The Omega Project

by Ernest Dempsey

  He scooped up a spoonful of the stew, blew it off to cool, and then shoveled it into his mouth. Lewis took a second to enjoy the salty and savory flavors. He chewed a piece of beef and then swallowed before splashing another dose of ale down his throat. Then he repeated the process, making quick work of the hearty stew.

  Lewis hadn’t realized how hungry he truly was until the food was set in front of him.

  Mrs. Grinder was cleaning a mug and looked up to see him finish the meal. “Hungry, were ya?”

  “Yes, madam. I suppose I was.”

  “Would you like another bowl? On the house?”

  “You never gave me anything on the house,” the trapper grumbled.

  “And you never paid the way Captain Lewis does, you ingrate.”

  He muttered something under his breath and then took another swig from his mug.

  Lewis laughed at the exchange. Then he hefted his tankard and finished off the ale.

  “Thank you, madam,” he said and stood. “I appreciate the hospitality. I’m exhausted, though, and need some rest.”

  “Should I show you to your room?”

  He smiled weakly. “No, thank you. I’m fine, and besides, you’re busy.”

  The inn wasn’t large. It consisted of one floor with the kitchen and bar in the main area, then some smaller guest rooms at the other end of the building. Lewis had always stayed in the same room and didn’t know what the others looked like, though he figured they were identical. Mr. and Mrs. Grinder occupied one of the rooms; that much he knew.

  “Have a good night, Captain Lewis.”

  “Thank you. You as well.” He turned and walked toward the door on the left, though he couldn’t help but notice a strange tone in her voice at her last comment. It sounded almost…menacing. He had to be delirious. That’s all it was: overactive imagination coming from a lack of sleep and being on the road for far too long. Nothing a good night in a comfortable bed wouldn’t cure.

  Lewis opened the door, stepped into the bedroom, and closed it behind him.

  1

  Chattanooga, Tennessee | Present Day

  Sean held on for dear life. He felt his fingertips slipping, the lines of his fingerprints losing their grip against the rough limestone wall. He twitched his digits and shifted them up again to hold the thin edge just above his head. There was no chance he was going to look down. He knew what that would do.

  Ever since childhood, Sean had been cursed with a fear of heights. Tall buildings, high mountain peaks or roads, and pretty much everything in between were all things he tried to avoid. This particular scenario was doubly bad. They were on a rock wall in the midst of the Prentice Cooper State Forest near Chattanooga, Tennessee. The mountain offered incredible views of the surrounding peaks and the rolling foothills leading down to the valley below where the Tennessee River snaked its way through the gorge. Being up on the mountain made the cliff face feel even higher.

  He hung from the ledge with white knuckles, his body pressing as close to the wall as he could. The rope tied to his harness was nearly taut, only giving a small amount of slack to the lead climber fifteen feet above him.

  Sean tilted his head back and looked up at Tommy. “I don’t understand why I have to do this with you!” Sean shouted. “And why am I in the lead here? You’re the expert.”

  Tommy leaned back, holding onto the rock face with one hand, letting the other dangle down by the powder bag on his hip. “I told you. If this thing is as big as I think it is, I can’t carry it down by myself.”

  “Yeah, I know, but…” Sean felt his fingers slipping again and pushed up to the next narrow ledge, driving with his toes and legs until he felt his fingers catch on the flat surface above. It was only a half inch deep, but it might as well have been a jug handle—a rock climber’s dream.

  A cool breeze blew over the mountain. It sent a cold chill over Sean, bristling the exposed hairs on his neck and tickling the drops of sweat on his skin.

  Sean didn’t think his heart could pound any faster, but as he clung to the rock he realized he was wrong as the muscle pumping blood through his body ratcheted up the pace once more.

  He pressed his cheek against the cold surface and wished he didn’t have to move another inch. His gut stayed tight in a knot.

  It wasn’t the best of days for a climb. Not that there was ever a good day for that activity as far as Sean was concerned. The only thrill sport he partook of was riding his motorcycles, and that wasn’t because he was looking to get his jollies by doing something dangerous. He’d been a rider since childhood. It was in his blood. And as any motorcyclist would tell you: once it’s in your blood, you can’t get it out.

  His modest collection of cafe racers, sport bikes, and a single Harley Davidson Sportster ’48 composed his single vice, the one extravagant thing he allowed himself in life. He’d never been a car guy, per se. Sean had no interest in buying a Ferrari or a Maserati. That wasn’t his style. Not that there was anything wrong with those cars. It just wasn’t him.

  He’d always believed that traveling in a car was like being in a glass box. To truly experience the world, to be in it, you had to be on two wheels, maybe three if you were on one of those Can-Am Spyders. Outside a vehicle’s cabin, you could feel the wind, the elements, and the road passing under your feet.

  Now, he was feeling the elements but not in a way he appreciated. It was bitterly cold, much cooler than normal for this time of December in the South. Over the years, as the earth continued to warm as it had for thousands of years, the winters seemed to start later and later. Fall, too, had been affected for as long as he could remember, the leaves waiting longer and longer to turn from lush green to brilliant oranges, reds, and yellows.

  Today, however, was as cold as he could recall at such an early point in the season. Or late, as it were. Technically, winter was still a few weeks away. Sean couldn’t help but feel as if the thick gray clouds overhead were just waiting for the right moment to dump a foot of snow on the area.

  In reality, the temperature was only in the lower forties, not nearly cold enough for snow. Then again, they were at a higher elevation here, so perhaps they might see a flurry.

  He shuddered at the thought. The last thing they needed was the surface to become slippery.

  “Couldn’t this have waited?” Sean yelled up at his friend. “You know, until one of the warmer months? I’m thinking, maybe, June. We come back in June and find this thing.”

  Tommy chuckled and clipped a carabiner into a hex he’d jammed into a crevice that ran horizontally across the rock. He looked down at his friend, allowing himself to lean back on the rope to test the anchor he’d just placed. It held firm, not even a wiggle.

  Unlike Sean, Tommy had no problem with high places. He’d enjoyed rock climbing when he was in college but had lost interest when he took on the overwhelming task of founding and running the International Archaeological Agency, an organization specializing in the recovery and transport of priceless artifacts. On occasion, they were even tasked with finding said artifacts.

  Things had been slow lately, especially during the last few weeks. There hadn’t been much need for their services, and so Tommy set about working on solving a few local mysteries.

  One such mystery was based on local oral traditions. The stories claimed that there were several gold bars hidden on a cliff overlooking the Tennessee River. Apparently, the gold had been placed there by Confederate soldiers who were on the run near the end of the Civil War.

  Tommy initially thought the story was a hoax, or simply a piece of the fabric of local lore that had been perpetuated over time. As he tracked various clues left in history, though, he found himself considering the tale might actually have some validity to it.

  He pulled out a piece of paper from his back pocket. The sheet flapped in the wind, but his fingers held firm. He was looking over his notes and the sketches he’d created to mimic the rock face. His eyes traced the line he’d drawn of the exact path they’d need
to take across the stone.

  “We’re almost there!” Tommy shouted down.

  The clue on the paper said that the treasure could be found in the mouth of a ghost overlooking the mighty river. The details had been heavier than that, which had led Tommy and Sean to this spot. Tommy didn’t need all those now. He’d done his homework, his due diligence. Now they were here, only minutes from the town the two of them had grown up in and where they still both kept weekend homes.

  Sean’s was a small condo down on the South Side, while Tommy’s larger bungalow was situated in the trendy North Shore area of town.

  He knew about ghosts and their place in nineteenth-century culture, especially in regard to Civil War treasure hordes. These apparitions had little to do with actual spirits. They were symbols, nothing more.

  In the waning days of the conflict between brothers, many rebels feared they would be persecuted for seceding and treated as criminals. These thoughts weren’t necessarily unfounded. Stories about houses and farms being burned and salted, women raped, and husbands murdered, ran rampant through the ranks of the wilting Confederacy. General Sherman’s march to the sea had produced a thousand such horror stories. It was little wonder why rebels ran for their lives, many heading west to Texas and even Mexico to escape the North’s brand of justice.

  Desperate and on the run, soldiers had taken whatever fortunes they’d discovered or stolen and hid them in places they figured were safe, hoping to return someday and start new lives.

  Most never made it back for one reason or another, which provided treasure hunters more fodder than they could have ever imagined in the subsequent one hundred and fifty-plus years.

  Tommy wasn’t looking for the gold because of its financial value. Once found, he would donate it to a local museum or university. Southern Adventist University had a unique collection of biblical artifacts from the Middle East, but they’d discussed including more local historical items in a new wing—were a donor willing to throw a few extra dollars their way to build it.

  Tommy hadn’t balked at the idea. He thought it would be cool to have a new section of the archaeology department at SAU featuring regional and local historical artifacts. Perhaps this find would be the first exhibit put on display.

  He stuffed the paper back in his pocket and looked down at Sean, who was still clinging to the rock for dear life.

  Sean must have felt his friend’s gaze and risked a look up. “I can’t do this!” Sean shouted.

  Tommy shook his head. “You know, you’ve been way higher than this before. There was that monastery in Bhutan. Remember that? That place was way worse. Besides, you’re only, like, twelve feet off the ground.”

  Sean frowned at the comment and risked a look down. He immediately wished he hadn’t. The world spun below him, and he felt gravity tugging back on him. His fingers slipped as he desperately reached out to get even a fingernail’s hold on the ledge.

  It was too late. Sean could feel the empty vacuum of air beneath him, nothing to stop him from plummeting to the ground below. His friend had teased him, told him he was only twelve feet up. In truth, he was nearly forty feet up, certainly high enough to be killed by the fall. At least it would be a quick death. That was the last thing Sean thought before an abrupt tug on his harness snapped him out of his panic. The rope went taut, sprang down, then up, and then he felt himself being drawn back to the rock face.

  He swung toward it and was grateful to feel his palms slap against the cold surface.

  Sean scrambled and found a narrow ledge he’d used before, clutching it with all his might. Then he slid his toes onto a landing and steadied his position.

  He looked up at his friend with rage in his eyes. “Not! Funny! Tommy!”

  Tommy laughed and shook his head. “See? You’re fine. I told you the harness would hold. This isn’t my first time lead-climbing, buddy.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Now, that’s not a nice thing to say to someone you’re tethered to on a rock wall way up on a mountain.”

  Sean swallowed. Anger and embarrassment, fueled with adrenaline, pushed him forward. He reached up and grabbed a handhold, moved his right foot to the next ledge, and climbed. He said nothing as he kept going, his fears pushed aside by determination. The sooner he could get up to where Tommy was, the sooner he could kill his friend and get down off this forsaken place.

  The thought sent a grim smile creasing across his face. He quickly dispelled the notion, but the grin remained.

  He scurried up the wall like a spider monkey. His long, slender frame was actually perfect for this kind of activity, though he would never do it for the fun of it.

  “That’s more like it,” Tommy said, now only ten feet above Sean. “You’re doing great.”

  Sean ignored the encouragement, fully intent on grabbing one of his friend’s ankles and jerking him off his ivory perch.

  “Take it easy, though. Don’t go too fast.” Tommy suddenly looked concerned. “Sean?”

  “You better move because if I get to you I’m throwing you off this blasted rock.”

  For a second, Tommy thought his friend was joking. Then after seeing the look in Sean’s eyes, he wasn’t so sure. “Buddy? Take it easy. We’re almost there.”

  Tommy turned and faced the mountain again and resumed his ascent. He traversed to the left, using the horizontal crack as a path toward the ghost, or what he figured would be the ghost.

  Soldiers in the nineteenth century, and in particular during the Civil War, had a habit of attaching their hidden treasures to emblems they either carved into trees or rocks, or that were naturally occurring formations that looked like things they would recognize later on.

  Tommy was certain this was the case regarding this particular hidden trove. Sean reached the crack and watched as his friend placed a cam into a vertical wedge in the rock face. He clipped the rope in and tugged hard on it to make sure it would hold.

  “I can’t believe you trust these things,” Sean said, his anger forgotten and replaced once more by a persistent fear.

  “It’s simple science. Friction, you know?”

  “I guess.”

  Sean grabbed a hold over his left shoulder and shifted his left foot in that direction, closing the gap between him and his friend.

  “I’m really close,” Tommy said. He craned his neck back and gazed up.

  Five feet overhead, he could see the unmistakable shape of a primitive ghost chiseled into the rock face. Its rounded top and jagged bottom edge reminded Tommy of the ghosts from the Pac-Man arcade game he’d enjoyed so much as a child. Perhaps the programmers had taken the antiquated design and made it their own when constructing the game’s framework.

  He heard the sound of voices from up above, at the top of the cliff, probably another thirty feet up.

  Sean heard them, too. It wasn’t uncommon for high school or college kids to come hiking out here on the weekends. It was a popular spot for mountain-biking, though most of the better slopes for downhill rides were along the tops of other mountains or down along the hillsides into the valley.

  Prentice Cooper was also a semipopular rock-climbing location, with a multitude of climbs varying in difficulty that could provide hours of challenges for the novice to the seasoned expert.

  Today, however, there were no other climbers, at least not in this spot, probably because it was much too cold for most people. Frigid fingers made holding on to anything far more difficult than normal. Especially when it was your bodyweight you were trying to keep from falling.

  The voices overhead sounded young. There were some laughs amid the chatter, which eased Sean’s overactive imagination.

  He was always on alert, most of the time. It was his default setting. Through the years, he’d worked on taking time out to relax, making sure that he wasn’t always high-strung and perpetually paranoid as a result of his previous life as a government agent.

  That life had made him the way he was: alert, focused, and always ready for acti
on at the drop of a hat.

  Going to work for his friend in the IAA had been a move, he thought, that would gradually allow the rust to seep in and eventually coat his sharp edges. That notion couldn’t have been more wrong. He’d found himself in nearly as many life-or-death experiences as he had working for the covert government agency known as Axis. That didn’t mean he liked it.

  It had been months since anything harrowing had happened, and he was beginning to feel the strings of relaxation tugging on him again.

  He heard another squeal and a laugh up above, and reassured himself that no one knew why he and Tommy were there or what they were up to. They’d only told the kids, Tara and Alex, before leaving IAA headquarters in Atlanta. Sean had also mentioned it to Adriana, but she was busy handling some family business back in Madrid. Her father, Diego, was apparently still in hiding. From whom, Sean had never gotten a clear answer.

  He snapped his mind back to the moment and shuffled his hands to the left, following the path his friend had taken a few minutes before. He’d forgotten about how high up he was—for the moment—and was moving with the deftness of an experienced climber. He traversed the crack and reached the next one that ran vertically toward the summit of the rock.

  Tommy was already moving again, and Sean could see the figure of the ghost etched roughly into the wall’s façade.

  Sean heard more laughter above and shook it off. He wanted to get whatever was here and then climb down as fast and as safely as possible.

  Tommy reached the right side of the ghost’s figure and held on to a jagged point that jutted out from the mountain. It was a dream handhold and made balancing on the thin ledge at his feet much easier as he investigated the strange engraving in the rock.

  “You see anything?” Sean shouted up to his friend.

  “Not yet. Hold on.”