historians also know its Keogh's because there are several accounts of his having one just like it delivered to him before he left the fort."

Jack's eyes lingered on McBride a moment as he remembered the Libby Custer account Niles had mentioned. He knew the man had to be telling the truth because he was not only a park ranger, he also was a tour guide and one that had to be very knowledgeable about the battle and all its strange aspects.

Jack walked over and looked at the cross more closely. He picked it up and turned it over; sure enough, engraved in small script on the back of the cross member was the name: Myles Keogh, for Papal Service.

"I'll be damned," he said.

Sarah went up on her toes to see it. Then her eyes widened and she gently removed the rust-spotted cross from Jack's fingers. Why didn't the Parks Service experts see this? she wondered as she stared at its base.

"The pope and his archives people were sly ones." She gestured for the others to come over as she felt the goose bumps rise on her arms. She slowly twisted the bottom of the cross, and they all heard it crack in her fingers. McBride grimaced, thinking she had broken it. Then they heard a small pop as if a cork had been pulled free of a bottle.

"Would you like to have the honors, Ranger McBride?" Sarah asked while holding out the cross.

He shook his head quickly. He wanted nothing to do with the new discovery by whoever this woman was.

Sarah looked at Jack.

"You go ahead, Sherlock, it's your show," he responded.

Sarah gently tapped the top of the cross as the others slowly leaned inward. Nathan had his mouth open as if that would help whatever was inside come free. She tapped again and nothing happened. She tapped once more and again nothing. She tapped it harder against the stainless-steel table and, as they all watched, the edge of a piece of yellowed paper could be seen. Sarah swallowed and laid the cross down. She reached for a pair of tweezers and a pair of surgical gloves. She then picked up the cross and used the tweezers to gently pull on the corner of the exposed paper. It slid out as easily as if it were placed inside only yesterday. She lay down the tweezers and cross and carefully unfolded the paper. The paper cracked along the fold lines but Sarah pushed on. Particles of very old fiber floated around the map. They all breathed a collective sigh of relief when it was fully open.

The map was eleven by seven inches. Its cursive lettering and artwork were meticulous. Sarah took a deep breath and let out a small whoop, startling the others and making Nathan duck as if a ghost had taken a swing at him.

"Sorry," she said.

"What is it?" McBride asked.

"Just a five-hundred-year-old map that was written by a very brave man," she answered exuberantly.

As they examined it, they could see it was very detailed and showed the route to the valley and the giant lagoon clearly. They even had to smile when they saw that the area was marked with a small X. Then they all noticed one thing at the bottom, near the spot marking the lagoon, written more boldly than the other calligraphy: a warning Padilla had penned so that anyone could read it. Unfortunately all but the ranger understood the simple Spanish immediately.

Aguas Negros Satanicos.

"What does it say?" McBride asked as the sound of a helicopter slowly started to penetrate the wooden structure.

Sarah looked at him and then the others. "Roughly translated, 'The Black Waters of Satan,' " she answered a split second before bullets smashed through the door, slamming into her and Ranger McBride.

Jack and Mendenhall drew their sidearms and hit the tiled floor before the echoes of the attack had faded. Jack crawled over to Sarah, who was unmoving on the ground where she had fallen; she had tried in vain to cover the park ranger. When he saw blood spreading out in an ever-widening pool around the two prone bodies, his own racing blood froze in his veins.

Mendenhall fired three quick shots, two hitting drywall on either side of the door and one through the door itself, after rolling away from Sarah and McBride. The sergeant couldn't believe his eyes when he saw Professor Nathan standing upright as bullets slammed into the walls and fixtures; the man was slowly walking toward the rear of the examining room as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Apparently the sudden explosion of violence had unhinged the professor's thought processes and he thought just leaving would make it all stop. Mendenhall saw what had caused it. Dripping from Nathan's chin was blood and brain matter. "Get down, Professor, for Christ's sake!" he shouted as he fired twice more through the closed door.

"Sarah, Sarah!" Jack called loudly over the gunfire.

His heart lurched when she turned over and rolled under the lab table where Jack was lying. "God, are you all right?"

"Yeah, one barely clipped my shoulder. Not much of a wound but it stings like hell. Ranger McBride's had it though, caught one in the head."

"Goddammit!" Jack said. Then he looked up and saw the feet of Nathan as he slowly walked toward the rear door. "Nathan, get your ass down!" he said loudly.

"He's in shock, Major!" Mendenhall called out.

More automatic fire erupted and chunks of drywall started flying around them. Even more of the rounds were striking the examining tables.

Nathan continued for the steel back door. Mendenhall quickly popped up and returned fire. Six shots left his Beretta and slammed into the drywall separating the examining room from the museum as he tried to cover the oblivious professor. Then all hell erupted through the false ceiling as more rounds penetrated through the roof of the building. A heavy-caliber weapon had just opened fire from the unseen helicopter.

Jack rolled until his body struck McBride's. He felt the ranger's still-warm blood as it soaked through his shirt and Windbreaker. He quickly rolled the man over and unsnapped his gun from its holster. It was a Beretta like his own. He checked McBride's belt, opened one of the leather pouches, and pulled out two extra clips of nine-millimeter ammunition. He slid the weapon and clips over to Sarah, who immediately checked the gun's chamber and removed the safety. Without rising, Jack reached up and started feeling around the tabletop until his fingers found what they were searching for: Padilla's map. He quickly stuffed it into his pocket, ripping the map almost in two as he did so, and then rolled again. He grabbed Nathan by the foot and pulled his leg out from underneath him, then grabbed his belt and tugged until the professor fell onto his back.

"Now you stay down, dammit, Nathan!" Jack hissed as he kicked the steel door twice with his foot. "That's a steel door and it's locked; what's the matter with you?"

More fire entered through the front door and struck the expensive equipment lining the walls.

"Will, get on your cell phone and see if you can get ahold of the county sheriff, we can't stay in here," Jack said as he fired his Beretta five times into the steel lock of the door. He was satisfied when the chrome disintegrated under the nine-millimeter onslaught.

With a shaking hand, Nathan reached up and wiped some of the gore from his cheek and jaw. "I…I… wasn't thinking, Major, I just…"

Jack ignored Nathan's shocked rambling as he kicked at the door again; this time it swung open, letting in fresh air. Whoever their assailants were, they must have heard the door open, because Jack heard running footsteps heading out and away from the inside of the museum. Jack first waved Sarah out the door and then quickly stood and picked up Professor Nathan and shoved him through. He looked at Mendenhall, who tossed his cell phone aside after a stray round had ricocheted off a table and smashed it, almost taking off his hand. He then fired his last five shots through the steel door. On the way out, he ejected the spent clip and inserted his only backup.

The fresh air revived Jack as they ran away from the visitor's center toward the parking area. If it weren't for Sarah they would have run right into several men running straight at them from the gravel parking lot: Jack pushed Nathan to the grass when he saw Sarah fall flat into a defensive position. Laser sights reached out for them in the dusk as Jack fired from his own immediately prone position. One round caught the first man in line and Mendenhall shot the second, using two rounds. Sarah turned onto her back toward the visitor's center and fired three quick shots at five men running from there. To Jack's amazement, two men fell, one grabbing his leg and the other falling to the gravel surrounding the building and then not moving at all.

"Did you reach anyone before your phone died, Will?" Jack asked.

"No signal; I'm afraid we're in deep shit here, Major," Mendenhall shouted over the din.

Jack fired five more times in the direction of their pursuers. He dropped one and, from what he could see in the gathering gloom, there were still five more, minus the one he had just shot, that came out of the visitor's center, and at least three remaining from the parking area group. Jack fired twice more and Mendenhall once, as the evening grew darker. At Jack's command they turned as one and sprinted away, Jack taking the aged professor by the arm and helping as best he could. Out of the dusk, more automatic fire started up, and they could feel as well as see the tracer rounds thumping into the grass around them. Then they heard the helicopter as it swung in from somewhere beyond a far hill. It made a run at Jack, and he saw tracer rounds striking the dirt and gravel around him. The black helicopter swooped by and disappeared over a small rise.

"Sarah, head for the slope and that iron fence. Hurry, we have to get to some kind of cover," Jack called out as he turned quickly and fired at the shadowy shapes chasing them. This time he didn't see anyone fall, but Mendenhall, who had fired at the same time as Jack, brought down another of the pursuing men.

Sarah was out of breath by the time she made the outer fence that encircled Last Stand Hill. As she opened the unlocked gate, she turned around and saw Jack coming with the professor in tow. She could make out Mendenhall bringing up the rear. Sarah crouched by the open gate and fired six times into the darkness, making the pursuers hesitate momentarily. The gunmen stooped over, lowering their silhouette. Mendenhall took advantage of Sarah's cover and sprinted the last thirty yards to the open cemetery. He followed Jack and Nathan, and ducked behind the first marker he came to. Then he popped up and fired five times into the gloom and heard a satisfying yelp as one of his nine-millimeter slugs found the mark.

"Out!" he shouted as he ejected the spent clip.

Sarah tossed him one of the spare Beretta clips and Mendenhall slammed it home. Jack ejected his own empty clip and inserted his last one. They were each down to their final rounds of ammunition. The helicopter came over the rise and Jack finally identified it as a Bell ARH, the newest attack chopper on the market. Whoever these guys were, they were well funded. The ARH was equipped, Jack knew, with a FLIR, a forward-looking infrared targeting system. That meant that no matter how dark it was, they could be hunted down and killed. The black bird again swooped in and fired, narrowly missing Sarah and the professor as rounds chipped away the stone monuments around them. He could feel the wind as the pilot arrogantly flew low enough to stir the dried grass into a storm cloud.

"Take cover and pick your targets; maybe all this noise will bring the rest of the park rangers running," he said as he quickly fired two rounds.

Collins was answered by a steady stream of automatic fire that tore into the headstone he was hiding behind. When it had settled, he turned to see where Sarah was and wasn't surprised at all when he saw she had moved and taken up station right behind him. The stone marker that covered her and also marked a bodiless grave read boston custer, then below that, civilian and finally on the bottom, fell here, june 25, 1876. As he watched, three rounds struck it and took off the top of the stone. Sarah popped right up and fired. Behind them was the tall monument placed there in honor of all the men that fell; the green grass around it suddenly erupted as a long stream of bullets tore it up. Jack cursed and stood upright, and fired five times into the dark. He hit two men as they fell screaming. He ducked back just in time as the marker he was behind disintegrated and he rolled away to another, feeling his back and chest pelted by stone. The roar of the Bell ARH's turbine announced its presence as it passed low overhead.

"Goddammit!" he shouted in futility.

Mendenhall yelped as a round ricocheted off a marker and slivers of stone struck him across the forehead. "Damn!" he echoed.

Jack peered around for Nathan, who was crawling quickly to hide behind the largest of the monuments, where bullets had struck the grass just a moment before. Then he turned his attention to the assault that was coming from the front. He saw five men, darting in a zigzag, move toward the cemetery. He rested his back against the marker and closed his eyes. He was trying to think how to give Sarah and Nathan time to get out, when suddenly there were shouts and whoops as heavy fire erupted from behind them, from the far side of the cemetery. Then several blasts that sounded like shotguns boomed to the right of the attackers. Two men fell in agony as buckshot tore into them. Jack managed to stand and fire his own weapon into the running men; he brought down one and thought he wounded another. As he watched in confusion, the ARH attack chopper came in and then suddenly turned away, flying quickly to the south.

"Who in the hell's out there?" Mendenhall hollered.

Other, much louder whoops rent the night, as now there was shotgun fire opening up on the left. Whoever had come to their rescue had the attackers in crossfire hell. Several pops from handguns sounded and then they heard the sound of a bullhorn.

"This is the U.S. Parks Service, lay your weapons down!"

The attackers didn't listen; they opened fire in the direction of the amplified voice. Jack took the opportunity to sight in on the muzzle flashes and downed one more of the men. And then that was it, he was out of ammunition. Suddenly, screams again made Jack's blood run cold as more shotguns opened up on the remaining men. Then, as abruptly as their rescue had begun, it was over. There was an eerie silence one hears after a firefight that goes against all reason. Suddenly the field was alight as floodlamps were turned on in the cemetery. Several trucks came barreling up and then the bullhorn sounded again.

"In the cemetery, lay your weapons down and place your hands in the air."

Jack tossed his Beretta to the ground and stood. "Don't shoot! Major Jack Collins, United States Army, on government business to the battlefield!"

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that," a voice said without the aid of the bullhorn.

Jack, Mendenhall, and Sarah stood. Nathan wasn't about to stand up just yet; he found the large stone monument and its surrounding fence comforting. As they watched, they saw a large man in a tan shirt and green pants step into the light. He was followed by two more park rangers and, to Jack's surprise, about fifteen Native Americans.

"I'll be damned," was all Jack could say.

The Indians were all carrying shotguns and they followed the rangers inside the cemetery. Additional men were checking on the attackers, who were all down in the grass, either dead or very near so.

The three watched as they were slowly surrounded by the men who had saved their collective asses. Jack had to smile at the deputized protesters, he couldn't help it.

"May I ask what's so funny?" the large ranger asked Jack as he frisked him.

Jack looked at the nodding Native Americans, who were miles ahead of the clueless park ranger, as they alone understood the humor Jack found in the situation; it was one of them who finally pointed it out. Holding a shotgun crooked in the elbow of one arm, the man stepped forward. A black cowboy hat obscured the Cheyenne policeman's two long braids.

"He's smiling at the irony, Ranger Thompson, 'cause the last time we had an American army officer surrounded on this spot, we weren't in the mood to bail his ass out of the fire."

"I'm glad you were on my side this time," Jack said as he held his hand out to the AIM protester.

The man took Jack's hand and shook. "Maybe you're just lucky you didn't identify yourself before the shooting stopped," the man said, smiling.

That simple gesture and comment ended the second battle of the Little Bighorn.

Two hours later, Jack, Mendenhall, Sarah, and Professor Nathan were handcuffed and sitting in a large room facing the county sheriff and an agent from the FBI's Montana field office in Billings.

The four had said little other than to thank the Native Americans who had bailed them out of a tight jam. The FBI agent paced in front of them, stopping now and then to peer at one or the other of them. They smiled and returned the look, frustrating the man to no end. He was in the process of looking at Nathan because the older man had averted his eyes when stared down, possibly a chink in their armor. The fed was about to pull the professor out of the room and question Nathan alone when the phone rang and the bored-looking county sheriff picked it up.

"Interrogation," he said. "It's for you." He held the phone out to the FBI agent.

"Special Agent Phillips," he said into the mouthpiece. "Yes, that's right, we have two National Parks rangers dead and I… well, yes, but you listen here, Mr. Compton, I don't know who you think you… yes? My director?" he said as he swallowed. "Yes, sir; no, sir…I understand… yes, sir, national security, but… but… yes, sir, immediately," he said as he handed the phone back to the sheriff without looking at anything other than his highly polished shoes. Then he adjusted his tie, which hadn't needed straightening, and turned to the sheriff. "Cut 'em loose," he said.

"What…on whose authority?" the sheriff sputtered in protest.

"On the authority of the director of the FBI, and above him, the president of the United States. Do you need any more names?" the agent responded angrily. "Now take those cuffs off."

Jack looked at Sarah and Mendenhall and raised his brows.

"May I borrow your phone, Sheriff?" he asked.

The bemused county sheriff slid the phone over to Jack. "Probably long distance," he mumbled.

Jack hurriedly punched in numbers and then waited as he was connected to the Group's secured phone line. After a series of beeps and static it was answered.

"Compton," the voice said.

"It's Collins. This line isn't secure."

"Confirmed, phone line is not secure. Now, are you all right? Sarah, Will, Nathan?"

"Yes, we're fine. Niles, we have the item in our possession," he said as he turned away from the sheriff.

"Thank God!"

"Listen, the people that hit us, the sheriff's office and the FBI have identified them as Colombian nationals. Did you tell anyone else we would be here in Montana?"

"Commander Everett, remember? He was in on our conference from his location in New Orleans," Niles stated flatly, suddenly knowing where Jack was heading.

"Did Everett use a land line?"

"Yes, his cell had no signal. His end of the conversation was in the clear."

"They must have had a tap, what we call a SATAG on the phone. That means they may have tracked him to New Orleans and, through our conference call, tracked us to Montana. Where's Carl now?"

"Making ready the expedition's transportation in New Orleans," Niles answered.

"Call him and tell him to use only his secure cell and to watch for visitors. I'll send him more security; he may have more company headed his way when the powers that be find out they failed out here."

"You got it, Jack. Get home."

Niles made the necessary calls and the compartmentalized Event Group went into action to prepare hurriedly to get a rescue team down to the Amazon. Departments went through an amazing array of logistics to supply the team with everything they would need for the exploration of Padilla's lost valley and to search for any survivors of Helen Zachary's expedition. The equipment that Everett had ordered could only be partially filled with Event Group stores; the rest had to come from such companies as Raytheon, General Electric, Hanford Laboratories, the Brookings Institution, and Cold Spring Harbor on Long Island. The expedition was officially sanctioned as a rescue operation, but scientific investigation would still be performed.

An Event Group tech team comprised of sixty men and women were already en route by air force transport to Louisiana to assist Master Chief Jenks on finalizing the installation of the equipment and outfitting Teacher for river duty. There would be no time for a shakedown cruise.

The Group's Intelligence Department made arrangements to be a privately funded surveying mission to map the Amazon River depths from the Peruvian government, which was a nice cover to get into Brazil, which had steadfastly denied permission for American military personnel to cross into their territory.

Niles and Alice were busy in his office with a team of assistants, coordinating the paper end of things, and that wasn't going well at all.

"The president," Alice said, holding out the red phone.

"Mr. President, thank you for securing the cooperation of the navy, it's much appreciated." Niles watched Alice leave the room.

"I have the FBI report on those photos your people sent over from San Pedro," the president said tersely. "It seems the man named Kennedy, which is his real name by the way, is a U.S. Navy SEAL, and another was identified as an air force captain named Reynolds. The others have yet to be identified."

"Has the navy and air force explained the reasoning behind infiltrating a university-sponsored expedition with a bunch of young people?"

"So far they haven't said anything. They said they have an intense inner investigation going on to find out. And to me right now, that isn't goddamned good enough!"

"You mean to say they don't know what their special operations people are doing?"

"So far they came up with records that show Kennedy and Reynolds were on detached duty out west. I put my bulldog on it. My national security advisor, Ambrose, will get some results."

"Someone is out of control here and there are lives at stake—"

"Dammit, Niles, I know whose lives are at stake!"

"Yes, sir, I apologize. Those kids may be lost or fighting for their lives down there, and I have a team getting ready to go in. I need to know who we can trust!"

"All right Niles, you and I need to keep a perspective here. Even though my own daughter is in danger, I'm afraid my hands are still tied up to a point. I can't risk a shooting war just because my daughter stepped out. Here's something for you to think on: no matter what reason Kennedy and those other men have for being attached to that expedition, doesn't it ease your mind a little that they have at least one SEAL with them?"

Niles was slow to answer, as he didn't feel comfortable with the military involvement, no matter if there were special operations people giving Helen and her kids a better chance at survival or not. So he decided to answer truthfully.

"It would make me feel better if in fact they hadn't been off the air for over a week now."

"I'll keep pushing Ambrose on my end; a hard task, since he knows nothing of the Group's existence."

"I understand."

"Now, your Lieutenant Ryan has been cleared for Fort Bragg. The Proteus team will be waiting on him, along with his Delta squad. Remember, Niles, even though my daughter's life may be at stake, I have only okayed the Proteus backup mission. Again, I stress the fact that I can't allow a military ground incursion, even if we know it to be a rescue mission, into a friendly nation by American troops; it just won't fly. I'm sorry, it's Proteus or nothing."

"Mr. President, I—"

"No," the president cut him off, "we can't have American ground troops on friendly soil without invitation. Too many things can go wrong. If your backup plan works properly, Proteus should give Major Collins a nice edge if it's needed."

"Sir, that damned weapons platform hasn't worked right since testing began; we're running an awful risk with Operation Spoiled Sport as our only backup. What if there is close-in fighting down there? Proteus can't possibly help out in that situation."

"I'm sorry, Niles, it has to do, we have too many black eyes given to us by bad press lately. It's not that I'm sacrificing any of those kids or my own daughter for political reasons, but I can't let American boys die in a rescue attempt that would surely be challenged by Brazilian troops. Tell Major Collins to find our people and get his butt back in one piece, and Niles, please bring my daughter home. I'm sorry Proteus is the only backup at this time, but it can be disguised as civilian whereas fighter aircraft can't."

Niles stared at the screen, knowing full well the president was right. The burden of getting those kids out of that green and hostile world was squarely on the shoulders of the Event Group.

Ambrose drove himself over to Foggy Bottom. The Department of State was clearing for the day, so he had no bothersome eyes watching as he took the stairs three at a time.

He was escorted to the secretary of state's office by two guards. As he entered the office, Ambrose saw the secretary was busy jotting something down on paper. For someone who was only fifty-two, the cabinet member's hair was turning a distinguished shade of gray at the temples. Ambrose had watched earlier in the day as the president praised him on television for his unyielding stance with the crisis that he had thwarted in Iraq. He was definitely the flavor of the month. But as Ambrose set his briefcase down and took a seat, he could see the man who would soon become the next president of the most powerful nation on earth was angry.

"I take it your conversation with the president was enlightening, Mr. Secretary?" Ambrose asked.

The tall man behind the ornate and ostentatious desk finally looked up.

"How in the hell could this happen?"

"How were we supposed to know his daughter was on that ship?"

"That little bitch has been nothing but a royal pain in the ass since the president took office and her presence in Brazil could bring our whole shaky house of cards down around our neck."

Ambrose swallowed as he listened to a man who was world famous for keeping his cool, a man who planned the outcome of events, never just hoping for a favorable one.

"They haven't been heard from since—"

"It doesn't matter, you fool, even if the whole expedition is dead, do you think for one goddamned minute the president will let the body of his daughter go unclaimed down in the fucking jungle?" He stood up and tossed the ballpoint pen he had been using at Ambrose, who flinched as it bounced off his shoulder. "Now he tells me he's authorized not one, but two naval task forces to the south. Sailing orders that you should have informed me of!"

"He consulted with the secretary of the navy directly. I didn't know anything until a moment ago. Look, we can steer him away from a recovery effort, just advise against it. I am his national security advisor, goddammit, and you're his secretary of state."

"That bastard just ordered me, ordered me to Brazil. He wants inroads laid so we can either clear the way for a rescue operation by the marines of all people, or at least get the Brazilian military in there."

Ambrose had been briefed as to what the president was going to say to the secretary, so he wasn't surprised by his orders.

"It's the president doing the requesting, so why don't you just put it as a threat? President Souza won't take too kindly to that. Make the situation hot enough to where there is no action taken at all. What will he do, invade a friendly nation over his wayward daughter who is most likely dead already?"

"Yes, goddammit, you work for the bastard; he loves his daughter no matter how much of a pain in the ass she is!" the secretary yelled as he paced to his large window behind his desk. "And now he knows about the team the intelligence chiefs sent with the Zachary group, who may or may not have eliminated the very team the president wants us to rescue!"

"Then all the better we get this thing to blow up. Cover our tracks where no one can trace our involvement in either Iraq or what was taken out of that damned valley down there. With any luck, Kennedy blew the goddamned thing up and buried everything and everyone forever."

The secretary of state turned toward Ambrose, his eyes afire. "If even a hint of this gets out, the election is lost. Remember, I'm still tied to the president's coattails whether I like it or not."

"That doesn't worry me all that much," Ambrose said as he stood.

"Oh, and why is that?"

"If even a hint of what we've done leaks out, we're all going to hang for treason, because the danger you failed to foresee when we took into our confidence the military chiefs of intelligence is that they will indeed cover their tracks, any way they can. And in case you didn't know it, Donald, they do have the assets to get that part done, and we would be the one to be covered up. Good luck in Brazil, Mr. Secretary. I'll do what I can from the White House."

"If they were so good at their jobs, why did we have the fiasco at Arlington?"

"That was contract work; for us, they'll come themselves. You have to look at the military hierarchy. The men we are dealing with are hungry for power, and that power lies in the climbing of the corporate ladder. This plan of yours was to help them in doing just that. They won't be happy if they sense it's too hot," Ambrose said. He opened the door and left.

The secretary of state watched the door close and then sat heavily into his chair. He knew he would virtually have to start a war in South America to confuse the situation and make that godforsaken valley in the Amazon vanish from everyone's radar.

Then it struck him. The president would never rely on just one option. He, like himself, always thought in the same terms as that of a master chessman, thinking five and ten moves ahead. That son of a bitch would have a second option already in the planning stages at least. That meant if his diplomatic queries failed, the president might even have an armed team on the ground or in the air for a rescue operation, hell, maybe even more options. An illegal and underhanded rescue attempt done behind the back of the Brazilian government? The secretary realized he had his out. An operation such as that would constitute an invasion of a friendly country. He had his main asset in the Brazilian Air Force, and he would alert that man that he might be needed.

He picked up the phone and called the front desk to have Ambrose turned around. He had one more instruction to give the advisor. All he needed was to know the location of that goddamned valley. He was sure the Brazilian authorities would welcome a tip that either their airspace or their ground territory was about to be compromised.

And that, he surmised, could get messy, and that mass confusion could be his best ally.