The Ancestor Series of Adventure Thrillers: 2-Book Set: (Book I: The Mountain Place of Knowledge; Book II: The Ice Cap and the Rift)

By Marshall Chamberlain

If you like action adventure thrillers like Indiana Jones, or books by Nelson DeMille, or James Rollins and the Sigma Force, you will love the books of the Ancestor Series of adventure thrillers. They will keep you turning the pages.

Book I, The Mountain Place of Knowledge, was named “Best Action & Adventure Thriller for 2013” by Foreword Reviews.

"Masterful blend of reality with cutting edge science fiction . . . a spell-binding page turner."
—Lee Ashford: Top 1% GoodReads Reviewer

The Mountain Place of Knowledge is a tense, driving action thriller. Marshall Chamberlain gives us a raging adventure into plausible reality.

--A Place Of Knowledge Inside A Belizean Mountain
--A Sentinel Guards The Entrance
--A Scepter Instrument That Heals And Destroys
--A Jeweled Ball Of Blue Death
--A Race To Preserve Ancient Technology

Book II, The Ice Cap and the Rift, is award winning author, Marshall Chamberlain’s, second adventure into plausible reality.

“I love ‘what if’ tales laced with a touch of sci-fi...they stimulate the imagination...forcing us to not only question reality, but grapple with difficult answers. That’s Marshall Chamberlain’s specialty and he does it with...style and finesse.”―Steve Berry, New York Times Best Selling Author

--A COMBOQUAKE RAKES THE TWENTY-FIVE HUNDRED MILE ATLANTIC RIDGE
--A FIFTEEN-MILE LONG RIFT TARES ACROSS ICELAND'S LARGEST ICE CAP
--SATELLITE IMAGERY REVEALS A LARGE CAVERN DOWN THE RAGGED CREVASSE
--THERE ARE FROZEN OBJECTS AND STRUCTURES THAT SHOULDN’T BE THERE

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marshall Chamberlain
• Release date: Aug 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311884701

Marshall Chamberlain

Marshall Chamberlain is a man focused on his passions, with no time for pets, lawns, plants, puttering around or companion compromises. He has a master’s degree in Resource Development from Michigan State University and a graduate degree in International Management from the Thunderbird School near Phoenix, Ariz. He was an officer in the U.S. Marine Corps and spent many years in investment banking, venture capital and even a stint as a professional waiter. He is obsessed with preparedness, survival and independence. This combination of traits and an unconditional openness to life have led him to all manner of adventure and authoring the Ancestor Series of adventure-thriller. The first book was "The Mountain Place of Knowledge," released on December 15, 2013; it was the first of three books in the series. Chamberlain’s primary worldview is simple but profound—“I’m in awe of the magnificence of this world.” To discover more about this above average man, visit his website: www.marshallchamberlain.com. Or, contact him at: [e-mail]

Book preview

Acclaim for The Mountain

Awarded 1st Place in the Action and Adventure Genre for 2013 by

Foreword Reviews

****

"…techno thriller…keeping you turning

the pages feverishly.

—Hilary Hemingway

Cape Coral, FL

****

"Vivid word pictures enhance the most horrific situations,

allowing readers to live vicariously through the eyes

of a main character...Kick-start impressions

infuse the book with life, propelling

the reader though its pages.

Lovers of Indiana Jones movies will enjoy

the work of this promising author."

—Foreword Magazine, Clarion Reviews

****

"Masterful blend of reality with cutting

edge science fiction…a spell-

binding page turner."

—Lee Ashford: Top 1% GoodReads Reviewer

Klamath Falls, OR

****

"…mingling of intrigue, fantasy, science fiction

and international politics…You will

anxiously await the sequel."

—Peter Thibadeau: Avid Indie Reader

Edgewood, WA

****

…riveting…I couldn’t put it down.

—John MacKenzie

Deep Cove, British Columbia, Canada

****

It runs like a raging river.

—Jessica Kenfield

Alpharetta, GA

The Mountain Place of Knowledge was a Publishers Weekly

listing in the October 14, 2013 Issue of Select.

Title Page

The Mountain

Place of

Knowledge

A Novel

By: Marshall Chamberlain

The Grace Publishing Group

Fort Myers Beach, Florida

ALSO BY MARSHALL CHAMBERLAIN

The Ice Cap and the Rift, Book II in the Ancestor Series

of Adventure-thrillers (Coming Early 2014)

Creative Self-Publishing in the World Marketplace (2004)

Copyright

PUBLISHED BY:

The Grace Publishing Group

12 Oneida Drive

Fort Myers Beach, Florida 33931

www.gracepublishing.org

at Smashwords.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Library Of Congress Control Number: 201395751-Parent Book

ISBN 978-0-9740982-6-5

Copyright © 2013 by Marshall Chamberlain

Book Design and Illustration by Marshall Chamberlain

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

Second Edition: December 2013

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dedication

To the memory of my father, Charles William Chamberlain,

the celebration of his forty-seven-year career with the

Associated Press, and the hope he would have

been proud of the late-blossoming

writings of his only son.

1917-1994

Table of Contents

Book I: Front Cover

Acclaim

Title Page

CopyRight

Dedication

Table of Contents

Quote

One: Belize: A.D. 876

Two: Two Weeks Ago

Three: Zambia

Four: United Nations

Five

Six: Belize City

Seven: New York City

Eight: Prague

Nine: Chinese Trade Mission

Ten: Belizean Ministry of Interior

Eleven: Calvin

Twelve: To Belize

Thirteen: Kip Tuo

Fourteen

Fifteen: Morgan

Sixteen: Calvin

Seventeen

Eighteen: China

Nineteen: UN Representatives

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two: Caracol

Twenty-three: Chinese Field Trip

Twenty-four: Mountain Site

Twenty-five: Museum Curator

Twenty-six: The Scepter

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight: Field Trip Continues

Twenty-nine: Streambed

Thirty

Thirty-one: The Sentinel

Thirty-two

Thirty-three: The Mountain

Thirty-four: The Place of Seeing

Thirty-five: Field Trip Interruption

Thirty-six: Back Inside the Mountain

Thirty-seven: The Sphere

Thirty-eight: The Museum Curator Plans

Thirty-nine: Back in The Sphere

Forty: Post Field Trip

Forty-one: Return from the Sphere

Forty-two: Museum Curator’s Debacle

Forty-three

Forty-four: The United Nations

Forty-five: Operation Sky Mask

Forty-six: Calcutta

Forty-seven: The CIA

Forty-eight: Prague

Forty-nine: Milkweed

Fifty

Fifty-one: The Personal Invasion

Fifty-two: Puerto Barrios, Guatemala

Fifty-three

Fifty-four: The Minister & the Ruse

Fifty-five: The Monk

Fifty-six: China & Dr. Rashnarish

Fifty-seven: Mary Ellen’s Medical Status

Fifty-eight: The Garifuna Shaman

Fifty-nine: The Monk

Sixty: Abduction

Sixty-one: Desperate Situation

Sixty-two: Back to the Mountain

Sixty-three

Sixty-four: Museum Curator’s Deceit

Sixty-five: The Library

Sixty-six

Sixty-seven: The Back-base

Sixty-eight

Sixty-nine: The Point of Departure

Seventy: Last Recon

Seventy-one: Mountain Site Preparations

Seventy-two: Release Point

Seventy-three: CP, November 7th: 0121 Hours

Seventy-four: Devastation & Chaos

Seventy-five: Breach

Seventy-six: Aftermath

Seventy-seven: A new Beginning

Epilogue: China, The Pleiades and Spain

Acknowledgements

Book II: The Ice Cap and the Rift

Wise Quote

"The history of civilization on this Plane of Demonstration is

foggy mist in the process of clearing."

–Brother Sao of the Pleiades

Chapter One

Belize: A.D. 876

Myakka’s fingers and toes grappled at the tree’s rough bark. A black jaguar was close behind, leaping for her, its lethal claws slapping at her heels. Her breath came in jagged hitches and her sides ached, but she climbed on, up into the high branches of the huge oak. The feral cat was relentless. Its desperate snarls pierced the silence of the forested mountainside.

During the frenzied climb, Myakka had ventured only one glance back at the cat, directly into its speckled yellow eyes. Without a doubt she was facing the ruler of these forests.

The young girl looked up into the branches. Her heart pounded and sweat rolled down her face, skin glistening in the fading light. Dingy croc-skins, embroidered with small colored stones mined from the swiftly-running Japona River outside the City State of Caracol, adhered to her hard brown body. Her arms and legs were bloodied from the desperate climb. The gods must be angry. What have I done?

Twenty feet above, the branches had grown together, forming a near-solid barricade. Was it possible to get over it? A snarl and the cat slashed a claw across Myakka’s calf. She gasped at the searing pain and knew the cat had drawn blood. She scurried like a squirrel toward a small break in the woody barrier. Could she squeeze through? If she could get on top, perhaps the barrier would stop the animal’s pursuit.

It hissed at her, but she didn’t look back.

Myakka worked her head into the narrow space. Sharp twigs scraped her ears and tugged the turquoise pins from her braided hair. She pushed and twisted and wormed her way through. On hands and knees she scrambled to the edge of the crude platform.

Eyes riveted on the cat, she tossed her braids over her left shoulder and brought her bow up, slowly nocked an arrow, pulling it to full, knowing this was her last chance. The beast was already moving into position along a branch for a leap onto the platform.

She let the arrow fly. It struck deep into the leopard’s thigh. Myakka recoiled from the wrenching sound of the cat’s shriek, but recovered and nocked another arrow. She peered over the edge of the platform.

The cat’s cries were terrifying, but it was retreating down the trunk. She watched it disappear in the dense foliage of the branches.

The gods must be teaching a lesson. Had she won?

Myakka was immoveable, holding the bow, arms tight around the tree trunk, its coarse, grating bark eating into her skin as the adrenaline eased. She heard the cat’s dreadful moaning and observed it climb to a shelf along the sheer face of the mountain. The dangerous beast was no more than twenty meters from her and at about her level. It rolled on its back, clawing and biting at the arrow.

Myakka, I am here.

The voice coming from somewhere below sent a thrilling shiver down her spine. Tyuco, her betrothed, had come to greet her on her return from the vision quest. There was relief in his tone, and Myakka knew why. More often than not, young girls coming of age succumbed to the treacherous volcanic terrain or the deadly leopard or the great bear or the poisonous snakes and crocodiles lying in wait among the coastal marshes, or the black-tipped sharks in the shallow sea lagoons. But she had been successful and possessed the bounty of her objective, the precious shell of the giant conch. Delivery to the priests of her beloved city of Caracol would earn her the right to apprentice in the skills and crafts of the sorceress.

Tyuco, beware of the great female cat on the ledge above, she called. I have wounded it.

I have been watching and see her. I will soon finish her life. Are you injured?

No. You must be careful.

I will. Stay where you are, beloved. I will return. We must make camp quickly. The sun has nearly departed.

Myakka relaxed her death hold on the tree trunk, dropped her bow at her feet, and began sliding her arms down the trunk’s girth, guiding herself into a kneeling position to wait for Tyuco—but a keening whistle sounded, and she lost her balance trying to gain the safety of the tree trunk that suddenly wasn’t there. She sprawled headlong onto the confluence of branches. She looked up. To her amazement the entire top of the giant oak had disappeared.

What have the gods done?

A thick, round pole of brightly shining material topped by a huge, spinning blue jewel rose into the heavens where the tree trunk had been, sending silent streams of blue light from its facets strobing off the surrounding forest canopy.

With all her strength, Myakka instinctively grabbed the post. She closed her eyes tightly, wishing it would all go away.

What had she done?

She opened her eyes and cast her attention over the landscape below. The birds and ground creatures were moving in a confused manner.

Tightly holding on to the strange lustrous stanchion, her memory jolted: Tyuco and the cat. She looked over at the ledge. The jaguar appeared paralyzed by the event, cowering against the rock face. She wanted to call to Tyuco, but the words wouldn’t come.

She stood there frozen. But then unexpected calm seeped into her being, and she trembled in response. To her startled amazement, below her hold on the pole a rectangular space had revealed itself. She let go as if the post were hot, adrenaline pumping anew.

Should she flee? But—no. Her terror oddly dissolved into strong curiosity. Four spots—red, green, orange, and blue—were indented into the bronze-colored space.

What is this thing?

An uncontrollable urge caused her to push at the green one. An image forced itself into her mind. She wrapped her arms around the pole again and prayed for the unwanted picture to go away. In her mind a ground-level opening in the sheer face of the rock prominence below was crystal clear, but the reality of it felt intrusive and oppressive. She instinctively pushed the red spot, and the scene dissolved.

She let out her breath, fixated on the colored spots. Now what?

Again, insatiable curiosity goaded her to touch the orange color. The huge, blue-blazing jewel began to spin faster, and solid streams of blue light emitted from its crystalline surfaces, disseminating intense beams over the forest as far as she could see.

She was bewildered by the chaos. How to stop it? She slapped at the pole, at the same time wondering why there was such quiet. Nothing happened.

She struck the bronze rectangle with an open palm and saw the round blue spot briefly light up. The view of the forest down the mountainside filled with streamers of blue light so forceful and concentrated she was forced to shield her eyes, holding onto the pole for dear life. The sound was like an angry waterfall.

In a moment it was over. She heard the whistle again and looked up. The tree had appeared as if nothing had happened, and she was again clutching its trunk. But there was a stench in the air she knew well—a taste on her tongue, in her nose, spelling death. The forest sounds had ceased, and a layer of smoke was gathering over the jungle terrain.

She turned her head and wrenched her body to observe the shelf. The cat lay on its back, still, but its yellow eyes were open and its silky black fur was smoldering.

Tyuco, where are you?

Nothing. She scuttled down the tree trunk, careful not to damage the conch shell tethered in a twine bag hanging against her back. Every muscle in her body ached, the adrenaline was dissipating, and she trembled from exhaustion. At the last branch, as she picked her spot and readied to drop to the ground, she stopped. Tyuco lay in a sprawling heap at the base of the tree. She could see all the way through the round hole in the middle of his forehead. His hair was smoking.

Chapter Two

Two Weeks Ago

Confident the landforms described in the Mayan diary matched Park Service terrain maps, they had set out on foot from Solomon Camp, a park stationhouse about ten miles west of the Southern Highway leading back to Belize City.

Calvin Stanvich, the Curator of the Belize Museum of Natural History, and Dr. Donald Courtney, an elderly visiting scientist, were attempting to locate the hidden entrance to the inside of a mountain they believed to be Mt. Richardson. Petras, a local boy working odd jobs at the museum, was along to help carry equipment and camping gear for the sixteen-mile jungle trek, which included a seven-hundred-meter climb up the gentle eastern side of the mountain.

Halfway up the mountain, they decided to camp for the night at the headwaters of Richardson Creek. The trek had been arduous. The forest was dense and uninhabited. They could have been the only humans to have ever come this way. The view down the mountainside was spectacular: a mottled green cover appeared to be draped over the terrain, making it look solid.

Calvin looked the part of the jungle explorer. Though as slight of build as the doctor, he was proudly donned in pure Patagonia. It had been frustrating having to coddle to Dr. Courtney’s pace; he had no empathy for the old man’s physical limitations.

Making camp, Calvin stayed to himself—away from the nattering professor—wrestling with his Eureka enclosure and consumed in weighing the alternatives of what he might do if he found what he was looking for.

He left Dr. Courtney and the boy on their own to stake up their tent and execute their pre-agreed duties preparing the dehydrated stew they’d brought along for dinner.

Calvin worked methodically, rapidly setting up his bivouac, and then took a break sitting on a log next to his tent, admiring the sunlight from behind the mountain prominence playing against the clouds in the western sky, barely aware of his hunger and filled with a mystical optimism.

***

Late the next morning, crossing a meadow at the base of a knoll, they passed a park stationhouse under construction and moved back into the canopy for the final mile to the mountain prominence. An hour later, breaking through a thicket, they peered across a dry streambed about forty meters wide in front of a sheer rock face.

It looks wider than Myakka described in her diary, Dr. Courtney said, his voice dry and gravelly.

Calvin frowned. It’s been eleven-hundred years, Doctor. What did you expect?

As the day had worn on, Calvin had become increasingly irritated with the slightly-built, bald academic, who had been a constant source of aggravation since Minister Jacobson, Calvin’s superior, had thrown the two together to add to his friend’s vacation experience. The doctor was an avid archeologist.

According to the map, the streambed skirted the jagged prominence, terminating abruptly a half mile south where over the eons intermittent waters had washed over a steep rocky grade and eroded the landscape to treacherous impassability. At the north side of the prominence, the streambed snaked around some two miles and ended in a deeply-cut valley and waterfall—dry at this time of year. Stark cliffs occupied the western side overlooking the lush green hills and valleys of Guatemala.

Facing them was a granite rock face fifty to sixty meters wide and at least twenty-five meters high. It was sheer and then petered out into the craggy remainder of the prominence. I believe this is what we’re looking for, Calvin said, sly wrinkles curling at the sides of his mouth. He was pleased with his intrepid diary translation.

Let’s take a rest here. I’m afraid I don’t have your stamina. Dr. Courtney turned and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Petras, be a good fellow and set up the table. He turned to Calvin. What say we take another look at that map?

Calvin was momentarily fixated on a huge tree poking up over its neighbors to the right of the rock face. He was euphoric; it was exactly as the Mayan diary described it: an anomaly in the landscape over a hundred feet tall, dense and foreboding. The authoress had referred to it as the Sentinel.

Calvin spread his notes and maps on the field table, and the two men went back and forth correlating the diary’s description of physiographic features with the reality of the contour map.

Dr. Courtney took another look across the dry streambed of smoothly-packed rocks glittering in the sunlight. The tree is so obvious. As I’m sure you must realize, trees don’t live eleven-hundred years. You’re sure your notes are accurate and you know what you’re doing?

Please, Doctor, I’m an expert in this language. We went over all this in the Minister’s office.

I know, and of course seeing the tree exactly as you have it here gives the tale a touch of credence. But the buttons you describe—I’m confused. You show four buttons here. Dr. Courtney pointed to one of Calvin’s diagrams, lips tight, facial lines rigid. The summary you gave Minister Jacobson indicated only two.

I’m by no means finished with the translation. I rushed to get a cursory summary to the Minister. All I can tell you is the entry procedure was carefully explained at the beginning of the diary. I’m not clear yet what the other buttons are for. We just want to see if we can actually get in. Agreed?

Dr. Courtney looked up from the maps several times to study the landscape. He seemed pathetically inept with his little glasses hanging on the end of his nose. What was he not seeing?

Calvin knew the doctor had been skeptical from the beginning, but the existence of the diary—a perfectly preserved codex—had convinced the doctor the trip might be worthwhile. But he’d made a harsh judgment of Calvin’s translation work right in front of him in the Minister’s presence. He’d claimed it had a mythical feel—inexplicable fairy-tale wonders the Mayan author attributed to the gods.

So, according to your notes, we climb that tree, we come to the confluence of branches, then feel around the trunk for a mechanism that materializes the controls. This is difficult for me to fathom.

It’s an adventure calling out, my good Doctor. You see the tree.

I do, and so far it appears you’ve done your homework well, but I’d feel a lot better with a more cautious approach. Did Myakka say how she found this spot in the first place?

"Yes, she described the vision quest of her adolescence, a rather harsh and brutal coming-of-age ritual. If a youth was unsuccessful accomplishing certain objectives on a journey to the sea within a set time, among other things, the priests enslaved the young girls and neutered the males."

Calvin went into detail, relishing the opportunity to explain the drug-induced journey of the young Mayan: her escape from a jaguar by climbing the same tree they were now observing across the streambed and then accidentally triggering the appearance of a button-filled panel. His narrative took on a condescending tone as he observed Dr. Courtney’s questioning facial reactions.

You tell a good story, I’ll admit. You seem to have learned a considerable amount since we were together in Byron’s office.

I’ve done nothing else. There’s more, but right now I’m anxious to follow the directions and see for myself. I suggest only one of us climb the tree, but first let’s assess the situation.

They collected their documents, and Dr. Courtney nodded to the boy. Petras, can you pack up and follow us?

The boy quickly collapsed the field table, packed it away in his pack, shouldered his load, and tagged after the doctor.

Did you update Byron on your translation progress? Dr. Courtney called.

Calvin was already negotiating the streambed. No time, he yelled back. He assigned this little adventure to me without warning, and I still have a lot to finish.

Calvin planned to hold off a day or two after they returned before surrendering more of his translation notes to Minister Jacobson. He’d remain in the Minister’s good graces and buy time. Some key pieces of information would be missing, but submission of corrections and additions could come later with the final draft. How to deal with the doctor from here on out was the immediate problem. The doctor’s skepticism and propensity for wanting to control the expedition was maddening. Priceless artifacts could be resting inside the mountain. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Dr. Courtney carefully watched his footing as he struggled along after Calvin. It’s difficult to believe we’re following in Myakka’s footsteps, he stammered between breaths.

Calvin looked back and let out a gasp of frustration as he picked his way through the boulders on the bank. The bigger rocks were causing the doctor to stumble here and there, but it seemed his curiosity had clearly overcome his reluctance.

Entering the grove of trees, Calvin headed for the huge anomaly. He’d never seen trees of two to four meters in trunk diameter. They were clearly ancient but couldn’t possibly be more than a few hundred years old. Reaching the giant gnarled oak, he touched the trunk, expecting some alien material, but the dark bark was rough and supple, smelling naturally pungent like any other giant oak.

It was hard to envision this as the same tree Myakka had shimmied to escape a jaguar so long ago. He stood at the base of the huge tree, looking up through the dense limbs. His heart pounded like a racehorse. He couldn’t wait.

He flung off his pack and began negotiating the branches one at a time. The leaf-laden tree limbs quickly obscured the ground. All he could hear was the sound of his breath and leaves fluttering in the breeze.

Reaching the junction of three large branches, he heaved himself up. He was both jubilant and exhausted as he quickly took measure of the mountainside, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of a stalking jaguar. A line of brush growing along the rock face looked like an animal path. Or was it his imagination?

Calvin, are you up there?

The voice sounded far away, bringing him back to the present. I’m at the three branches, he called out.

I thought we were going to examine the situation together. I’d like to be intimately involved with any discovery. It’s why I’m here.

Minister Jacobson had saddled Calvin with the doctor, and now the old man wanted to go up in the tree with him. Ridiculous.

I can hardly hear you. I’m sorry, Calvin yelled. I couldn’t wait. Do forgive me. It’s just as well. The branches wouldn’t accommodate us both. I’m searching for the control panel. If successful, perhaps later you can repeat what I accomplish. Does that sound equitable?

It’ll have to do, I suppose. The boy and I will wait, but be careful, will you?

Don’t worry. Don’t worry. And turn your radio on station ten. I can’t hear you very well. It was a frequency not in use by the Parks Department.

From Myakka’s diary, Calvin had a good idea of what it would take to locate the control panel and open the entrance. At waist height he embraced the tree trunk, moving his hands over its rough surface from back to front.

As he continued his systematic caressing, he remembered Myakka’s tragic first encounter with the control panel. Calvin flattened his palms, carefully going over the trunk back and forth, working his way up to head height. Without warning the tree trunk and the tree’s entire upper canopy vanished. He recoiled, nearly losing his balance as a metallic post and a massive, spinning blue jewel at its top rose overhead. He shuddered and grabbed onto the post for balance. The missing top of the tree left him on a perch with no reference points—nothing but open space. He was sitting at the apex of the forest canopy, alone.

The next moment it abruptly occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t be doing this. Did he really understand all the details? But the moment had arrived. He held onto the post, snickering. I did it. Visions of money and power filled his mind. People would do his bidding. He would retire.

He scoured the post. His heart jumped as a panel materialized in front of his face. It was bronze colored, inlaid with four jeweled buttons set in a row.

No hesitation. The diary had revealed what to do.

He depressed the green one, and his mind filled with an image of the rock face below. Then a rectangular opening formed like the next slide in a presentation. And just as Myakka had written, the opening remained pictured in his mind for about sixty seconds before it disappeared. He tried it again and used the red button this time to make it close.

Comfortable with the open–to-close timing, he pulled the radio off his belt. Are you there?

I hear you, Calvin.

I found the control panel. I think I figured out how it works.

Was it like the diary said?

Yes, exactly. I opened the entrance. I have one more test. Then I’ll open it again. Go back through the trees and position in front of the rock face and wait.

Okay. Give us a few minutes. We’ll set up the table and unpack the equipment. When it opens, we’ll wait for you, but one of us should stay outside in case we have to operate it from the tree again.

Dr. Courtney was clearly caught up in the adventure now, but Calvin needed to be by himself inside the mountain to locate the compartment Myakka had discovered in the first room. It had originally held an instrument she referred to as the magic stick and was the logical place to begin searching for other valuable artifacts.

He was anxious to enter, but first he had to face the thoughts he’d been pushing aside. Minister Jacobson would understand experimenting with the control panel. The details of Myakka’s ordeal with the orange and blue buttons wouldn’t find their way into his diary-translation work until later. If there were an accident, there would be no one to claim he had ever gained access to the mountain’s interior.

A picture of his mother shaking a finger at him flashed across his mental screen. His hand hovered over the orange button. Since she’d moved them away from his father’s family in Spain, Calvin had been taught to avoid violence. But during his early years growing up in the wine country of north-central Spain, at a time of vicious political turmoil, the children were taught to embrace brutality and death in order to survive. The conflicting imprints had left him in a permanent quandary.

Jacobson had directed Calvin to find out exactly how things worked. No one could fault him for the unexpected. It was a rational way to proceed, but he hesitated and brought his hand away from the panel. He had to get inside—then back out. An accident now would eliminate assistance from the doctor if something went amiss. Dr. Courtney was right. Someone had to remain outside in case he couldn’t locate the duplicate controls inside, or if they failed to re-open the entrance when he was ready to exit.

He pressed the green button. I’m coming! he shouted and switched the radio back to roaming the park frequencies.

He scurried down the trunk like a racoon, thrashed his way out of the trees, and ran to join Dr. Courtney and the boy. They’d unpacked all the gear, piled it on the field table, and were standing twenty feet from a gray, translucent rectangle in the rock face.

Amazing, no sound. Just like magic, Dr. Courtney exclaimed. It looks like a sculptured space in there. His eyes were wide. The frightened young boy cowered behind him.

I must go quickly, Calvin blurted. It only stays open about two minutes. I can open it from inside. Give me fifteen minutes. If it doesn’t re-open, go back and climb the Sentinel and open it.

Dr. Courtney raised his hands in submission.

Calvin removed a shovel off the table and rushed to the entrance. He hesitated an instant, then began probing the space behind the rectangle with the shovel handle. Pulling the handle back out, he examined it. Satisfied it was no worse for wear, he stepped cautiously through into a room filled with golden light. Outside sounds immediately muted, and the soft feel of the interior seemed to press him with welcome. He moved slowly toward an oblong white counter about seven meters long. A sense of calm spread through him as he approached a thick white column at one end of the counter. It was covered with ornate carvings all the way to the domed ceiling.

Almost every surface of the interior was white. Strange scenes were painted in sections high on the walls below the dome’s curvature. He recognized animal forms and the jungle foliage, but the gray-skinned, slightly built beings clothed in white robes seemed out of place.

The entrance whooshed closed. Calvin had been caught up in the stunning effects of the interior but now snapped into claustrophobic shock. He eased toward the column, wary. Curiously, the feeling dissipated. The counter surfaces looked smooth like porcelain, without apparent seams, and flowed into the structure of the column and into the tiled floor. The walls and domed ceiling appeared to pour out from the top of the column.

Calvin grappled in his pocket for a pair of surgical gloves. He ran his hands over the countertop and knocked on it. It sounded and felt like stone. A basin was indented in the surface next to the column. Myakka had called it a talking hole and claimed to have used it to communicate with people she referred to as the Ancestors. He inched along toward the bowl, contemplating Myakka’s instructions. He lowered his head into the structure an inch at a time, all the way to his shoulders. Dark, swirling blankets began collecting like storm clouds at the edge of his awareness. He gasped, convinced they were poised to consume his consciousness. He yanked out of the bowl and slapped the top of the counter with both hands to get control. The pain stopped the onslaught. He had no idea where the images had come from. The diary hadn’t prepared him for this. He could only assume Myakka had similar encounters with strange perceptions but hadn’t recorded them.

He backed away from the counter and checked his watch. It had stopped. How much time had gone by? He wasn’t sure. The peculiar sensations could have distorted his perception. He snatched at the radio. He didn’t want the doctor to panic, return to the sentinel tree, and attempt to activate the entrance, but the radio was dead. Claustrophobia came for him again. He groped at the column, poking and prodding the post in a frenzy. Then a bejeweled panel appeared. It was the same bronze color as the one up in the tree. He was unaware how he’d accomplished the feat but was relieved at the sight of the duplicate colored buttons. His heart was still racing.

If he was going to see if the system worked, he should do it now, just as Myakka had twice been forced to do to protect herself from attack by malicious guests during pilgrimages to the mountain.

He pressed the orange button, and just as had happened at the top of the tree, a spinning blue jewel appeared at the apex of the column, throwing off rays of blue light from sparkling crystal facets. A cerulean sea of glittering chaos filled the room.

As he clung to the column, his throat ran dry and he trembled. He took a deep breath and concentrated on gathering his bearings. Now that he was sure the system was working, he could plan his exit. Just one thing remained for now: the cabinet.

The dancing light made it difficult to see. His temples hurt, and he was disoriented, but he gripped the edge of the oblong counter and crept down the long side. As it curved around, he kept his palms against the edge and rounded the end.

A section of the counter base noiselessly parted. The closet-like space was empty except for a molded outline embedded against the back. His eyes opened wide. The diary was accurate. Here was the home of the scepter instrument, the magic stick he’d recently recovered from Myakka’s burial chamber atop the Caracol central pyramid.

Calvin dashed back to the post and pulled out his camera to snap pictures for later study. He focused on the writings and glyphs covering the domed ceiling. He hoped the camera would function through the flashing lights, but the digital screen was blank. Like a caged animal, he felt cornered, without any concept of time, and the radiating light was driving him crazy. The only thing in his mind was getting out. And he realized there was nothing to hide now. The doctor could have a turn experiencing the inside. In fact, going over the interior with him would help re-establish credibility and offer an opportunity to copy the dome writings longhand.

Without thinking it through, Calvin reflexively pushed the blue button on the panel. The flashing crystal faces on the spinning gem ruptured with blasts of blue light rays, bathing the interior of the room except for the space around the column.

What had he done? A chill ran down his spine. Then the jewel stopped rotating and melted into the top of the column like a plasma stream.

The memory hit him as he jabbed at the green button. The orange button set up preparatory connection with the spinning jewel, but Myakka used the red button to cancel, not the blue one. His throat narrowed into dry knots, and he was nauseas. He stood hanging onto the column, unable to move.

The rectangular space had re-opened, and muted sunlight shone from the other side. Calvin burst free from the column and rushed outside, squinting, chest heaving.

The decimation made his flesh crawl. Over the streambed and down the forested mountainside, smoke rose like giant, gray party streamers beginning to drift away on the wind. The equipment and the table were a jumbled mass, burnt crisp and smoldering. Two bodies were sprawled on the ground about three meters apart near the grove of trees. They must have fallen on their way to the sentinel, worried because he’d stayed inside so long.

Calvin ran toward them with a flicker of hope but held up short. The bodies were un-naturally disjointed like overdone spaghetti, and hideous head wounds gaped against black-and-blue bruising. He turned away gagging, staggered to the edge of the trees, and latched on to the nearest tree trunk to retch. He held on until the bout subsided, then stumbled back to the rock face, wiping his face with a handkerchief. It was simply an accident, his mind rationalized. His stomach settled. Strangely, he felt no remorse.

He started for the sentinel to open the entrance again, but his radio crackled.

Mister Stanvich, Doctor Courtney, do you read? Over.

Stanvich here. Go ahead, he said shuddering.

It’s Edward at the stationhouse. We’ve been trying to reach you with no luck. And then we saw…well, we think we saw a massive blast of blue light surround the mountaintop, and now smoke’s rising all over the place.

Edward, I’m just now getting my bearings. Some kind of explosion, but I can’t be sure. It knocked me out. I was preoccupied examining some rocks. My companions are on the ground. There’s damage in the forest. Something terrible has happened.

Are you all right?

I think so. I didn’t realize you knew we were here.

Minister Jacobson asked me to relay a message for you and Doctor Courtney to return to the city. He wants the doctor to contact him as soon as possible. It’s something about his daughter’s medical condition…He’s sent a helicopter for you both. It’s parked on the knoll waiting.

The Park Department had a makeshift helipad on the knoll close to the new stationhouse. Calvin hesitated, wound up in the disintegration of his plans. He would have to look for another opportunity to access the mountain.

Edward, tell the helicopter to land as soon as possible in the streambed next to the rock face at the base of the mountain prominence. I think Doctor Courtney and the boy we had with us are hurt.

Chapter Three

Zambia: October 21st

They were working near Lusaka, the capital city of Zambia. Two years ago the UN Institute for the Study of Unusual Phenomena (ISUP) awarded a grant to the Geology Department at Florida State University to analyze rock exposures along recent fault lines created by tectonic plate movements in the Rift Valley region of central Africa. The seismic activity had unearthed remnants of human habitation 180,000 years old. People living like the early Egyptians was definitely out of sequence with present-day historical archeology. The anomaly was even more mysterious because the inhabitants all appeared to have died simultaneously, annihilated in place. Analyzing phenomena that might yield greater understanding of the planet was at the heart of ISUP’s mission.

It was Dr. John Henry Morgan’s third summer as the leader of the FSU team working for ISUP, consisting of Dr. Mary Ellen Rollins and a crew of graduate students. Morgan represented the geologic side of the business and Mary Ellen the microbiology and paleontology. The graduate students were primarily doctoral candidates versed in the ground sciences, including anthropology and archeology.

Doctor Morgan, can you hear me?

I hear you, Gallager, Morgan said, dropping his pick-axe and covering his ears. I hear you. I don’t suppose you remember the reverberations down here.

They were in the southeast corner of Zambia, working a fault about forty feet wide and fifty feet deep. It was one of many projected to soon bridge the major rift zones holding Lake Kaniba to the south and the Zambezi River to the north. The pressure was on to salvage as much as they could of the freshly uncovered remains of these ancient people—including tools and evidence of habitat—before the faults flooded out.

Sorry. A Western Union delivery just came in for you from the United Nations, Gallager said softly. I had to sign for it. Looks important. Doctor Rollins has it.

Gallager, if it was important, don’t you think they’d call me? Never mind, I’m coming up.

It was a time-consuming climb along the makeshift footholds cut into the bedrock to a column of chiseled steps leading up and out. Getting in and out of the trenches was a major undertaking. They went down with everything needed for half a day. Canvas bags of samples were pulled up with ropes, and food and water came down the same way.

Morgan was irritated. He had no clue why they would need to contact him directly. His part of the dig was just a small piece of a major project. He was out of the decision-making process—exactly how he liked it. The only time he’d had contact with the UN bureaucracy was at the time ISUP was formed over two years ago. Dr. Courtney, his old graduate adviser at ASU, had asked him to consider a position under him as ISUP’s Deputy Director. The process was cut short by the unexpected death of Morgan’s father. Ironically, here he was working this project under ISUP’s direction.

Morgan adjusted the samples in his pack and looked up at Gallager standing at the edge of the fault bank some fifty feet above. He wondered why the United Nations hadn’t used e-mail. The U.S. Government had made satellite connectivity to the Internet available to the project. How could something be important if they sent it by Western Union? It took an extra day for delivery from Lusaka.

As Morgan was climbing the rough-shod footholds, he glimpsed Mary Ellen joining Gallager at the top of the fault, hands on hips—not a good sign.

Do you want me to read it? she badgered, shaking the yellow piece of paper in the air to taunt him.

She’d already opened the envelope. Yes, please do, so I don’t have to come out of here. Thank you.

Morgan halted, momentarily losing his left foothold. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked up at his colleagues silhouetted against blue sky and cumulus clouds. The wind was blowing hard enough so that Mary Ellen was gripping the brim of her bush hat. It controlled her long black hair tied in a wrapped ponytail. She looked like a five-foot-seven porcelain doll dressed in khaki cargo shorts and a greenish short-sleeve safari shirt. Her deeply tanned face held feline facial features and those green eyes. He never could understand how she kept her skin so smooth with as much sun-time as she got in the field. And why she seemed in a huff over the wire, he had no idea. He’d never been able to figure her out. She ran hot and cold and could change her attitude in a nanosecond.

I think you better come out of there, John Henry, she said seriously. You’re not going to like it.

It didn’t sound like her usual cajoling, but Morgan wasn’t sure. She could just be fooling around. He knew better than to yell back at her, but her saying something so open-ended was irksome. He slapped the dust off the jungle hat he’d kept with him since his Marine Corp days and ventured another look, but they had moved out of sight. Disregarding the steps, he scuttled up the rocky slope, clawing his way with the help of his pickaxe. Heaving over the bank, he was dusty and sweaty. Now more than aggravated, he scrambled to his feet in front of them.

That was quite entertaining, she said. I suppose it’s the old Marine obstacle-course instincts.

"What did you expect? You tell me I have news I’m not going to like. The first thing in my mind is my mom. You do remember her health is failing? Is she okay?"

Mary Ellen’s forehead was pinched. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. It’s not your mother.

Morgan took the envelope and let out a breath. And try to refrain from opening my mail in the future.

He turned and walked away from them. Nobody wanted to be told they had bad news.

When Morgan was out of range, Gallager said, I’ve never seen him like that. What’s the story?

It’s one of his few hot buttons. His mother’s very sick. His father split when he was in eighth grade. No brothers and sisters.

***

Fifty yards away, Morgan had calmed and sat down on a boulder in the shade of a muombo tree. He felt a little regretful he’d been so harsh with her. He pulled out the message. It was from V.K. Rao, a high ranking UN official he’d met two years earlier in New York interviewing for the job Dr. Courtney had offered him.

Dear Dr. Morgan:

We regret to inform you that our colleague and your friend, Professor Donald Courtney, lost his life under questionable circumstances while on vacation in Belize. As you might know, he was visiting a long-time associate, Byron Jacobson, the country’s Minister of Interior and Historic Affairs.

Dr. Courtney contacted me personally about two weeks ago, several days before he was due to depart Belize, with some preliminary ideas for qualifying the area around Richardson Peak in the Mayan Mountains as an ISUP project of potential international significance.

I am not at liberty to discuss the detail of those ideas in this communication. Suffice it to say that one of our own might have met with foul play. His body lies in Belize City. We will bring him home in the next few days. A request for autopsy has been made to his next of kin.

Because Dr. Courtney held you in high regard, and due to the intense screening you endured two years ago as a candidate for the Deputy Director’s position at ISUP, we respectfully request you accept our invitation to confer here in New York as soon as possible. Your expenses, a generous retainer, and travel schedule have been arranged. A first-class ticket on KLM flight 619, departing Lusaka International Airport this evening at 11:04 local time, awaits you at the KLM counter. You will arrive at LaGuardia, refreshed we hope, at 7:31 a.m. New York time.

Yours sincerely and with great sorrow,

V.K. Rao

Deputy Secretary General

Questionable circumstances, Morgan muttered. Confer on what? He stood, folded the wire back into the envelope, and rummaged along through the bush. He began nursing flashbacks of the professor during their times together at Arizona State and the brief contacts over the past two and a half years. The Zambia project had kept them in communication, but lately a secretive flavor had crept into their conversations. In the past, the professor had routinely been open, sharing bits and pieces of potential ISUP investigations, but in the last few months he’d clammed up.

Morgan reread the message as his mind continuing to wander. When he stumbled over a bed of ground vines, he looked around, and for a moment he wasn’t sure which way was back. But then a line of low-cut brush the graduate students kept trimmed, marking the border of the fault, provided orientation. Mary Ellen and Gallager poked up like stick figures, probably waiting for him to cool down.

He jogged back. Hey, guys, sorry about my attitude. Gallager, would you excuse us for a minute? I need to talk to Doctor Rollins. And you’ll have to get someone to take my position in the fault, but be careful, the rock layer I was working has a film on it I’ve never encountered before. Use the gloves, vacuum seal the samples, and send them on to Lusaka for analysis.

"No problem. I’ll take Jake off tag-and-storage."

Gallager moved out of earshot, and Morgan held his hand up to stop Mary Ellen from diving in. She still had sorry written across her face. "First, I apologize for biting your head off. Okay? You know Professor Courtney was one of the few friends I’ve had in the world. Take it from me, he was a first class guy. I don’t know what they want, but if it has anything to do with him, I’ll cooperate. You knew that already. Right?"

"Of course, that’s just the way you are. I’ve always liked your loyalty, but we have work to do…So you’re going to drop the show on me and take off? Remember, you’re a scientist now. You’re not in the military."

It had been nine years. His office walls at FSU were covered with military paraphernalia hanging alongside mementos from geologic fieldtrips. It irked Mary Ellen every time she’d asked about something and he had to tell her it was classified.

You’ll do a better job than I would anyway. Please be cool with this. Just do it.

Mary Ellen folded her arms across her chest and walked away, kicking at the rocks. You know what they want.

Morgan didn’t reply. He didn’t want to think about it.

Chapter Four

United Nations

Morgan exited the cab at the library on 47th Street. Walking to the UN building from there would give him a chance to recover from the Lusaka night flight and reacquaint himself with Manhattan. He had a half-hour pad, so he trudged in the direction of P.J. Clarks on Third Avenue, an old haunt. New York City memories flooded in: good food, great places to hang out, a girl, and four days of serendipity before reporting for Marine Corp duty.

The streets were packed with frowning humanity emerging from subway labyrinths—hordes of ants with specialized tasks. Morgan turned left at P.J.’s onto 57th Street and passed the twin spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It had rained last night, and the air was unusually crisp and clean in the bright morning light. It was going to be an Indian-summer day.

His reverie was short lived. Dr. Courtney’s death lay heavy and it had robbed him of sleep he should have gotten on the plane. He wanted whatever was going to happen here to be over as quickly as possible. The desire to return to his job in Africa was strong, but he sensed getting back wasn’t going to be that easy. The UN was going to play him.

A block away from the UN building the streets and sidewalks were cordoned off around inspection stations. Morgan emptied his pockets, dumped the contents of his backpack, and walked through an archway scanner similar to those at airports. He hadn’t given it a thought, but someone in khaki attire shouldering a field-pack was probably out of place visiting the United Nations. It didn’t seem to faze the hardened security personnel, not even a smile or comment.

Inside the huge glass-encased main floor, banks of elevators were positioned in the middle, and an escalator to the cafeteria and lounges went up along one glass wall. Suited men and women were clotted around the elevators and packed on the escalator. The formal hustle bustle hadn’t changed in the two and a half years since he’d interviewed for the ISUP job.

A large information counter was positioned on the opposite side of the escalator. Morgan checked in with a cute, uniformed Pakistani girl. He answered her questions, but every time she looked up from typing on her computer, she flashed a strange smile. It made him want to look himself over for some anomalous flaw, but then he had a minor epiphany. He just wasn’t used to being hit on.

She picked up the phone, mumbled something he couldn’t make out, and hung up. With the same smile, she rolled her eyes at Morgan and handed him a plastic pass, pointing to the elevators. You have to use number five.

The pass card had a magnetic strip like a credit card. He pushed it into a slot and the elevator doors opened. It automatically rose to the fourth floor, leaving him wondering if it would have stopped anyplace else.

As he shuffled out of the elevator, he turned away a flurry of security-card memories and shuddered at the thought of being sucked into the same world he’d given up in the military.

The room was ornate, carved wood everywhere. Country plaques, flags, and coats of arms were displayed along the walls with long inscriptions. Intricate cornices outlined the ceiling and came to sculpted corners. A dozen or so large, brass antique chandeliers hung on chains from the dark wood ceiling. It was humbling, and he felt out of place in his boots and field clothes. But at least they were clean, the khakis semi-pressed, and he’d shaved on the plane.

Three steps up to the reception square he was faced with a choice of greeters, all dressed in the same dark-blue suits and yellow ties, like sophisticated cowboys. Signs above their cubbyholes indicated languages. Morgan selected the English position, commanded by a young redheaded guy with a British accent who informed him he’d been expected and Dr. Rao would be down shortly. He asked if Morgan wanted coffee and a continental plate. Morgan politely declined and followed directions to a lounge filled with under-stuffed antique furniture and the smell of lemon polish. Only four people were waiting this morning, well dressed, carrying briefcases, munching on pastries and sipping coffee.

Morgan took a seat. Before he could get to a magazine, Dr. Rao walked around from behind him, smiling with his arms held out. They shook with both hands.

Rao was a tall, sophisticated-looking man in his late fifties and in solid shape. A former Indian ambassador to the United Nations, he’d held the position as Deputy Secretary General for eleven years.

Good to see you, John Henry. I’m so sorry it’s under these tragic circumstances. It’s been two years, hasn’t it?

Yes, sir, and a bit more. I still recall the interview process as one of the strangest experiences of my life.

I remember well, Dr. Rao said with a glint of camaraderie in his eye. Those were compressed times. ISUP needed to be quick-started. Professor Courtney wanted you so badly. I think Donald would have been much happier with you at his side. He trusted you, a rarity for him. But that’s in the past. We were all so sorry your father’s death intervened.

I appreciate your confidence, sir, and I know you must be busy. You said Professor—

Let’s go to my office where we can talk.

Dr. Rao led the way over connecting runners of plush blood-red carpet, turning down a wide hallway to another reception area. Morgan had been here before when he’d met briefly with the Secretary General. Two office suites were opposed with a common waiting vestibule. The receptionist stood and smiled widely as they walked through. She wasn’t the same one, but Morgan waved anyway. Dr. Rao sidestepped and said something to her then motioned him to follow.

Do you want something to snack on, John Henry? he asked over his shoulder. A coffee, perhaps?

No, nothing thanks.

Morgan followed him into an office almost exactly like the Secretary General’s: antiques in the corners, dark wooden walls with large pictures of past dignitaries, standing brass ashtrays, silver cigar box, and a heavy mahogany coffee table surrounded by leather couches and chairs.

Sliding behind a massive wooden desk, Dr. Rao indicated a straight-backed Victorian chair with a thick, crimson-padded seat. Morgan un-slung his backpack, laid it on the floor with his jungle hat, and took the chair at the side of the desk.

We want you to consider undertaking an assignment as a UN Representative…. Do you smoke, John Henry?

Morgan said no and was soon fidgeting in the seat as he watched Dr. Rao open the shiny ornate box at the front of the desk, process a cigar, and light up.

Very well then. To bring you up to date, the body of our friend is being held in Belize by Minister Byron Jacobson in their equivalent of a morgue. It will be returned to us here on one of our own airplanes sometime tomorrow. Courtney’s daughter, the only living relative, has given permission for an autopsy. Dr. Rao took a short drag on the cigar. Would you be comfortable assigning your responsibilities in Zambia to a senior graduate student for, say, a week or so? I understand from speaking with Mitchell Turch, ISUP’s Director of Operations, that you have several students with three summers of project experience.

Yeah, Gallager could handle it, but Mary Ellen is fully capable of doing anything I can do.

Good. I was counting on that, but I have something else in mind for your talented and rather headstrong Doctor Rollins.

I don’t think I’d describe her quite that way.

As I recall, charming characteristics you share in common. But let us move on to the assignment. I’ve laid out some information in the conference room for you to examine. You should get right at it, and we can talk again.

Morgan picked up his pack, tied the jungle hat to a strap, and followed Dr. Rao through an open door on the other side of the coffee-table arrangement.

The conference room was vast and formal: a massive polished table ran down the middle; straight-backed chairs lined the walls; the scent of wax and old leather completed a sense of austerity, an environment designed for settling important world issues. Double doors marked an additional entry point. Another single door presumably led to the Secretary General’s office. File folders, maps, and stacks of pictures were neatly arranged at one end of the table.

Dr. Rao rousted two chairs from against a wall and positioned them in front of the materials on the conference table, then pushed an ashtray over to the head. Coffee, tea, bread, and fruits were pre-set, so it appeared Morgan was going to be here a while.

"I told you as much as I could in the cable. I do hope it didn’t sound alarmist, but our protocols require the use of cables on important business. The insecure delivery method precluded going into detail…. Almost two weeks ago, Minister Jacobson called me directly from Belize, an unusual step. Procedure dictates communication through country ambassadors. He informed me—in a rather a straight-laced manner as I recall—there’d been an incident in the western jungle, and Doctor Courtney had been killed. The Belize government was keeping it quiet until it figured out exactly what happened, and the body was being held in a refrigerated room used for artifact preservation. He wouldn’t discuss it further on the telephone and asked if--after review of information he was sending by courier—we would consider providing a security unit to police the mountainous area where the alleged incident took place."

That doesn’t make sense. Belize has the policing resources.

I agree. It was all fuzzy at that point until the dossier arrived, which you’ll find among the folders, he said, pointing. And yesterday, at Jacobson’s direction, I received a translation of a recently discovered Mayan diary from an archeologist at the University of Mexico. It sheds considerable light on this potential fiasco. He waved a hand. You’ll find it at the second chair. The remaining stacks contain several detailed satellite maps we requested from the United States. They supplement the photographs and maps contained in the dossier. I want you to take whatever time you need—right now—and go through the information. Get your own sense of where we are.

I’ll do my best, sir, Morgan said, his internal instincts on alert, suspecting hidden motivations. What is going on here?

We’ll talk again when you finish. And be advised, we’ve already put the wheels in motion for the security unit. We asked NATO for the assistance, as we did in Zambia…. By the way, I understand Commander Barr, the NATO officer we work with, is an old friend of yours. I’ll leave you now. If you need anything, ask Olga. She’s the receptionist just outside the double doors.

He nodded at the table and stood. Coffee, scones, biscuits, fruit, whatever you like, he said and marched toward the door to his office.

Chapter Five

Morgan spent most of the day sequestered in the conference room, absorbing the details contained in the dossier and gleaning what he could from eleven-hundred-year-old diary entries of a Mayan sorceress known as Myakka.

Calvin Stanvich, the local museum curator, had discovered the diary in a burial chamber at the Caracol ruins in western Belize. The dossier contained his interpretations of the writing on the walls inside the burial chamber, diary translation notes, and a dry report of the deaths at the mountain site. A memo from Minister Jacobson was included, authorizing Dr. Courtney to accompany Stanvich on a search for the secret entrance to a Belizean mountain described in the diary.

Discrepancies existed between the Mexican diary translation and Stanvich’s notes. Stanvich