Beneath the Sleeping Giant

By Susan Egner

This is a story of what happens when the fabric of mutual trust and respect of two cultures, each rich in history and traditions dating back to pre-Colonial times is ripped apart by jealousy, greed and murder. Ours is a story of people living side-by-side today in an aristocratic but inclusive society that respectfully acknowledges the area’s first inhabitants, the Coosa tribe of Creek Indians.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Egner
• Release date: Jan 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301535163

Susan Egner

Minnesota Author Susan Egner followed her father’s footsteps into the life of a newspaper reporter before turning her pen to fiction. Her father, Lou Egner, was the well-known photojournalist for the Florida Times-Union and the former Jacksonville Journal. Now married and living in Burnsville, Minnesota, a suburb of Minneapolis, the mother of two and grandmother of four, fondly recalls, “Daddy gave cameras to my two sisters and me when we were still in elementary school saying, ‘Wherever you go, always remember to take your camera.’ He felt a story could unfold anywhere and he wanted us prepared. That training resulted in my writing about female photographers.”Encouraged by friends after hearing the stories she made up for her own children, Egner wrote and published her own children’s book series, Has Anyone Seen Woodfin? She has made multiple guest appearances with costumed characters in seven states and Shanghai, China; appearing in bookstores, elementary schools, children’s hospitals and the Mall of America. Her work was featured as one of ten programming initiatives at a gala event held in Chicago’s Field Museum by PBS affiliate, WYCC.Egner’s previous writing experience also includes writing and editing for the Dakota County Tribune, a weekly newspaper. In addition, she was a freelance writer for the Dayton Hudson Corporation Santa Bear series.Egner made the transition to e-B­­ook publishing in 2012 with her five-star rated novel, Scotoma. A gifted storyteller, Egner’s characters face challenges and often undergo personal transformation as they confront issues in contemporary society. Her stories are about ordinary people who find themselves in adverse circumstances that could face any of us. The choices each makes—and the resulting consequences—weave a tapestry of mystery, intrigue, and romance that will keep the reader wholly absorbed until the last page.Susan Egner proudly supports Operation eBook Drop, which provides free access to uniformed men and women deployed in service overseas. Learn more about Susan Egner on her website, EgnerINK, on Google+, and on Facebook.

Book preview

Chapter One

Seven children sat in a sunlit circle with Cheaha, the elderly Coosa Indian and teller of legends, at its center. The Indian’s skeletal appearance, taut, tan skin and dark, sunken eyes made it difficult to determine his age. A splay of white lines fanned out from each eye as if penciled over the leathery brown skin. His body was gnarled like a weathered sycamore tree found in the Alabama valleys, yet strung tight as if it might suddenly spring to action like the cat in the story he told. He worked as a gardener on the McAllen estate, taking breaks often to tell his tales to anyone who would listen. Maren McAllen always listened. Today he told the tribal legend of the jaguar Isti Papa.

Isti Papa's eyes of the brightest blue look through the darkness, chanted Cheaha. He guards Kymulga Cave now and protects my people from all danger. We live today because of Isti Papa.

The children sat in rapt attention. The mountain ridge of the Sleeping Giant obstructed the sunlight and cast bent shadows across their young, eager faces. The morning was cool with sweet Alabama air. The sound of traffic was distant and muffled by the verdant growth and intermittent rocks. The children, riveted to Cheaha's words, were fascinated and afraid. All but one. One of the two oldest, Robin Sexton, age seven and already heir to a formidable fortune from his aristocratic mother’s side, paced around the circle in resistant impatience. His eyes flitted from the face of the storyteller to those of Maren McAllen, also age seven. Robin's hair glowed in the sunlight, a towhead turned white at birth, he was tall for his age. His lean and agile body tense for a boy so young. He was only there because of Maren. Next door neighbors since birth, she was the only child in the circle who shared a lineage equal to his.

Jaguars with multiple eyes, baloney? spat Robin, his hands braced on his hips as he circled the seated group. His elbows plowed through the air like a bicycle’s pedals as he walked.

Maren would have teased him if she’d noticed, but her eyes rarely left Cheaha's face while her hands mindlessly wove wreaths of dandelions that she passed around the circle. The girls placed them on their heads and giggled. The boys wrapped them around a knee or swatted one another with them. Farrell Rust, age six and Maren’s equal in his fascination of Coosa Indian lore, put the wreath on his head and concentrated on Cheaha’s story.

Cheaha’s raspy voice whispered, Isti Papa's eyes are blue. More than two. See everything. See riches of the land and show my people. Followed us west and brought us back to eastern sun. See the way through the mountains from here to the great water. Cheaha’s hairless arm rose, as if pulled up by a puppet string, and pointed in the direction of the rising sun.

Robin scoffed, You mean underground? That's a fairy tale. Come on, Barry, Will. Let's go play ball. His voice was young and strident, yet capable of demanding obedience. The two boys stopped wrestling and looked to Maren.

Go ahead, she said, without diverting her attention from the old man. The boys tumbled away behind Robin, leaving Farrell as the only boy with Maren and the Hooten twins to hear the conclusion of the Indian gardener’s story.

Chapter Two

THIRTY YEARS LATER . . .

The Cessna 172 circled in the light fog cloaking the Alabama Mountains that delimited the small town of Talladega. Wright Heathman, fondly known as Hickory, a veteran pilot and professor of aerospace engineering at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa, piloted the light aircraft. During breaks in his teaching schedule, he volunteered his services to the Alabama Department of Conservation and Natural Resources. Hickory relished the freedom of flight as he searched the dense growth of pine forests for signs of fire. Remaining embers from a reckless camper's cookout could ignite the volatile pine needles carpeting the mountainside, and in a matter of minutes, create an inferno.

Hickory flew his customary surveillance pass, but this time he watched for something in particular. Just what, he was not quite certain. Perhaps a flare? Perhaps a controlled fire built as a signal? Something amiss. Tomack was scheduled to take this flight but had not shown. Tomack, who not only flew his scheduled flights but anyone else's patrol in order to accrue flight time, had never failed to appear for a flight before. The young Coosa student was eager to log enough hours in the air to qualify for a commercial pilot’s license with a national airline upon graduation from college.

However, Hickory was not overly concerned. It was not unusual for a young man in the first blush of love to forget all other obligations. He's probably with Neah and forgotten all about the time, thought Hickory. Their romance had blossomed with the passion reserved for the young. Hickory chuckled and thought of himself when, as a young aviator, he met and fell in love with Maren McAllen. Yes, he was quite certain Tomack would reappear, probably with a smug, self-satisfied grin on his face.

Hickory shared the grin as he banked the plane against the western shoulder of the Sleeping Giant. The mountain range silhouetted the profile of a man reclining atop the mountain peaks. An ancient Coosa legend perpetuated the story of an Indian brave locked in an endless sleep, all the while growing into mountainous proportions from generation to generation. The legends kept him alive and present in the minds of the Coosa today. The brute image of a man's shoulders chiseled in rock by generations of wind and rain was wet black in the mist-filled air as Hickory rolled his aircraft away. Visibility had decreased to little more than three miles, no longer within VFR minimums. He considered returning to home base, but he'd been flying these mountains and valleys for ten years. He knew each cliff and valley like he knew each dimple and smile wrinkle on his wife Maren's face. First he'd fly south to Kymulga Cave and if he saw nothing, return to base.

The sun dropped beneath the ledge of the mountain range, draping the terrain in a surrealistic light. The last bands of gold pierced the stagnant air and reflected off myriad drops of moisture in an amber light, diffusing into burnished pewter closer to the ground. Hickory sighed appreciably as he took in the grandeur beneath him. Though visibility was adequate from the standpoint of seeing and avoiding the face of the mountain, the grandeur of it was becoming more difficult to navigate.

Hickory decided to make a VHF omnidirectional range, or VOR-approach, in pilots’ jargon, which would involve a change in routing to ensure locating the airport without difficulty. He started his descent over Smiths Mill when he caught sight of a blue flash of light. He'd seen it once before. Tomack had reported seeing it, too. What, or even better, who caused it? Tomack should have talked to his father by now. Perhaps he would have a simple answer.

He responded quickly, turning his aircraft on the point of his sighting but was met with more gray mist. His eyes strained to keep a focus on the horizon through the murky, darkening sky. What had he seen? A bright light? A last flash of sunlight reflected on the streaks of silver still visible in unattainable peaks of rock? He'd never know.

As he regained cruise attitude, the twin engines joined together in a simultaneous cough, then a sputter as one propeller rotated to a stop. It happened so suddenly that Hickory had little time to consider the consequences. He struggled with his aircraft as it twisted into a spin. The second propeller jammed to a halt as the stall warning pierced the silence. Too late, thought Hickory with defeatist reality. Too low for any chance of recovery. He leaned his head back in acceptance, his last thoughts filled with Maren. The remaining seconds in flight seemed longer to the forty-year old man facing imminent death. His mind filled with the vision of his tiny wife who mystified him and fascinated him every day of their marriage. Her tiny being held greater depth than he could have explored in a lifetime, but he had filled each day suffused with desire to know more of her. He smiled with the contentment that she loved him completely.

One wing caught the edge of a cliff, flipped the spinning plane on its back and smashed it into the shallow depths of Rushing Springs. Hickory was dead on impact where he hung suspended in his harness, head locked below the water's surface.

It would be months before the cause of the accident would be determined. Burial of his body would be denied until completion of the FAA investigation.

Chapter Three

Robin Sexton pushed papers across his desk, angrily shuffling and stacking work by priority. One project had run amuck while he was in DC handling a crisis. Few things angered him more then a staff that couldn't follow through during his absence. He'd trained his people mercilessly, ensuring that his office ran like a finely tuned racecar. Indeed, in non-classified matters, his staff was a paragon of precision. Regrettably, in coded and classified situations, staff could not step in and make decisions. A sensitive situation had developed during his absence, effectively shutting down all but routine operations until his return.

He seethed over the unfathomable paradox. If only he had one confidant, one person he could trust. But trust was not part of the Department of Interior’s internal culture, especially in his division of Internal Security, or ISD. Robin had taken full advantage of the clandestine nature of his division’s operations, which allowed him plenty of leeway over the years to shape priorities in support of his own personal agenda. Through secondary events, the inevitable spin-offs of key projects, he had amassed a sizable fortune in untraceable funds. This made it impossible for him to rely on anyone’s undying allegiance, not when knowledge of his conduct and the amount of money he’d managed to expropriate without detection was in question. Watergate, he thought, was a perfect example of trust gone awry. All it would take would be one error, multiplied exponentially down the line, to spell certain disaster.

No, trust was not an option for him. Decisions made for his office were his responsibility alone. He stacked a packet of papers as he quickly perused and digested their contents. One problem held first priority. A simple situation complicated only by the intrusion of two or three people. Keeping the Indian concerns of the nation separate from other ISD functions seemed a simple enough task but for the fact that one overlapped the other in his hometown of Talladega. And the press compounded his problems with their interest in the ISD operation in Wisconsin. Absence of news created a sanguine curiosity in journalists incessantly scavenging for the next newsworthy coup. As long as current events kept news breaking, the press followed the leads and stayed off his butt. When yesterday’s headlines grew stale, the media became bloodhounds sniffing in corners for anything that might fan the flames of controversial new headlines. The news media had their noses in the air, always alert to the intriguing scent of military technology, and they were practically howling at his door.

The dilemma was how to confine their interest to operations in Wisconsin, only, without revealing their link to his hometown. Questions must be answered swiftly to satisfy their voracious appetites before their newshounds’ taste for blood manifested itself in the form of pressure on him for classified information. If the press were to successfully challenge the flimsy criteria he applied to classify otherwise public information, his carefully orchestrated schemes would be exposed. If he failed, it would be his neck, his alone.

He signaled for his assistant.

Yes, Mister Sexton? snapped his aide. Robin smiled at the military response he received from his staff. Each member, hand picked from active military careers, received intensive training. For this reason, his peers often referred to his offices with the dubiously comical title of the Forces of Darkness and Evil. It was not an entirely undeserved handle.

Landhammer, arrange a press conference for Wisconsin Ops. Set it up for two days out, 1300 hours in the training offices. Show a filmstrip explaining activities in the area. Schedule a full lunch buffet and an open bar. Set up lodging accommodations for the reporters in the BOQ. Any questions?

No, sir. I'll take care of it.

And Landhammer, under no circumstances are they to be admitted to the ISD digital screen. Say it’s ‘in the interests of national security.’

Yes, sir.

Robin pushed the stack of papers into a file and threw it on his OUT basket. He flipped through a folder of newspaper clippings reporting activities on the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota. Strikes for better schools and medical provisions; one Indian found guilty of using his position to obtain special privileges with young Indian women. Robin smiled. They're not all dumb. The man's name was Benton. Another picture showed a group of Sioux’ linking arms to block exit or entrance into a federally operated Indian Agent's office.

How was he to keep a lid on the Indian movement that seemed to be spreading like wildfire across the nation? Stakes were too high to let it get out of hand. With their newfound wealth in gambling casinos, they could prove to be a much more troublesome factor. He buzzed his secretary.

Brenda, get me the agent at the Rosebud Reservation in the Dakotas, would you, please?

Yes, sir.

Who? he wondered, his attention riveted to the picture he held in his hand. Who was instigating the uprisings across the nation? How was it coordinated? What did they hope to gain? Their goals, though similar from tribe to tribe, reservation to reservation, were not identical, yet a wave of disturbances proliferated from one reservation to another. The ringing phone interrupted his thoughts.

Sexton, he answered.

This is Agent Kavanagh at Rosebud, Mr. Sexton.

Kavanagh, have we met?

I don't think so, sir. But I've seen your picture in the sports pages. Great finish at Indy. Wish we could get a track up here. It's flat enough, don't you think?

Robin was amused. The agent referred to his recent win at the Indianapolis 500. Driving fast cars was his avocation. Most of the federal agents were powerless men, in awe not only of his office in the government, but also of his notoriety as a racecar driver. They worked overtime to stay in his good graces, sometimes only in the hope of accompanying him to one of the NASCAR events.

You might have something there. I'll look into it. Say, Kavanagh, I was just looking at some newspaper stories about your place. What's the trouble?

Uh, I wouldn't put too much stock in those stories, Mr. Sexton. You know how the press is. Always making a mountain out of a molehill. You can take that literally. We’ve got a lot of molehills out here. You ever been to the Dakotas? His laughter was strained. Robin could hear his nervous tension. Was he covering up?

Never have. Might someday though. Say, I want you to do me a small favor, Kavanagh, he said, brushing aside further small talk. Got a group of student teachers willing to come out there for a semester. Kind of help out and ease the tension a bit. Also, got a young MD and a dentist, both fresh out of school. I'm sending them out there as a gift from the taxpayers.

Say, that's great. Sure appreciate it, Mr. Sexton.

I’m glad you’re pleased. There’s one other consideration, though.

Uh, Yes, sir. Anything at all. The sound of caution in his voice was barely concealed. Robin smiled, his lips a hard, straight line.

Would you mind taking the credit? It reads better, you know. Makes better press if the local agent in charge resolved things. Could you do that for us?

All caution disappeared. You bet, sir, any way you want it handled, you just name it.

Robin could practically picture the man, chest swelled, shoulders at a cocky tilt, hair probably shaggy, clothes crumpled and boots unpolished. He groaned.

Thanks. Appreciate it, said Sexton.

Anytime, sir.

Oh, and Kavanagh?

Yes, sir?

Throw that bastard Benton in the slammer and keep him there until you hear from me. Keep it out of the papers.

Robin dropped the phone into its cradle before the agent could reply. He leaned back in his rocking desk chair, his arms propped behind his head. A satisfied look briefly softened the chiseled hardness of his face.

Let's see what this Injun troublemaker does with nothing but good news coming from the U.S. government. Whatever the reason, the publicized reasons have just been handled as requested. Kavanagh'll be the hero.

Robin burst into laughter, creating a ripple of puzzled glances from staff members listening through thinly paneled government walls.

As Robin strolled through the outer office on his way to lunch, the pager clipped onto his chest pocket, blurted three short beeps. He pushed one slender finger into his pocket and released the switch. Squinting, he studied the colored indicators. Unlike a standard pager, only one person, Denver, his assistant at ISD in Washington, could activate his pager. Denver used only one of three codes: white, signified the President; red for Sanguine, indicated his office, an office known only to five men; and green for Maren. The green light blinked persistently. Robin scowled and headed for the phone. Denver had never activated the green light. Maren lived in Robin's hometown in Alabama. The other two colors represented the only two loyalties that preempted his loyalty to his only childhood friend.

He picked up the receiver at the duty officer's desk and nodded for him to leave the room. Once the office was cleared, Robin pressed the numbers for the ISD office in DC. Denver picked up on the first ring.

ISD, Lieutenant Denver, sir, said his assistant. Robin smiled. He wasn't sure if he kept Denver around for his communications expertise or for his crisp, military manner. Robin missed the protocol of the military, having been a commissioned officer in the Army following his graduation from West Point.

At ease, officer. What is it, Denver? he said.

Sir, a plane crash has been reported in the mountains outside your home town. The plane has gone down in what Mrs. Heathman termed 'Indian Territory.' What do you wish, sir?

She gave no more details? Who was the pilot?

The flight was scheduled to a pilot named Tomack, sir.

Damn Indians. Only Maren would consider that important. What else?

She also can’t locate her husband but doesn't think he was aboard, said Denver, his voice devoid of animation.

Arrange transportation for me from Sawyer AFB. I'll take a chopper from here. I'll be there by 1600 hours.

Yes, sir. Will you proceed directly to Alabama?

No, I'll come back to D.C. and pack a fresh bag. Have my Mooney fueled and ready to go at 0500 hours tomorrow. Call Mrs. Heathman and tell her I'll arrive late tomorrow.

Yes, Sir. The phone went dead. Robin signaled through the window for the OOD to return to his desk. Landhammer, can you arrange for a fast chopper ride to Sawyer?

No problem, sir. When do you wish to leave?

Immediately.

Yes, sir. The junior officer refrained from saluting but clicked his heels as he turned to carry out his orders.

Robin wandered outside the building secure in the knowledge that all was operating according to his direction. The absurdity of a former Army officer involved in land reclamation was not lost on him. He walked out of the Operations Control Office smack into the middle of Wisconsin's Chequamegon National Forest and wandered among the towering trees. The bright beauty of the Wisconsin spring eased his jarred nerves, but his thoughts were filled with unease about Maren Heathman. His oldest friend had never reached out to him before. What could it mean that Hickory was missing? Was he aboard the plane or not? Sexton checked his watch.

The whir of a jet-propelled copter penetrated the quiet of the forest. Robin shielded his eyes to watch its approach. Like a colossal black insect, the Navy copter momentarily blocked out the blinding sunlight and loomed overhead. Robin protected his eyes from the flying debris as the metal bird settled to the ground less than a hundred feet away. He sprinted across the packed tarmac designed for incoming helicopters and within minutes was cruising above the ancient trees of the Wisconsin and Michigan peninsular. They looked ancient to him even though he had been told that they were second growth, the original forest having been logged off in the early history of this country.

He settled back and pulled a pen and a pad of paper from his shirt pocket. One, he wrote on the tablet, send a summary of the news campaign to the President. Two, make arrangements for Tomack's body to be returned to his tribe. Three, make sure that he took enough staff to clear the wreckage. He disliked working with local crews. They asked too many questions about the his role in the ISD. Four, help Maren. The last entry he underlined with thick, double lines.

In less than half an hour, he was aboard a Navy jet headed for Dulles Airport. He closed his eyes and programmed himself to get the needed sleep he'd missed in the past forty-eight hours. It was exhausting being a part of history, as was proving to be the case. Robin's breathing took on an even cadence as his mind surrendered to the abstract vacuum of sleep. He slept until the lowering of the aircraft's landing gear awakened him. He looked around, reassessing his reason for being here. Remembering the call, he peered out the window at the Washington Monument in the distance. He leaned his head back and waited, concentrating on the familiar sounds of a jet being brought back to the gravitational pulls of earth. It excited him still. The power and speed was a magic finger that swiftly flipped his on switch.

The plane touched down gently and rumbled to a halt. From the window, Robin saw his staff car waiting. His driver saluted the senior ISD officer smartly as he approached the car. Robin nodded and climbed through the open door to the passenger seat.

What's traffic like, Ben?

Same as always, sir. It'll take us about forty-five minutes to reach your condo. Should I put the flags in place to make better time? he asked.

No, let’s not draw any more attention than necessary. One dead Indian isn't going anywhere. He emitted a humorless laugh and turned his concentration to paperwork that he pulled from his briefcase as Ben expertly maneuvered