Oltissis: Return of the Gods

By Roger Daniel

Two college students hiking the southwest discover a strange cavern of beauty and intrigue. The site appears very old but there is no explanation for the complex way it was constructed deep into solid rock.
Grant Cameron, a young Washington, D.C. reporter has a lot to learn about how Washington hides and keeps its secrets. Assigned to a story about millions of dollars missing from a Congressman’s office, Grant is led to begin digging through the archeology of the Southwest. That some congressional secrets would involved the previously unknown caves and discoveries of the student explorers involves Grant with a mysterious contact known only as Dr. Chaco, and leads him through a world of top secret information that gets deeper and darker and more dangerous as he investigates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Daniel
• Release date: Jul 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310494871

Roger Daniel

Roger Daniel has a BA and MA degree in journalism from Texas State University and American University. In more than a decade in print, radio, and television news he has been a news director, anchor, producer, and reporter, writing more than 15,000 news stories.

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- Acknowledgements -

I am deeply indebted to Dr. Michael Sala. It was through his extensive research into the black budget I became attracted to the subject. After reading his work I knew I had to incorporate the mysterious black hole in our nation’s budget as part of the story. Every year billions, perhaps trillions of dollars in taxpayer money disappear. In the 1990’s the existence of the black budget was acknowledged, but the exact use of the money is unknown. Stories told by insiders, corroborated by documents uncovered through the Freedom of Information Act, suggest it is used by groups and individuals beyond the reach of any branch of our government, including the president.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

- CHAPTER ONE -

Ancient Lands

Domingo was hot, thirsty, and more than a little tired from hiking the barren landscape near Chaco Canyon in Northeast New Mexico. Carefully picking his way through the brush and cactus, watching every step for rattlesnakes, he voiced his weariness to Ramon. "Hey, mi hermano. Help me understand this. Before the sun gets much hotter and starts making us both delirious, remind me why we are hiking some of the most Godforsaken country on the planet when we could have spent the summer hiking Europe during the day and at night drinking beer in the company of some nice señoritas?"

Europe’s been hiked, bro, Ramon took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. We’re walking lands unmarked by a human foot since the Anasazi were out here searching for food.

Searching for food? Domingo complained. You’ve got to be kidding me. This land is so flat a deer could see you coming three days before you get in an arrow’s range. Even if you got into one of the little canyons, you couldn’t hide. The only thing anyone could sneak up on is a prickly pear.

Yeah, but that’s what makes it so beautiful, so mysterious. The improbability of about a hundred thousand people living here in this barren, arid land really stretches your mind about what they could have liked about this place, or how in the world they could have survived.

Okay, so we’re out here walking in the footsteps of Geronimo. So what?

"You’re way off on your geography and your history, pendejo, Ramon answered grinning at his friend who had agreed to accompany him on this hike even though this was not Domingo’s idea of fun. Amigo, Geronimo was a Chiricahua Apache. "His territory was either southeast Arizona or northern Mexico.

Okay, if Geronimo was an Apache, then who were the Anasazi? Domingo asked in a tone inferring he really didn’t care.

Nobody knows for sure. Anasazi means the ancient ones. They were gone before the Hohokam came. They built a massive complex in Chaco Canyon, stone buildings five stories high, with the outer walls in perfect alignment to the sun at winter and summer solstice. Not only single buildings, buildings fifteen miles away, you can’t see from the ground, are perfectly aligned to one another. The whole canyon complex has an astrological configuration to it. At the summer solstice, the sun rises in perfect alignment to the outer walls of the biggest building. It is so precise that at no point in the day does the wall ever cast a shadow.

Pretty amazing, Domingo acknowledged. But who cares? I’ve never heard of them. What happened to them?

"Nobody knows for sure. Most scholars who study the Southwest say about eight hundred years ago, the area suffered a severe drought which forced them to move, or they were absorbed into the other Indian cultures in the area. But we know they left behind food, clothing, and water, definitely not three things you leave behind when moving, especially in the middle of a drought. Although archaeologists believe the drought forced them to leave, today some of the best trout fly-fishing is on the San Juan River. Joining the Piedra, it feeds Navajo Lake State Park near Farmington. So although there are many theories, none completely explains what happened. Everything about the Anasazi is mysterious. Mysterious, like why I brought you along on this hike. Estoy muy loco."

Domingo rolled his eyes at Ramon. "Not as loco as me for agreeing to come along. What’s mysterious about Indians moving? They followed the buffalo."

Well there’s the mystery about the years around the fourteen hundreds. Ramon said. There may have been a drought here, but why did the mound builders in Tennessee and Illinois suddenly abandon their dwellings? There was no drought in the Midwest or South which would have forced thousands to suddenly leave. Natives left dwellings all over Central and South America. It wasn’t only here. A lot of unexplained events happened around the same time.

"Si, si, si, Domingo interrupted. I’m sure there’s some legend about it. Los Indios have a myth for everything. Grand Canyon was created by Mother Earth trying to split up warring factions, America is Turtle Island, you know, stuff like that. You got a question? The Indians have a myth. It’s a bunch of caca."

It’s not about mythology, Ramon countered. It’s about the mystery. You can’t help wonder about people who had no beasts of burden or the wheel, but they built thirty-foot wide roads forty miles long, straight as laser beam. It’s not the way you build a road. You follow the lay of the land, the path of least resistance; you don’t build roads for forty miles to go nowhere. It’s not logical or practical. There’s so much mystery about them. Then there’s all the astrological markers they left on Fajada Butte. They had advanced knowledge of our solar system way before the first white person set foot on the continent.

"Oh, señor, I can think of bigger mysteries. Domingo interjected, like why we’re a day away from our car hiking some of the most desolate land on the earth. We could be back to Nageezi to reconnect to civilization, then back to Santa Fe, our nice air-conditioned apartment, with a refrigerator full of cold beer. Think about it bro, "¿Por qué estamos aqui?"

Okay, I can take a hint, Ramon acquiesced. Like Domingo, he was getting tired. We can stop here for kidney relief.

Yes, Domingo replied, his voice faking excitement. We can whiz where no one has whizzed since the Anasazi. Then… in another ten thousand years when archeologists find this spot, they’ll see our DNA mixed with Anasazi say, Whoa, ¿Qué es este? This is really mysterious; we’ve got traces of Anasazi and hikers commingling on the same land. Did they coexist? Or were the Anasazi time travelers who left a drought to get water and pee in a different time zone?"

The sun is baking your brain Domingo. Let’s rest before you start thinking you’re Anasazi. Ramon pointed off to the left towards a ravine. Here, let’s go over there to this little canyon. We’ll have some shade with a place to brace our backs.

The land not only was sparse in wildlife or trees of any size, it was even less accommodating in places to sit. When they found a spot where they would not be cut or stuck by cactus, thorns or rocks, they took off their backpacks and sat on them. Although it made for a very bulky chair because of the hard protrusions sticking up in all different places, it was the most comfortable either of them had been since they left their parked car the day before.

Even in the shade the unrelenting sun in a cloudless sky sapped their energy. The dry air drew the body fluids out of them. They could only hike for about an hour more before they had to head back to their car. They were carrying only enough water for three days. They packed for a day and a half out, a day and a half back.

Does the clump of brush over there look odd to you? Ramon asked.

What clump? Domingo looked around. I haven’t looked more than three feet away from me since I sat down. All I care about is what’s in striking, biting, spitting or stinging distance of me. The goal of a hike is to get home free from any marks on your body you didn’t have when you began.

Not really paying attention to Domingo’s lack of observation, Ramon stayed focused on his fascination about the unusually green plant life. It had leaves, instead of being prickly or spindly like everything else for miles around. It’s odd. It’s as if it doesn’t fit. The plants are not like most of what we’ve seen. It’s too thick. It’s denser than it should be. Unless there’s some underground water feeding the spot.

"Well, mira hermano, I’m about to add an above ground sprinkler system to the spot, Domingo warned Ramon. I’m going to time travel from here to there so I can leave my mark on this mythological spot; or in Anasazi terms, sacred land. My apologies to Mother Earth. Mother Earth, I return to you what was yours."

Domingo walked over to the unusual plant life, unzipped his pants. He began a mock ceremony anointing the land in the name of hikers everywhere, while thanking Mother Nature for her more than plentiful restroom facilities.

Hear that? Suddenly Domingo froze.

Hear what?

The sound.

"What sound? Oh, ohhhh, like the meaningless babble of a pendejo trying to turn a bathroom break into a religious experience?"

No. I’m serious. Listen. It’s an odd sound. Domingo had a very quizzical look on his face. His attitude suddenly turned serious.

What are you talking about? Ramon said.

Listen. Hear it? I’m peeing into the bushes but I can hear it echoing, Domingo said with conviction in his voice.

Maybe you’ve got an open crack in your time-warped mind. I’d go with that option first, Ramon said chuckling.

No, I’m telling you, it’s not the sound of a crack in time, a crack in the rocks, or the crack in anything. It’s the sound of an echo coming from a large space.

Ramon still was not convinced but he was the first to see the oddity of the strange plants growing so vibrantly on the dry, desert plain. He knew the land was a vortex of mysteries. The Anasazi disappeared without a trace. The legends of the Hohokam and Sinagua Indians in the Southwest say their ancestors emerged from the earth at a place called Montezuma’s Well in northern Arizona. Ramon knew the Anasazi created impossibly accurate astronomical markers four hundred feet above the canyon floor in Chaco Canyon. He had studied archeology about the five-story buildings in the canyon where scientists say no one could have lived because of lack of ventilation. He was very familiar with the land and the many mysteries about the territory.

Okay, Ramon said walking over to the strange spot while unzipping his pants. Let’s get a second opinion on your theory.

Ramon began relieving himself on Domingo’s mysterious plant. I don’t hear anything but the sweet sound of my bladder draining.

No. Not there, about a foot to your left is the spot where I whizzed, Domingo said pointing to the area where he heard the strange sound.

No problem, Ramon said, redirecting his aim. But I still don’t hear anything.

"No, no hombre. You’ll hear it in a second."

Ramon thought he heard something. He almost interrupted the relief he was feeling so he could listen.

I thought… I think… wait. Maybe I do hear something, Ramon whispered to make sure he was hearing what he thought was happening.

"¡Sí! ¡Sí! That’s what I’m talking about. It’s falling into an open area."

Ramon heard it too. He realized Domingo was right. Something strange was happening.

Ramon started barking orders. Get the hatchet out of my backpack. I’ll start doing what I can using my knife.

They hacked their way into the thick plant growth. Instead of what should have been the rock wall, a void began to appear. When they cleared more away they saw an opening, slanted at an angle downward into the ground, big enough for a person to slide through.

What do you think? Domingo asked.

It’s an opening. It doesn’t appear quite natural. Get the flashlight. Let’s take a look, Ramon suggested.

Yes, definitely, Domingo agreed. Now what would you expect to find in a hole in the ground in the middle of a desert area, you know, other than rattlesnakes, scorpions, Gila monsters, creatures designed by Satan to keep him company and inflict maximum pain on all the rest of us?

Here, catch, Domingo said tossing the flashlight to Ramon. If you see eyes reflecting back at you, please scream so I can run and not get trampled by you.

Domingo, think about it, first of all, there aren’t any big carnivores living out here because there’s not enough food for them to survive. If there was anything living in there the plant life would have been trampled down, not grown up around the entrance. Ramon clicked on the flashlight and probed the opening with its beam. It’s some kind of passageway. It’s curved to the right. Hey! I’m not sure, but it looks like a cave, or an old mine shaft. Take a look!

Ramon peered intently into the opening as Domingo moved cautiously closer to get a look into the narrow opening. He could see it widened into a larger opening.

"We come in peace. Venimos a la paz." Domingo hollered into the portal.

Ramon laughed. Oh good Domingo. I feel so safe now. I’m sure whatever’s down there is bilingual.

Okay, so what do we do now?

Ramon’s demeanor suddenly changed. "¡Chinga tu madre! ¡Mire Domingo! See what’s there? This is no freak of nature, it’s a freaking cave in one of the most freaking Godforsaken places on the planet."

Ramon could hear the excitement in Domingo’s voice as well. Let me get my flashlight so we can get a better look. This might make this hike worthwhile after all. Give me a second. I’ll be right behind you.

Ramon looked at Domingo. How about right in front of me?

You’ve got the brightest flashlight, bro. Domingo teased. "You go first. You look ahead. I’ll check what’s around us. ¿Usted no tiene miedo, verdad?"

Of course I’m afraid, Ramon shot back. This was supposed to be a hike, enjoying nature, pondering the people who lived here, trying to figure out what life for them was like on this mesa. I’m afraid, but there’s no way I’m not going in.

Yeah, Domingo said. "Let’s go. Usted primero."

Just for luck, Ramon held his camping knife gripped tightly in his right hand, his flashlight in the other, ready to turn either into a weapon. Behind him Domingo raised his hatchet ready to strike if anything got past Ramon.

Carefully, each move calculated, they squeezed through the portal’s opening. Once inside it opened to more than seven feet high by four feet wide. It was a cave but there was no stale or moldy smell coming from it. Strangely, the air had a fresh, energizing smell to it. The walls on each side were carved to such precision they appeared polished. They quickly saw it was not something chiseled out of solid rock by Native Americans using a stone tied to the end of a stick.

Well Alice, since you got us into wonderland, how much farther down the rabbit hole do we go? Domingo asked. They were at the point where the sunshine from the opening was gone, leaving them at the mercy of their flashlights. If we don’t explore it completely, we can always come back, bring bigger lanterns, headlamps… more people. Especially more people.

Ramon spoke softly. I think I see something.

What? Domingo whispered.

It looks like an opening. It’s another opening on the left. I see something, but I can’t make out what it is, Ramon said, his voice giving away his lingering fear.

Wow. This is really odd - it’s beautiful, Ramon said in awe. His flashlight partially illuminated a large opening. Look. It’s incredible.

It was the most beautifully stunning thing he’d ever seen.

"¡Increíble! It’s sort of petroglyph, modern art, painted and etched in an ancient way," Ramon said searching his mind for the right words to describe the images on the chamber walls.

"¡Mire! Look at it," Domingo gasped.

When his light flashed around the sides of the cave it revealed astonishing a partly painted, partly etched, mural with an acrylic, three dimensional look to it. What reflected back was a hologram in deep, rich colors, blending, yet separate from one another. The colors were unbelievably bold. They seemed to move when illuminated.

"Madre Santa de Maria, Ramon mumbled. I don’t know what dangers might be in here, but I can’t take my eyes off it. My feet feel like they’re imbedded in the rock."

- CHAPTER TWO -

The Big Story

"Second Sentry, Grant Winslow speaking. How may I help you?"

This was not the glamorous life Grant envisioned for himself. He loved the reporting part of his job, but not the part where he had to be the receptionist answering phones. It was his dream to work in Washington D.C. But in the dream he was working for the Washington Post, not Second Sentry. Yes, he got more Grant Winslow bylines working for Second Sentry than as an entry level college grad at a bigger news organization. But at Second Sentry his stories rarely made front page. They never made a sound in the drumbeat of the Washington news machine.

He liked his job and loved working in Washington, the most important news-generating place on the planet. It was ego boosting to report on major stories, to be able to talk directly to the people whose proclamations would be the lead stories on the national news. But his Second Sentry press credentials never got him anywhere near the front lines at a news conference. Worse, when on rare occasions he would strike up a conversation with a young woman in a social setting, Second Sentry was followed by, Second Century? What’s that? The conversation would go downhill from there.

Grant had been the cub reporter on the job just long enough to start growing weary of his read-by-nobody news stories. His social life wasn’t any better. Answering the phones after five on Mondays didn’t make him feel like an up-and-coming Washington reporter. It was one of those facts he somehow managed to leave out of his emails to friends back in Texas.

Grant, hey bud. How’s it going?

The sound of his old friend Tom brought a smile to Grant.

Well, Grant replied sarcastically. If it isn’t the man responsible for the rebuilding of Detroit. What’s happening in the motor city‘s HUD office?

I‘m not sure. Have you got a minute? Tom asked.

Grant chuckled. I may — but not likely — have to put you on hold a time or two, so fire away, what’s on your mind?

Everything’s fine here in Detroit. It’s all your policy wonks, politicians, along with those Washington bean counters who are causing the problems, Tom laughed.

Come on, Tom, Grant mockingly admonished him. Old news. Give me an update, some news I can use. A story I can sink my teeth into. A Pulitzer prize I can wrap my hands around.

Grant loved the sound of Tom’s voice. Pulitzer? Have you been inhaling printer’s ink again?

Hey, it’s Washington, Grant replied. There’s always hope because there’s always someone doing something dirty decent folks can get self-righteously indignant about. But such things never happen in Detroit, so what’s on your mind?

Well, Tom began. I don’t know. I was calling to see if I could get some insight from you. People on the Hill have been acting odd to us lately. I was wondering if you knew of anything out of the ordinary or fishy going on in D.C.?

Strange or fishy? Gee Tom, could you be a little more specific? Grant paused, then shifted his voice into a Rod Serling Twilight Zone impersonation. There’s always strange things going on here… there’s constantly a lingering odor of ‘something’s not quite right’ hanging in the air longer than the humidity in the summer. Now with the city officially bankrupt there will soon be bodies floating in the Detroit River."

Come on, man, the bankruptcy’s really old news. Tom mocked. You’re my man on the inside. The guy who wines, who dines the newsmakers. You know the news before the papers start cranking it out. What’s going on this God-loving, tax-paying American, needs to know about?

Grant laughed. It was why they were friends. Tom could always brighten Grant’s day. I wish. I get so tired of pack reporting. Me, along with thirty other reporters are herded into a room. We’re all spoon fed the same story with spin the agency wants it to have. Your great ‘scoop’ for the day is exactly what everybody else gets. After a while it just becomes ‘fill-in-the-blank’ reporting.

"Not at Second Sentry, Tom replied. You guys are the rebels who cover the stories the other papers miss."

Yes, Grant admitted. But the guys who write those stories all have seniority over me. I get the day-to-day space-filler stories they’ve all turned down. Even if we get a newsworthy release, one of the senior reporters grabs it. I get the exciting stories like covering the water quality hearings. Believe me Tom, the ‘glam’ and glitter wore off this job a long time ago.

Maybe so, Tom quickly replied, but the joy of cashing those big paychecks still give you an adrenalin rush.

Grant leaned back in his chair and laughed. Oh yeah. I’m making basically starting secretary’s salary. It’ll take me at least thirty years to pay off my student loans at the rate I’m paid. Yeah, tell me about those big bucks.

Hey big money, Tom responded, I’m just trying to get the inside scoop. I thought you were my source of all information in Washington. Something’s going on making people on the Hill nervous. Can’t you ask around the office or make some calls to your sources on the Hill?

I can make some calls, Grant said. But I’m not going around the office asking a lot of questions. I don’t want to signal there may be something smoldering on the Hill then have somebody take it away from me because I’m the rookie.

Okay, Scoop, Tom answered. Do whatever you want or whatever you need to play your Washington turf war games. Something’s going on. When the big story breaks, promise you’ll mention me in the story. You can call me your ‘Deep Throat.’ It’ll be code, but I’ll know who you’re talking about.

Grant laughed. Done deal, Deep Throat. I’ll even sign the first copy off the press for you.

I’d expect nothing less, Tom agreed.

Good. The clock says five thirty. I’m turning off the switchboard. Grant said signaling it was time for him to leave. Call me when you get some real news.

You could at least thank me for killing ten minutes of your time on the switchboard, Tom reminded him.

Thanks Tom. I am grateful. Grant said in a tone acknowledging their friendship. I’ll get right on the story for you.

- CHAPTER THREE -

Detroit, Michigan

Tom was leisurely taking off his coat, thinking about his call to Grant. More than two weeks had passed since they talked. He didn’t have any more information to pass along to him. Apparently Grant wasn’t having any