Child of War, Book Two In "Child of Chaos" Series

By Michelle Hamilton

Daughter of infamous Kate Bowan, Ruth Wolfe is a confident, young archaeologist trying to prove herself in a male-dominated career in the 1970s. But she doesn't let the South American Dirty War, a crumbling Argentinean government, or even a distracting Viking-esque photojournalist get in her way of revealing the past's truths. Even if the photojournalist becomes more help than hindrance, more friend than enemy in a dangerous world of government conspiracies, disappearing rebels and gold-hungry thieves.

Jack Baumann is an award-winning photojournalist, but his interest in Ruth has nothing to do with writing and everything to do with a dark agenda he's using her to achieve. Jack is riddled with secrets and a haunting past but he finds himself forgetting his ultimate goal in the face of Ruth's dedication and grace.

Ruth and Jack form a partnership that leads them through the mountains of Argentina to post-war Europe. Will being watched over by her mother’s Egyptian god cause them to succeed or to fail?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781794742833

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Child of War, Book Two In "Child of Chaos" Series

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Child of War

Child of Chaos Series

Book Two

Michelle Hamilton

iStock_000000450606Medium

Dragonfly Media Publishing

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Dragonfly Media Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Dragonfly Media Publishing,

Dragonfly-Publishing.ca

Cover photo: getty.com

First printing: December 2019

ISBN: 978-1-79474-283-3

Printed in the United States of America

Published in Canada

ISBN:

Dedication

To my university Spanish professor, who was a child of one of the few desaparecidos who escaped and exposed me to the truth.

To my sister, Jenifer, who brought Argentinean culture back to our family with her love of tango, Mercedes Sosa, gauchos and empanadas.

Also by Michelle Hamilton

Child of Chaos

The Sleeping Assassin

Windigo

Real War Games Inc.

PROLOGUE

September 1971

Chelmno, Poland

It had been long enough.

He had lain underground, surrounded by precious jewels and gold, for decades. He had waited until the flower of his seed had blossomed. And, oh, she had indeed. She was a fine example of what a little chaos can do – create an unexpected and a beautiful life.

Now he sensed his time had come.

She was ready.

So was he.

It was time for him to be released once again onto the world.

CHAPTER ONE

September 1971

British Honduras

The sky caught fire. She watched the ochre colours spread across the dome of the world from her perch on the top of the Mayan pyramid. Adrenaline shot up the soles of her boot-clad feet catching flame in her heart as she marvelled at the sight.

It wasn’t necessarily the fiery sunset that caught at her — they were a fairly common occurrence in the British Honduran lowlands in late September. Nor was it uncommon that she stood braced against the humid Caribbean wind on top of a twelve-hundred-year-old Mayan pyramid where she could practically see the blood trails from ancient human sacrifices.

What gripped her was the thrill of knowing she was hot on the path of an ancient artifact. It was a relic believed by locals and many non-locals alike to be a tool of powerful psychic energy that brought both happiness and doom to those who have held it.

Not that Ruth Wolfe believed in psychic energies or the power of inanimate objects to determine one’s fate. But as an archaeologist Ruth believed in the power of information that the artifact could give. And that was where the heart of her excitement lay: Knowledge.

Even as she watched, spikes of colour shot into the approaching night like weapons of war. Ruth’s too-often serious lips turned down slightly at the analogy as she gazed toward Honduras’ war-torn neighbour, Guatemala. Even though that country had finally had what amounted to a real democratic election, the military had once again taken over. They had inserted Colonel Osorio as president who had increased the work of their death squads and the "desaparecidos"—the missing—throughout the country. Nicaragua and El Salvador to the south were no better.

Central America was a dangerous place to be these days, Ruth thought. But she conceded that that was a centuries-old truth as she surveyed the lowlands. She then refocused her vision closer to rest on the Mayan compound where in its heyday in the late classic Mayan period was a site of great military defence. The site was known as Lubaantun — place of fallen stones — and it held a secret in which not even her team of Cambridge-Harvard archaeologists believed.

The Crystal Skull.

Ruth shifted slightly as the east wind pushed at her encouraging her to turn from the burning sunset and face the other half of the old Mayan compound and the Caribbean Sea. At roughly two hundred feet above sea level with rivers running on either side of the site, Lubaantun was supposed to have been a military stronghold. Looking down upon the eleven structures, five plazas and three ball courts set on the limestone outcropping, Ruth could imagine what life might have been like here over one thousand years ago.

The Cambridge-Harvard team of which Ruth was a part came a few months ago. They also speculated that it was a site of great commercial and ceremonial importance. What they had discovered in the few months they had begun digging — jade and obsidian from the Guatemalan highlands, musical instruments and deep-water marine animal bones — definitively suggested an extensive trading sphere. The ceremonial platform on which she stood was a classic sacrificial alter. As the largest Mayan site in southern British Honduras, Ruth knew it would have drawn powerful Mayan rulers and priests alike.

It was the perfect place for the Crystal Skull. Doctor Edward Hall from the Harvard School of Archaeology, Ruth’s post-doctorate advisor and one of the main heads of this expedition, thought she was crazy. Because he cared about her, he told her in no uncertain terms that he thought she was out of her mind. In his substantial opinion, Ruth’s obsession with the unsubstantial like the Crystal Skull of Doom that would cause her professional suicide.

Only Ruth knew it existed. Beyond the historical documentation alone, the native mythology and even a few murals verified its existence. But Ruth also knew it wasn’t necessarily the Crystal Skull to which Edward objected. It was Ruth’s obsession with finding another artifact, one that had roots deep in her family: the statue of Seth, the Egyptian god of chaos. Ruth shook her head slightly refocusing to the here and now. She was determined not to think about that artifact until she got a solid lead on its current location. And one day she would. It was in her blood after all.

Instead, she focused on the slight movement she saw at the base of the pyramid. Even though day was dissolving into night, she could distinguish a flash of white. Then she heard an ominous sound drifting up to her: the off-key singing of a Willie Nelson tune.

Ruth groaned. Chris Skinner! She should have known Dr. Hall’s assistant would dog her here. Ug! How he’d learned that she planned to stay behind tonight was a mystery but one that would be pointless to solve. With a heavy sigh, Ruth began the steep descent down the pyramid steps.

Hey babe, Chris called to her when she was only ten feet or so above him, close enough for her to hear him but still far enough for him to not discern her grumbled reply.

What’s that, sweet cheeks? He asked. His smirk was firmly grooved on his face as he rested his foot on the bottom step and leaned forward.

I said, Ruth snapped when she got closer, don’t call me that.

As usual, her surliness in the face of his never-ending come-ons had no effect on him. He was careful never to drop the mask of a smarmy suitor and reveal his true face: a self-serving, opportunistic fortune hunter held in check only by Dr. Hall’s reputation and his first-hand knowledge that Ruth carried a Bowie knife in her boot.

You know what they say about Caribbean nights, doll — full of romance. He wiggled his eyebrows in her direction.

Ruth snorted at his typical reply then dropped down the last step and stood face to face with him with hands on her hips.

I hate to disappoint you, she said as she took a guess at the real reason he was there. I’m not raiding for the Crystal Skull. I’m just following up on some research. If I discover I’m on the right trail, I will stop and begin tomorrow with full documentation.

At five foot six, Ruth was just a few inches shorter than Skinner but her righteous attitude more than made up for the difference. She somehow she managed to look down her nose at him.

Skinner had been with Dr. Hall and Ruth now for six months so he knew his best course of action was to tell her part of the truth. She somehow managed to guess it anyway.

All right. So I overheard you discussing the Crystal Skull with Hall and my interest was caught. Whose wouldn’t? Even though he saw she wasn’t bending, he kept going. Look, I just want to be part of the hunt. I’ll follow orders — you know I will.

She quirked a brow at him, doubt and mockery blending to form a perfect sable-coloured bow above her grey-blue eye.

Scout’s honour. Skinner held up his hand as though giving an oath, his gaze filled with innocence.

Ruth rolled her eyes, dropping her hands from her hips and turning her back on him. Fantastic. Great start to the night, she grumbled. What could she do, after all? She couldn’t make him leave. When she thought about it, she and the Crystal Skull would be better off with her watching him like a hawk than him off alone tomb raiding.

Fine. Skinner heard Ruth’s answer as she walked away from him. But I swear I’ll get you fired this time if you don’t listen to me.

Skinner grinned. He knew it was an empty threat. She wasn’t a tattle tale. Besides, Hall was his mother’s cousin and the good doctor was a strong believer in family.

He caught up with her long strides just as she rounded the pyramid’s corner.

So, where’re we looking? He tried to drape his arm over her shoulders but she just shrugged it off.

Right here. At the base of the pyramid Ruth stopped, fished through the small bag whose strap slung across her shoulder and chest, and retrieved a small notebook.

Skinner knew that small broken-spine, black leather-clad book well. Certain that the knowledge she’d hoarded away in its torn pages would fetch him a fortune, he’d once tried to steal it from her. After a brief glimpse at the various, incomprehensible notes and diagrams within, he’d had to give it back to her very slowly and in fear for his most precious anatomy.

That was the day he’d learned that she’d carried the knife.

Only later he’d learned that the scribed words and drawings weren’t maps to treasures. They were notes from the various digs she’d been on since she’d been a kid and had travelled the world with her archaeologist mother and adventurer father.

She referenced its pages now checking the research she’d done earlier. Then stashed it back in her bag and withdrew a small flashlight. Skinner turned and searched the rounded-stones in the back wall seeing nothing but rubble and vines.

Where? He asked.

Ruth stepped forward and swung the vines aside like a curtain, revealing a small doorway in the stone. Just at the edge of the light, they could make out a tunnel that led straight into the earth.

Here. She answered.

They had located the entrance earlier in the week but after a preliminary search Dr. Davidson from the Cambridge division had deemed it a secondary find. It was not worthy of further man power until after the prize locations had been dug. Even though Ruth had argued that it was not what it seemed, she was still junior enough that her comments were merely noted — and then ignored.

Skinner felt both excitement and dread fill him as it always did when he knew he had to go underground after a treasure. So he did what he did when he was scared — he stalled.

What makes you think that some precious artifact would be down this hole? His voice was full of mockery — with only the slightest amount of fear. But Ruth heard the fear regardless. Even though Chris was a pain and a man of questionable morals, she took pity on him.

This isn’t just a hole — I know Dr. Davidson thinks that it is just a cave, but I went in earlier, she had the grace to blush at this slight breach in protocol. And I think it’s actually a tunnel. There was rubble on one end, I think from a cave in. When I cleared some of it away, I saw the space continued.

You dirty minx, Chris teased, breaking rules, are we?

But Ruth ignored him already moving closer to the wall. Her eye caught as she cleared more of its surface, and laid her hand over one of the many murals. The background colour was white — the Mayan colour for north. On its surface were intricate drawings of Cisin, the Mayan god of death and ruler of the subterranean land of the dead. He was also the god of earthquakes and was often depicted in codices — bark-papered books written by the Mayans in their intricate hieroglyphic language — alongside the god of war.

From these and the layout, I think this tunnel was used just like in Teotihuacán. Ruth murmured mostly to herself, barely aware Chris was even there anymore. I think Lubaantun suffered the same demise as Teotihuacán and fell after they were attacked — and the officials used this tunnel to try to escape.

Plausible, Chris thought through the shivers of dread that shook him whenever he thought of enclosed places. Couldn’t the treasure be someplace above ground for one goddamned time, he thought with reproach at the whole scientific and prehistoric population.

Pretty story. But where’s your proof? He asked out loud.

But Ruth didn’t take offence. Instead, she took a deep breath and began the entire argument she’d had with Dr. Hall explaining the intricate murals and their possible interpretations. The recent findings at Teotihuacán, the pattern of attack on Lubaantun, and the most likely route of escape for its people confirmed this. She then argued that this could be a likely resting place for the Crystal Skull since those people would have taken their dearest possessions with them not wanting to leave them behind in the battle.

So, she concluded, I’m going. Either you come and tag along or you go back. Your choice.

CHAPTER TWO

The flashlight became essential as soon as she reached the end of the underground stairs. Flicking the flashlight’s switch, Ruth wondered if the interior would have been illuminated from the entrance above if there had been any daylight. She re-evaluated as she took a quick look over her shoulder to see the opening and saw only a sliver of sky dotted with stars and Polaris shining brightly. As the remnant of the white mural on the exterior of the wall indicated, this opening was pointing directly north. There would have been minimal to no light coming into the tunnel. The direction made her wonder if this was perhaps another system in the Mayan’s intricate astronomical structures? She pondered that theory as she continued on.

Her light slashed through the darkness, a blade of illumination in the black barely refracting off of the walls which were as dark as soot. Taking a step closer, Ruth feathered her fingertips over the walls half expecting to find the roughened limestone that made up the rest of the structures. Instead, the walls were smooth and cold and lacking all decoration. Mica? She wondered, taking a closer look at the walls. To what purpose?

A clatter of sound shattered the silence behind her. Considering the place and its history, Ruth should have trembled at the sound.

She was far too logical for that.

Besides, even before the beam of her flashlight told the tale, Ruth knew only one person who could make that much noise.

So, you’ve changed your mind?

Chris didn’t mind the dry humour he heard in Ruth’s voice. He was too frightened by the utter blackness.

What kind of a hell hole is this?

I’m not sure yet but it certainly wasn’t a cenote. Ruth answered, distracted as she watched him stumble until he reached her side. Didn’t you think to bring a light with you?

Didn’t know I was going into a shit hole did I? He retorted grumpily.

Ruth rolled her eyes. Not a latrine, a cenote — you know, the place where they dumped the sacrificed dead. Ruth stated before she turned back to her inspection of the tunnel wall.

Whatever.

Ruth merely hmm’ed as she noted the wall’s material in her book before moving on.

Where’s all the murals? Chris wanted to know. He had been digging and recording data for Dr. Hall and Ruth around this site long enough to register some of its key features even if he did mix up a cenote for a latrine.

Ruth, too, wanted to know. This doesn’t appear to have been a passageway meant for people — dead or alive. It isn’t marked, she began agreeing with Chris’ observation as she led them further into the tunnel. I’d think it was an aqueduct of some kind. But why use mica? It’s a rare mineral in this area and would have cost a fortune to import.

The tunnel was far from intact. Roots from the above vegetation had burrowed through the tunnel and dangled from the ceiling while cracks lined the walls of the tunnel. Humps of stone rubble had collected like broken gargoyles huddled along the passage making Ruth and Chris carefully pick their way through. Although Ruth could tell that the tunnel curved by marking their direction with the compass she carried, there were no divisions or forks in the passage and the elevation seemed to be descending slightly, instead of ascending as an irrigation line would have done.

Everywhere there were sounds of scurrying mice and other underground creatures. But other than the rodents, there was no evidence of this tunnel being used by humans — prehistoric or recent. Ruth was beginning to suspect both her theory and her gut was wrong on this one.

Friggin’ cold down here, Chris complained as he kicked a small stone away with his boot. It skittered along the broken mica like one of the mice. Ruth had to agree but didn’t want to add to Chris’ whining assessment. Adapting to the local climate — whether damp chills or scorching heat — was only one of the many elements archaeologists were forced to adjust to on a dig site.

Unwrapping her jacket from around her hips and throwing it one handed back at Chris, Ruth urged them on.

Let’s keep going.

They had picked their way steadily onward for roughly ten minutes before Ruth spotted the first artifact.

I think we’ve got something up here. She shined her light on the rubble ahead.

Is it the Crystal Skull? Excited, Chris tried to push past her but Ruth blocked him as she bent down to examine the possible find.

It looks like a potshard, she answered quietly attempting to temper the thrill she always felt upon discovery, whether it was a jewel-encrusted artifact or a broken piece of pottery like this one. A find! They were all fascinating to her for each told a story if the scientist was merely patient enough to listen.

Chris huffed his disappointment as he watched her bend lovingly over what he considered to be a worthless chunk of ceramic.

Ruth ignored him absorbed as she was in this prehistoric remnant in front of her.

It’s basic, unadorned. See this curve, here? She pointed to what suggested a lip in the prehistoric stoneware still nestled in the debris. Probably an ordinary drinking vessel. If we’re to follow through on my theory, the evacuees could have brought it with them as they ran. Continuing her theories and analyses in mumbled undertones, Ruth forgot Chris was there.

Let’s keep going, he urged, trying to get her attention away from what he considered an insignificant find. Maybe there’s more pottery and junk ahead. Or the Skull, he added silently.

A breath of sound carried through the silence to Ruth. As if a switch had been flicked, Ruth sharpened her focus back to the tunnel.

Did you hear that?

Straining, she tried to hear beyond the occasional patter of water droplets and scurrying mice. Her eyes focused on the darkness attempting to recapture the sound.

What? Chris dropped down to his knees alongside Ruth. His fear of the underground resurfaced in a stranglehold.

Ruth gestured for quiet with her hand still listening for what had sounded like breathing in the darkness. But after a minute of listening all she could hear was her own crashing heartbeat and Chris’ laboured gasps.

I guess it was nothing. She stood careful not to disrupt the potshard. But we should still go back.

Chris narrowed his eyes.

You did that on purpose! He accused, standing also. There was nothing — you’re just trying to scare me so we go back.

"We are going back. Flicking her long, black braid over her shoulder, she waved her flashlight back toward the direction in which they came. Do I have to remind you that you promised to follow orders?"

Her stance was aggressive with a touch of arrogance daring Chris to refuse her as she knew he wanted.

Besides, she grinned sharply, I have the light.

Not for long, he declared. Like a younger and petulant brother, Chris made a dive for the flashlight in Ruth’s