“It’s the calling card of the Third Brigade,” said the sentry disgustedly.
“After months of absence, those filthy leftist bastards have finally returned.”
Taking in this observation, Moreau shook his head.
“It certainly appears to be the work of the Third Brigade, mon ami.”
“What in God’s name is the Third Brigade?”
asked a bewildered LeMond.
“It’s hard to believe that they’ve been inactive in these parts for over two years,” continued Moreau.
“We had our share of this kind of foolishness when we first started work here.” He turned to LeMond.
“Apparently the Brigade is a Maoist guerilla organization that wants Ariadne out of Guiana. For the first couple of years we put up with their threats, until they started making this kind of sick gesture. A full year before you arrived here, we were forced to move into the back country with a large contingent of Legionnaires. Our boys found their headquarters on the banks of the Sinnamary River, and blew away over four dozen of them. Until today, that was the last we’d heard of them.”
“There’ve been rumblings in Kourou that they’ve returned for sometime now, mon Colonel,” offered the senior sentry.
“Yet this bandana and machete are the first actual proofs of this fact.”
“We still must be cautious,” returned Moreau.
“Someone could be merely copying their calling-card to cover up a simple, brutal murder. That’s why I want a complete investigation. Photograph the area thoroughly before taking the bodies off to Kourou for an autopsy. Then an emergency security meeting is in order for later this afternoon.”
A rumbling boom of thunder emphasized these words. This was followed by the piercing electronic tone of Moreau’s earphone. It was Jacques LeMond who slogged over the muddy field to answer it.
A quick conversation followed. LeMond hung up the receiver and called out to his superior.
“Colonel, it was Winston. He says it’s most urgent that you return to your office at once.”
Knowing that his administrative assistant wouldn’t bother him needlessly, Moreau excused himself and returned to the jeep.
“Would you like a ride back, Jacques?” questioned Moreau as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
LeMond stood on the field before him.
“That’s okay, Colonel. I’ll hitch a ride back with security. If you don’t mind, I’d like to give them a hand with the initial investigation.”
“Be my guest,” returned Moreau, who added, “Just keep an eye on that tree line, mon ami. If it is indeed the Third Brigade, I’ll bet they’re watching us at this very moment. Good hunting.”
The last he saw of his assistant was as he pivoted to return to the fence. The soaked, tall, lanky figure was soon out of his line of sight, and Moreau turned the jeep around and headed back on the same drenched road that he had just passed over.
The rains had yet to diminish and the colonel was most aware that the freshly starched shirt and pants that Theresa had prepared for him that morning were now completely saturated. Wiping the moisture from his forehead, he did his best to drive as fast as possible.
A single vision remained in his mind’s eye. The five dead laborers had been laid out in such a dramatic fashion that the heinous nature of the needless crime that had taken their lives could almost be overlooked.
It was as if the deaths themselves meant nothing.
Rather, it was a mere political point that the perpetrators were trying to convey. Sickened by the type of low-life that could stoop to such an act, Moreau cursed his misfortune. Whenever things appeared to be going smoothly, the jung led hell that surrounded them would place yet another obstacle in their way.
First it had been the logistical difficulties of establishing an adequate supply line. Then there were the mosquitos and the snakes to contend with. The appearance of the leftists only made a miserable environment that much worse.
Moreau guided the jeep through a dense copse of palms and realized that in a way they’d been lucky these past few years. Only a fool would have thought that the Legionnaires had been able to do away with all the troublemakers. As with a malignant cancer, only a single remaining cell needed to be left behind in order for the disease to propagate once more. If the Third Brigade had indeed returned, the only course of action would be to strike them quick and sure.
Since several members of Ariadne’s current security force had previously worked on Devil’s Island, he was confident that they would be able to do the job themselves. This could all be discussed during the afternoon’s meeting.
A crack of lightning lit the nearby sky and the colonel nervously jumped. Beyond, a rain-swollen creek had overflowed and the stream was in the process of flooding the road. Shifting his vehicle into four-wheel drive, he plowed into this current. The wipers continued their futile battle to clear the windshield and Moreau was forced to open his window wider to allow in more air. The jeep skidded, yet he quickly regained control.
A half kilometer passed before the grade of the road improved. Though the rain still fell in blinding sheets, he was able to make out the outline of the payload-preparation facility and, beyond, the Ariadne’s launch tower. No rocket currently sat on this pad.
He cursed when a mosquito bit him on the neck.
Slapping it dead with the palm of his hand, Moreau wondered what could be so damn important to warrant this unusual call back to the office. He knew he’d soon find out for himself, for the two-story, concrete-block structure holding command headquarters was visible off the road directly to his left.
Turning into its lot, he parked the jeep and sprinted to the building’s entrance.
He needed to utilize both his security code and identification pass to gain entry there. Ignoring the trail of mud and water he left behind him, Moreau climbed up two flights of steps. At the head of the stairway was a frosted-glass door on the surface of which was printed, “Colonel Jean Moreau — Director, Ariadne Project.” Quick to enter this door, he was greeted by his black male secretary, who sat before his typewriter pounding out a memo.
“Oh, mon Colonel, thank the Lord that you got back here so quickly. The Commandant himself called you less than a quarter of an hour ago. You’re to call him at once, on the private line at his summer place in Cannes.”
“Why thank you, Winston,” said the breathless Moreau, who only then was aware of the puddle of water that had gathered beneath him.
“Sorry about the wet mess, mon ami, but the rain just won’t stop falling out there. I’ll place the call myself in my office.”
Without waiting for a response, Moreau rushed through the double doors that led to his inner sanctum.
It wasn’t every day that he received a personal call from the Commandant. In fact, it had been over a week since he had last heard from the director and founder of the Consortium. With this in mind, he positioned himself behind his desk and, punching in the series of numbers that only he was privileged to know, activated the computerized telephone.
A succession of electronic tones emanated from the phone’s speaker. Moreau visualized the signal as it was received by the Ariadne communications satellite that soared in a geosynchronous orbit high over the Atlantic. Seconds later, this same signal found itself beamed eastward, to a receiving dish located in faraway southern France. Just as quickly as he could complete a call to neighboring Kourou, a deep voice sounded with utmost clarity from the receiver.
“Commandant here.”
“Mon Commandant, this is Colonel Moreau.”
The voice on the other end lightened.
“Ah, Jean, it’s good to hear your voice. As always, it sounds like you are calling from just down the street. I hope things are well at Ariadne.”
Moreau answered guardedly.
“I’m afraid we had a bit of a tragedy here this morning. Five of our maintenance workers were found murdered in the southern security sector. Preliminary evidence points t
o the Third Brigade as the ones responsible.”
Seconds passed before the Commandant responded.
“That is indeed sad news, Jean. Please convey my respects to the poor victims’ families. Will you be needing assistance from the Legion once again?”
“I believe this time we will be able to handle the situation ourselves. If we are unable to correct the problem, I will inform you at once.”
“Very good, mon ami,” retorted the Commandant, whose tone then turned flat.
“For a while there, I thought that we might have ridden the earth of that scum for good, but que sera, sera. I hate to add more darkness to your already gloomy day, but I thought that you’d like to be one of the first to know that the United States Government has turned down our bid to assist NASA in their time of difficulty.”
Surprised with this revelation, Moreau sat forward.
“But how will they put their satellites into orbit without the services of their space shuttle or Titan?”
Aware of the tension that flavored the colonel’s voice, the Commandant replied coolly, “Believe it or not, our man inside NASA informs us that the military shuttle Condor is currently being brought out of mothballs to place America’s top-priority pay loads into orbit, until a safer, more reliable platform is available. The first launch of this vehicle could take place as soon as forty-eight hours from now.”
Hardly believing what he was hearing, Moreau exclaimed, “Are those Americans crazy? Have they forgotten the results of Challenger already? I can’t believe they’d risk the lives of a brave crew when we hold the alternative right here at Ariadne. They are as stubborn and cheap as they are foolish.”
The Commandant allowed Moreau to catch his breath before continuing.
“Only hours ago, I was summoned to a hastily called meeting of the Board of Directors. At that time, our esteemed finance director informed us that, even with the additional Asian business, the Consortium faces serious cash-flow problems in the near future. The nature of this ever increasing deficit could put Ariadne completely out of business as soon as the end of this year. Only one source of revenue remains untapped that can reverse this position before it’s too late. I’m afraid I have no other alternative but to instruct you to immediately initiate Operation Diablo one more time.”
The instruction cut into Moreau’s soul like a knife into butter. Most aware of just what the Commandant was asking of him, the colonel struggled to summon a proper response. Abandoning his emotions, he allowed his duty to take over.
“Yes, mon Commandant, I will get to work on implementing Diablo at once. Am I to assume that this is not a practice alert, sir?”
“Your assumption is correct, Jean Moreau,” answered the icily cool, deep voice of his superior.
“A full packet of instructions is currently on its way to you via a Mirage jet fighter. You will be receiving them within the hour. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you have the slightest of questions. I don’t have to remind you that the very survival of Ariadne is at stake here. Though our actions might seem a bit harsh, we have no other choice. I do hope you understand this. Au revoir, mon ami. May the Lord be with you.”
Barely offering a goodbye of his own, Moreau managed to hang up the receiver. His mind was still awash with tangled thought as he swiveled around to view-that portion of the facility visible from his office’s central picture window. He hardly flinched when a jagged spear of lightning flashed from the heavens and struck the top of a nearby coconut palm.
A wave of solid water splattered onto the window’s exterior surface, and Moreau found himself focusing in on the sight of his own reflection visible in the glistening glass pane.
Appearing pale and completely drained of energy, the white-haired figure sat there listlessly, his thoughts struggling for rational order. Though he had been well aware that this day might come, he had never considered it seriously. Now that the unthinkable had happened, he could do but one thing.
Otherwise, an entire life’s effort would be totally wasted.
Chapter Eight
The morning fog came in from the Pacific with swirling, thick gray fingers. Blanketing the central California coastline in a shroud of cottony vapor, it played havoc with both seafarers and landlubbers alike. With visibility down to near zero, only the most daring of travelers risked penetrating such an environment.
Miriam Rodgers was well aware that this was an excellent morning to keep their vehicles parked at camp. Since their promising excavation on Tranquil Ion Ridge had been put off limits by the Air Force, she had allowed her senior teacher’s assistant to find them an alternative dig site. Fortunately, Joseph Solares had been able to find one within walking distance of their circle of trailers. Thus their method of transportation was by foot, and not even the fog could hold them back.
The majority of the crew had left for this new site at the first crack of dawn. This left only Miriam and one of her students back at camp. There they were kept busy cataloguing a precise list of every single artifact so far uncovered in their work at Vandenberg.
This included the remnants of an excellent collection of Chumash basketry. So far, they had identified a wide assortment of superbly crafted designs, weaved from such materials as junc as sumac, tule willow, and the roots of sedge and fern. Several of them were even decorated with flicker quills. Their shovels had also uncovered hundreds of obsidian arrowheads and a variety of scrapers, spear points, knives, and awls. Miriam took exceptional pride in the magnificent Olivilla shell necklace that she had personally uncovered only a week after they had initially arrived there.
It was unlike any piece of Chumash jewelry that she had ever viewed before, and she imagined that it had to have been the property of a village matriarch.
Of course, the most spectacular of their discoveries had been their latest. The shiny gray stone spirit bowl had been exhumed from Tranquillon Ridge only minutes before the Air Force sentries had arrived to drive them away. Each time that she studied it, she couldn’t help but be impressed with the hundreds of hours of intricate workmanship that must have been needed to create its lip of tiny five-pointed-star shell bits. And then there was the unique symbol painted on its bottom. If Joseph was correct, the ball of bright yellow and the concentric circles of black and red that surrounded it could be symbolic of the journey of the very soul after death. Quick to stir the imaginations of Miriam and her impressionable coworkers, the lap-sized bowl hinted at even greater discoveries yet to come.
Robert R. Baray, the Sioux Indian staff engineer for Vandenberg, had been correct in his assumption that Tranquillon offered the trained archaeologist a wealth of possibilities. Yet Miriam couldn’t help but wonder if Baray had been aware that this spot could be the location of the legendary Chumash portal of the dead. How her juices had flowed when Joseph had related to them the story of the paved royal road and the circular charm stone temple that would prove this very fact. Aware that such a discovery could have been as close as the next shovelful of dirt, Miriam couldn’t have been more disappointed when the Air Force sentries had arrived to abruptly put her dreams on hold. Powerless to fight their authority there, she could but lead her crew back to camp, where they regrouped and eventually diverted their efforts elsewhere.
Once again it was from Robert Baray’s journal that they had found this new site. Located only a mile from camp, on the other side of the foothills that separated the parking lot from the beach itself, this spot was supposedly a Chumash fishing village. A preliminary excavation had showed it to be promising, and all too soon the students had been ready to abandon Tranquillon and see what treasures awaited them at the new site.
Though a month’s worth of work couldn’t be so easily walked away from, Miriam had somewhat reluctantly given this new project her blessings. Anxious to be working in such a close proximity to the beach, the kids had gone to the site this morning in better spirits than she had seen them in weeks. Since they had to be kept busy doing something of value, she looked upon this
whole excavation as a mere diversionary project. The Air Force couldn’t keep Tranquillon off limits forever. Hopefully, the ban would be lifted soon, and she could proceed with the effort her instincts told her would produce the most treasures.
Conscious of the varied collection of relics that cluttered the picnic tables before her, Miriam sat back and put down the arrowheads that she had been sorting through. Aware again of the unusual density of the morning’s fog, she rubbed her raw hands together. Her relative physical inactivity had allowed a moist chill to settle in her limbs. Not even the hot mug of coffee that she had been sipping was able to alleviate it.
Her coworker, Margaret, didn’t seem in the least bit effected by the cold. Dressed in a thick, woolen turtleneck, the sophomore honors student was carefully measuring each of the arrowheads, then labeling and registering them in a ledger. She was seemingly lost in her work and Miriam hated to bother her, yet she did so anyway.
“Hey, Margaret, do you mind holding down the fort on your own for a while? It’s time for me to get the old blood circulating.”
Jerking her head upward, as if emerging from a trance, the student archeologist smiled.
“Go for it, Miss Rodgers. I’ve got plenty here to keep me out of trouble.”
Certain of the legitimacy of these words, Miriam stood.
“Thanks, Margaret. I think I’ll mosey on down the beach and see what the rest of the crew has come up with. See you at lunch.”
“Don’t get lost in the fog,” said the straight-faced student, who was already turning her attention back to her work.
Not desiring to disturb Margaret any further, Miriam did her best to leave the campsite as quietly as possible. Hastily she left the semicircle of trailers and crossed the parking lot. As she began her way down the sandy trail that followed the southern bank of the Santa Ynez River downstream, she found herself disappearing in a solid wall of swirling fog. Already, the trailers were no longer visible behind her. To ward off the moist chill, she pulled up the zipper of her quilted vest and significantly lengthened her stride.
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