The Omega Project

by Ernest Dempsey

  The Omega Project: Sean Wyatt 17

  A Sean Wyatt Thriller

  Ernest Dempsey

  138 Publishing

  Contents

  Join the Adventure

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Thank You

  Author’s Notes

  Other books by Ernest Dempsey

  Acknowledgments

  Join the Adventure

  Visit ernestdempsey.net to get a free copy of the not-sold-in-stores short story, RED GOLD.

  You’ll also get access to exclusive content not available anywhere else.

  Prologue

  Hohenwold, Tennessee | October 10, 1809

  The cold of early fall bit at the man’s skin, what little remained exposed to the elements. It wasn’t the sharp, stinging cold of winter. This had a different feel to it, milder in some way.

  The air smelled of dry leaves and campfires. The man knew the source was the hearth of Grinder’s Tavern. He’d stayed there before on his travels through this part of southern Tennessee and knew Mrs. Grinder would likely be cooking some kind of stew right about now.

  On cue, he caught a whiff of onions and beef. The smell filled his nostrils and went straight to his stomach, causing a deep rumble.

  He hadn’t eaten all day, save for a biscuit he’d had for breakfast and a piece of dried meat for lunch. His plan had always been to travel light and fast, then eat a big dinner.

  He couldn’t see the lights of the tavern, but he knew it was coming around the bend.

  He tugged on the lengthy collar of his jacket to ward off the final few minutes of chill. A light breeze rustled through the treetops and flicked leaves from their branches. The colorful flurries danced through the air as they fell around the man, seated atop his horse. While he would have liked to enjoy the display illuminated by the light of a half-moon, he knew the sooner he arrived at Grinder’s, the better.

  The Natchez Trace was a dangerous patch of road, patrolled by bandits and the occasional natives. The bandits were the worse of the two—though there were stretches that ran through some of the more aggressive tribes’ land.

  Something other than the wind rustled in the forest to his right. The man pulled one of his pistols and swung it around, aiming it into the pitch-dark thicket of oak, maple, and poplar trees. The branches above loomed like skeleton fingers against the pale glow in the sky and the twinkling stars.

  The noise to his right grew louder. The horse snorted and shifted its feet. The man in the saddle kept his focus. He wasn’t new to this sort of thing and didn’t spook easily. In fact, the sense of fear sent adrenaline coursing through his veins, and for the first time in three years he felt alive.

  His breath pulsed out of his nose and mouth in short bursts of misty clouds. His eyes remained focused on the dark as the sound grew closer. Someone was coming, and they were being clumsy about it. A drunk from Grinder’s, perhaps, lost in the woods?

  The sound swelled, feet clomping through leaves and sticks, fur brushing against the bark of tree trunks. The man’s trigger finger tensed, and he cocked back the hammer. If he missed, he had three more, plus a rifle and a tomahawk.

  Suddenly, the intruder’s eyes flashed white amid a long, pointy face covered in light brown fur.

  “Just a deer,” the man said. He sighed, almost disappointed, as the animal emerged from the forest. Its antlers branched out in several directions, showing the buck’s age.

  The man bit his lip, took another look around to survey the area, and stuffed the pistol back in the folds of his coat.

  “Easy, boy,” he said, rubbing his hand on the horse’s neck, “I’m sure we’ll find some kind of adventure.”

  Three years. Three long years since he’d come back to a hero’s welcome. There’d been parades, fanfare, and every luxury he could have ever imagined. Luxury, however, wasn’t something Meriwether Lewis desired.

  The Corps of Discovery mission to map a large section of the Louisiana Purchase and—hopefully—discover a northwest passage to the Pacific Ocean had been an immense success. Though they never found the legendary river system that could connect the eastern part of the continent to the west, they did make it to the Pacific Ocean at the mouth of the Columbia River. Captain Lewis and his friend Second Lt. William Clark had explored farther than any American up to that point and were lauded as celebrities.

  Those days seemed like ancient history now.

  The adventures they had encountered along the way were something right out of legend. They’d met natives of almost every kind. His friend Sacagawea had been instrumental in the success of the mission. She’d made it possible to safely communicate with the various tribes they had met along the way and helped them navigate difficult terrain that was unfamiliar to Lewis and the rest of the Corps.

  He needed a drink.

  The matters pressing on him had taken his anxiety to new heights. When he was out in the wilderness with Clark and the Corps, he didn’t have to worry about stupid financial matters or politics. His new life forced those things on him, squeezing him like a vise.

  Politics. He hated the thought of it.

  He was one of the larger landowners of the Louisiana Territory and had been made governor, a position he loathed. President Jefferson had also been on his back about the journals he’d kept during the mission. Three years later, Lewis still hadn’t delivered his entire report to his friend, and for good reason; Jefferson was no longer in office.

  Lewis did his best to skate around the subject, come up with excuses as to why his full report had yet to be given to the president, but time was up. He couldn’t run from the truth any longer.

  The horse’s hooves clopped along the dirt road. The monotonous sound was almost peaceful, and Lewis found himself dozing off numerous times only to be awakened as he nearly lost his balance and fell off his steed.

  He shook his head side to side to stay awake, knowing the safety and warmth of Grinder’s Tavern were just around the bend.

  Instinctively, he reached down and touched the satchel at his side. His journals were in there, detailing every aspect of the Corps of Discovery’s journey, including one particular piece he knew would be a shock to former president Jefferson.

  Lewis hadn’t told anyone about what he found that fateful night. He trusted his team implicitly, especially his friend William Clark. There were one or two they’d picked up along the way that he didn’t trust, but they weren’t the reason he’d kept his
discovery a secret. What he found would have profound implications, not only on history but on the young nation as people began to migrate west. Indeed, the security of the United States could be at risk.

  After they’d established a base camp at Fort Clatsop with temporary structures such as tents, construction on the permanent fort began. While he assisted in as many ways as possible, Lewis stole away in the early hours of the night to work on his own project, something he couldn’t tell anyone else about, at least not yet. He’d have to communicate directly with Thomas Jefferson first before telling anyone else about what he saw.

  He burned the candle at both ends, working during the days to survey the surrounding countryside, building living quarters for the winter, and then taking care of burying his secret after the sun went down.

  Those nights were long. He’d suffered from sleep deprivation on more than one instance, but he’d had no choice.

  Clark had expressed concern over his condition. Lewis knew he must have looked rough, and there were times when he caught himself having a conversation with no one—except himself.

  His focus on the task at hand, on covering up what he’d seen, was intense. It took nearly three weeks, but he was satisfied that he’d done the best he could. Once the president was apprised of the situation, a more suitable solution could be organized and carried out.

  Lewis sighed as he saw a dim light coming from the cracks in the windows of the tavern up ahead. A bonfire raged outside, pouring a thick pillar of smoke into the air amid a flurry of bright orange sparks. The chimney on the end of the house tried to rival the bonfire’s output, but only allowed a faint trickle of smoke to churn out of its top.

  The plan was to stay the night at Grinder’s then wake up early and continue on the trail toward Virginia, and then to Washington where he would meet with Thomas Jefferson and finally give him everything, even the secret he’d discovered near the mouth of the Columbia.

  The mere thought of it sent a shiver down his spine. On top of all that was the fact that Jefferson was no longer the president. While Lewis still referred to the man with that title, James Madison was now in control and technically the person who should receive the journals. Lewis knew Madison, but not intimately, and he wanted to make sure the documents were delivered to someone he could trust. That meant Thomas Jefferson. The former president could then do what he saw fit with the information, deliver it to Madison, or perhaps someone else if necessary. At this point, Lewis just wanted to be the delivery boy and be done with it. The whole thing had weighed on him long enough.

  He snapped his head around to shake off the chill and flicked the reins to hurry his horse along the last hundred yards to the clearing and the promise of a warm bed, good food, and a long night’s sleep.

  Lewis thought he heard another sound in the forest, a second deer, perhaps. Whatever it was, he didn’t hear it again, but his nerves remained on edge until he reached the clearing and could hear the sounds of voices inside the building.

  He hopped down from his saddle and looped the reins around a hitching post in front of the log cabin. Blood pumped through his legs, sending a tingling sensation coursing over his body. He reached down toward his toes and stretched to get the circulation back to normal and then stood up straight again, securing the satchel at his side.

  He removed the rifle from the holster attached to his saddle and propped it over his shoulder as he walked toward the entrance.

  Lewis pressed against the door and it creaked open with a loud, grinding squeak that would have frightened any animal courageous enough to wander too close to the inn.

  Inside, there was a counter to the left in front of a fireplace. As suspected, a large iron cauldron hung over a smoldering pile of orange coals, steam wafting up from the top. The smells he’d noted outside were much stronger in here. Simmering beef, onions, pepper, and other vegetables caused his stomach to grumble again.

  There was one patron sitting at the bar with a tankard in one hand, probably filled with warm ale of some kind.

  Lewis saw Mrs. Grinder standing behind the counter and offered a smile. “Good evening, madam. I trust you’re doing well.”

  She offered him a welcoming smile, albeit with a hint of nervousness to it. “Meriwether Lewis,” she said in a warm, faint Southern accent. People in the Southeastern United States had begun developing an accent of their own that was a sort of mix between English and Irish. The sound was pleasant; at least Lewis thought so. He enjoyed visiting this area and wished he could do so more often. Tennessee or, Tanasi as the natives had called it, offered much in the way of outdoor adventure and natural beauty. “It’s so good to see you again.” She put out her arms as if to hug him but didn’t come around the bar to do so. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll have an ale and some of that fine stew I see cooking back there.” He took off his pack and set it next to a chair at a little square table off to the side of the room. There was a window close by, though the shutters were closed. He thought it odd but didn’t make mention of it. There was no need to have the windows shut. It was a lovely night out, and there were no signs of bad weather on the horizon. Perhaps the Grinders were just trying to make the place feel cozy so any travelers that stopped in might be inclined to stay.

  “You have my usual room?” Lewis asked.

  Mrs. Grinder nodded as she finished filling a tankard with red ale. She brought the frothy drink over to him and set it on the table. “Sure do. It’s clean and ready if you’d like it.”

  She sounded hopeful. Perhaps business hadn’t been good lately. Their little outpost was sort of in the middle of nowhere, which could be a good or bad thing. A place like this could be a godsend to a weary and desperate person on a long journey. Then again, how many of those came through this part of the region? The Natchez Trace was infamous for theft, rape, and murder. The bandits hiding out in its woods and in the surrounding hills were notorious for their ruthlessness. Lewis could handle them—as long as their numbers weren’t too many. He’d once taken on four bandits by himself, leaving two dead and the other two maimed for life. It was a story he’d never shared with anyone, but he figured the two remaining bandits would take care of that for him.

  It never hurt to have a little legend about you circulating around when traveling treacherous roads.

  “Where you headed, Captain Lewis?” Mrs. Grinder asked as she returned to the fireplace and picked up a bowl. She grabbed a long wooden spoon and dipped it into the iron pot, scooping out a hefty portion of stew.

  “Washington,” he said. His right hand slipped down to the satchel again, fingers rubbing over the worn leather. “I have to meet with President Jefferson.”

  She grinned at him and placed a spoon in the bowl of steaming food. “You know he’s not the president anymore, right? Or has being out in the wilderness knocked you out of your senses?”

  He chuckled as she set the bowl down on the table in front of him. He rifled through a coin purse and produced enough money to cover the meal, the room, and a little extra. Lewis had always been generous when it came to his accommodations and the people providing them. Maybe it was due to the fact he didn’t care about money or material possessions. That was one of the most stressful facets of being a landowner and a governor. He felt more at home in a small cabin or in a tent out in the forest. Civilian life, it seemed, was better suited for someone else.

  Clark had seemed to adapt to it fairly well, but not Lewis.

  “I wish that were the case,” he said. “Unfortunately, I’ve been imprisoned behind a desk these last three years. There’s been almost no time for adventure, save for when I come through these parts.”

  “You sure have a load of courage to be traveling the Trace at night, that’s for sure.”

  “Courage or foolishness,” the patron at the bar said, his voice full of gravel. He was an older man with a graying beard that stretched down to the top of his chest. His wiry hair poked out from under a leather cap. A trapper’s coat hung o
n the chair back behind him. Lewis couldn’t make out the stranger’s face, but something about the voice was oddly familiar in a distant sort of way.

  Lewis took no offense. “Maybe both.” He clutched the handle of his mug and took a long sip of the ale. He was pleasantly surprised to find it cooler than expected. In the summer, beers tended to be a little on the warm side: fine for getting drunk but not great for the overall tasting and drinking experience. In the fall and winter, beers and ales were much cooler and far more pleasing to the palate.

  He drained nearly half the tankard before setting it down.

  Drinking had become the norm for Lewis. Some of his peers were concerned he’d developed a bit of a problem. The truth was he did have a problem. Drinking was the only thing that kept his mind off it. His anxiety had been higher than ever in his life, as far as he could recall. It had started after returning home from the expedition, the moment he realized he was no longer going to be an outdoorsman or a soldier. He would be a puppet for propaganda.

  That was half of it. The other half came from the knowledge laid bare in the documents at his side. What would Jefferson say? What would he do? Would he take the information to Madison? If so, what would happen after that? Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the secret he’d discovered on the West Coast was no big deal, something that could be brushed aside. Deep down, he knew that wasn’t the case.