Powdered Gold: Templars and the American Ark of the Covenant (Templars in America Series Book 3)

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Powdered Gold: Templars and the American Ark of the Covenant (Templars in America Series Book 3) Page 7

by David S. Brody


  Clarisse looked off into the distance. “Why not? Wouldn’t having this kind of technology be crucial when the grid goes down?”

  It was an obvious comment, but for some reason—the fog of research or perhaps his nausea—this possible use of the technology hadn’t occurred to him. He had been thinking of the fuel cell’s application to military usage, since it was the Department of Defense that had been pushing him to work with them. But obviously the technology could be applied to domestic use as well. It wouldn’t be cheap—it wasn’t as simple as just packing some desert sand inside a metal tube and flicking a switch. And not many people in the world could design a superconducting fuel cell from scratch. But he could do it if he set his mind to it. He could do it.

  This was the kind of conversation that exasperated Clarisse. How could Willum not see the potential strategic benefits behind building a fuel cell powered by desert sand? When the collapse came, this kind of technology would make its holder almost god-like.

  “I’m going to hit the ladies’ room.” Actually, she just wanted a minute to calm down. It would do no good to snap at Willum; she had gained much by never letting him see that side of her. And, though he exasperated her, he no longer surprised her. His brilliance manifested itself in many ways—his knowledge of chemistry, obviously. And also his ability to envision this compound and then make it come to life. But he also had many blind spots in which he simply lacked common sense. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Well, that’s what she was for, what made her so valuable to him. After all, a man with perfect vision didn’t need a seeing-eye dog.

  She strolled around the compound, listening to fragments of the various post-dinnertime conversations. Most people nodded and smiled as she passed; her status as Willum’s lieutenant gave her some cachet among the residents. But mostly she had won their respect and admiration through her hard work and contributions to the well-being of the compound. In the end, these people wanted to survive the inevitable collapse. And they knew their best chance to do so was to surround themselves with other competent, like-minded neighbors.

  Once an applicant passed the truth serum test, the rules for life at the compound were simple: Come and go as you please, pray to whatever god you choose, bring your own food in and carry your trash out, and live by the Golden Rule. Willum had had to kick a few people out, but for the most part adults behaved like adults and life in the compound was not much different than living in a dormitory or military barracks. Clarisse assigned each resident a chore, which kept the compound relatively clean and self-policing. Many of the residents commuted to jobs in Phoenix or Tucson, and some even maintained homes in the area, but they made it a point never to be more than an hour drive away from the compound and were ready to leave their outside lives behind at a moment’s notice. When the collapse came, they would be ready.

  Clarisse herself believed the collapse would be sparked by social and political unrest. Society worked fine when ninety percent of the people took care of the neediest ten percent. But when the able-bodied began to feel an entitlement that they, too, should be taken care of, and when the ratios began to change so that half the people were producing and the other half leeching, this became an unsustainable model. Clarisse had seen it herself all over Arizona—immigrants here illegally, not to fulfill the American dream but to feast at the trough of government handouts. What kind government gave money to the poor to pay for things like manicures and jewelry and lottery tickets? And it infuriated her that Willum distributed those survival packs to illegals coming across the border. But he was in the minority. At some point the workers and producers—the real Americans—would rise up and just say no more. And then it would get ugly.

  In fact, one of the projects Clarisse had been working on was building a mutual assistance network involving other Survivalist groups in the event of civil unrest. A single group standing up to the federal government could easily be squashed—witness Ruby Ridge and the Branch Davidian compound. But a network of dozens of compounds acting collectively, across the country, would be impossible to put down absent a nationwide military offensive. Would the American people stand by and allow this? Clarisse thought not. A confederation of like-minded Survivalist groups, pledging to rise up collectively if any one of them was in danger, was their best strategy. Since the policy required effective communication to be successful, she was working to link all the groups via a ham radio network.

  Not everyone in the compound agreed with Clarisse that social and/or political unrest would spark the coming societal meltdown. There were almost as many theories as to what would bring about the apocalypse as there were residents in the compound. Some believed God would bring down his wrath in a series of natural disasters as punishment for the immorality of the time. Others expected a massive solar flare to short-circuit all technology, sending society back to the days of candles and plow-horses. Still others forecasted a massive volcanic eruption in Yellowstone National Park that would cover the continent in thick ash and bring about food shortages, pestilence and perhaps another Ice Age. Others predicted nuclear war or global pandemic or terrorist attacks or even alien invasion. Whatever the cause, they all had taken refuge in Willum’s compound. They would all follow his lead. And he would follow his seeing-eye dog.

  They had spent the day hiking along the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. From the skywalk viewing area, the enormity of the chasm and its breathtaking beauty humbled Amanda almost to the extent of making her weak-kneed—she felt like she was looking down at the very skeleton of the earth, the skin and connective tissue having been pulled aside to allow for a privileged few to view the planet in its raw, unimproved form. In the distance, the snow-capped peaks ringing the canyon looked like white-frosted cupcakes. Or perhaps helmeted sentries, surrounding the sacred site and guarding it from afar.

  Astarte, exhausted from the miles they had trudged, now slept in the back of the SUV as they drove back to Flagstaff. Or maybe not—a giggle came from the back seat as they passed a billboard for the Santa’s Workshop tourist site. Amanda turned. “Good morning, sunshine. What’s so funny?”

  “The sign made me think of Secret Santa with Cameron’s family.”

  Amanda chuckled. “Yes, that was a memorable folly.”

  Amanda stared out the window, the hours on the highway a good opportunity for reminiscing:

  Some members of Cam’s extended family celebrated Christmas, while others celebrated Chanukah, so they had come up with a tradition of having a family dinner the weekend before Christmas. The children all received toys, of course, while the adults arranged a Secret Santa—at Thanksgiving all the names were put in a hat and drawn randomly with each adult assigned to give a small gift to another.

  “I think Astarte should be in charge of the Secret Santa this year,” Cam had announced. “It will be a good way for her to get to know everyone. I’ll write everyone’s name on a slip of paper and put them in the hat. Then Astarte can go around and everyone can pick them out and maybe have a little chat with her. And remember, everything has to be a secret.” Everyone had agreed, of course, as they wanted to make Astarte feel welcome.

  When they gathered at Cam’s parents’ house a month later to exchange gifts, the children, as was customary, each took one of the gifts from the gift table and unfolded the gift label.

  “Okay little elves,” Cam’s mother called out, “deliver your gifts.”

  Cam had plopped down in an oversized easy chair, a smug look on his face that Amanda could not figure out. But she soon realized what he had orchestrated as one-by-one the children delivered their gifts to Cam.

  “Well,” he grinned, a stack of a dozen gifts piled on his lap, “I guess we know who’s been naughty and who’s been nice this year.”

  “Cameron,” Astarte blurted out. “You wrote your name on every slip of paper!”

  Cam had made up for it by renting a ski chalet for the entire family in New Hampshire for New Year’s weekend. But Amanda still smiled as she pictur
ed him, smirking, tears of laughter pooling in his eyes, as the family cursed and his cousins wrestled him to the ground. Amanda hoped it would be just one of many fond memories Astarte would have of her new life. This trip was another. They should make the most of it….

  “You know, we’re not so far from New Mexico,” Amanda said.

  “And?” Cam asked.

  “And it’s only three o’clock. And our flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow night.”

  Cam smiled. “You thinking the Los Lunas Decalogue Stone?”

  They had discussed the possibility earlier. “It’s a five hour drive to Los Lunas from Flagstaff—we could check out of our hotel and do the drive tonight. Hike up and see the stone tomorrow morning, then fly out of Albuquerque rather than Tucson.”

  Cam nodded. “Sounds good. We’re here, and it’s worth seeing. If it costs a few bucks to change flights, it’s still worth it.”

  “What’s the Los Lunas Stone?” Astarte asked.

  “It’s a boulder that is covered with ancient writing that some people think is the Ten Commandments.”

  Astarte nodded. “Well then, I think we should go see it. It sounds important.”

  “This is your exit. Route 6,” Amanda said. “Go west fifteen miles. When we cross a small river, that’s our spot.”

  Cam drove the Explorer, his back beginning to ache from the many highway hours they had logged. But the weather was cooperating—clear and dry and already up to forty degrees even though the sun had barely crested over the horizon. They had checked out of their Albuquerque hotel early so they would have plenty of time to see the stone and still make their Friday evening flight. The landscape differed little from that in southern Arizona—low-growing, prickly shrubs and brownish grass poking through a hard-baked desert soil.

  “Before we talk about the Los Lunas stone,” Amanda said, “I wanted to show you this coin. It’s Roman, dating back to AD 320. One just like it was found in northwest Arizona. So it’s another piece of evidence of ancient exploration of this area.”

  ROMAN COIN, AD 320

  “Or someone dropped their coin collection in the woods,” Cam said, smiling.

  “I know you’re only playing devil’s advocate, but whenever some bloke finds an ancient coin in America, the so-called experts always say some collector must have dropped it. If you had a collection of ancient coins, would you bring them out into the wilderness with you on your camping trips? And then just carelessly scatter them about? I mean, these are valuable items.” She sat back. “It’s just patently ridiculous.”

  “Tell me how you really feel,” Cam teased.

  “I feel like I have horrid taste in men,” she said, sticking out her tongue.

  A minute later she pulled out her iPad and read from an article she had copied to it. “The Los Lunas stone was found around 1880. The Native Americans showed it to some early settlers. It’s at the foot of a hill called Mystery Mountain. The Natives insist they didn’t carve it.”

  “They didn’t,” Astarte said.

  “How can you be sure?” Amanda asked.

  “Native Americans remembered things by telling stories, not writing them down,” Astarte said matter-of-factly. “That way the people could remember the stories even if the writings got lost.”

  Cam nodded. Give Astarte’s uncle credit—he made sure to teach her about her Native American culture as well has her Mormon one. Cam took a left onto a single lane road after crossing the narrow river and followed it for a quarter of a mile. “Pull over there.” Amanda pointed to a squat, flat-topped foothill out Cam’s window. “That’s Mystery Mountain. We walk from here.” A twenty minute walk along a narrow, rising path through clumps of small trees and high grass and even a few patches of shaded snow brought them partway up the hill and around the other side. In this part of the country, even a hundred feet of elevation changed the landscape from barren to almost lush.

  “Stay on the path,” Cam said. “And be careful of snakes—they like to come out and sun-bathe even in the cold.” He was glad they had taken the time to stop at a convenience store to buy a snake-bite kit.

  They crested a small ridge and Amanda stopped. “There it is,” Amanda said, pointing to a boulder the size of a one-car garage.

  Near the bottom of the boulder someone—either Mother Nature or a patient human—had created a flat, smooth, vertical face.

  Amanda said, “Most people think the boulder was on the top of the mountain at some point and then skidded down the slope. That’s why the writing is cockeyed.”

  LOS LUNAS DECALOGUE STONE

  Cam knelt in front of it. There were maybe ten lines of writing, each about an inch-and-a-half tall, covering a surface the size of a desktop. “So these are the Ten Commandments.”

  “Almost exactly,” Amanda said. She pulled out her iPad. “Here is the exact translation:

  “I am Yahweh your God who has taken you out of the land of Egypt, from the house of slaves. There must be no other gods before my face. You must not make any idol. You must not take the name of Yahweh in vain. Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. Honor your father and your mother so that your days may be long in the land that Yahweh your God has given to you. You must not murder. You must not commit adultery. You must not steal. You must not give a false witness against your neighbor. You must not desire the wife of your neighbor nor anything that is his.”

  “Wow,” Cam said, “who knew God had a British accent?”

  “You’re surprised by that?” she smiled.

  “Anyway, that’s a pretty accurate version of what we learned in Sunday school.”

  Astarte nodded. “It sounds like the Ten Commandments in the Book of Mormon also.”

  “But it’s not exact,” Amanda said. “The last commandment usually says not to covet your neighbor’s house and servants and donkeys in addition to his wife.”

  Cam nodded. “Which in some ways makes it more compelling. If it were exact, I would be more willing to think it’s a hoax.” The mainstream historians’ standard reaction to these artifacts claim was to claim they are hoaxes. Cam could name probably fifty sites and artifacts that evidenced early exploration of America, every one of which the so-called experts claimed was a hoax or prank or folly. Not to say there might not be a few hoaxes mixed in, but to dismiss every artifact, without any actual evidence of inauthenticity, was ludicrous—most people had better things to do with their time than to climb mountains or wade into oceans with hammers, chisels and ancient foreign-language dictionaries.

  Cam took out a jeweler’s loupe and examined the carved letters. “Has a geologist ever looked at this?”

  “Many times. But unfortunately the carving has been cleaned and polished and scored so many times that any chance to do any science on it is lost.”

  “I recognize some Hebrew letters,” he said.

  “And there is some Greek as well,” Amanda said.

  “Uncle Jefferson has stones with this kind of writing,” Astarte said, using the present tense again. At what point would she stop thinking of her uncle as still alive? “He says it’s Phoenician.”

  Amanda nodded. “Interesting observation, Astarte. I believe the Phoenician language borrowed letters from both Hebrew and Greek. From what I was able to learn last night, the writing is similar to the writing on something called the Moabite Stone, which was found in Jordan not far from Israel. It dates back to around 800 BC.”

  “Was this Moabite Stone carved by Jews?” Cam asked.

  “No, but close cousins. The Moabites descended from Lot, who was Abraham’s nephew. At that time they were paying tribute to King David, almost like a colony. Their writing was very similar to ancient Hebrew.”

  Cam looked around. “So unless this is a hoax, we have ancient Jews out here in the desert sometime around 800 BC. Also around that time, maybe a few centuries earlier, we have Egyptians and Phoenicians at the Grand Canyon. And then another group of Christianized Jews comes over in AD 765 and leaves the Tucson artifacts. And
, if Willum can be believed, we have the Templars here around AD 1200 carving that rune stone he found.” Cam turned up his palms. “I get the whole dry heat thing. But there seems to be an awful lot of people coming halfway around the world to go traipsing through the desert for no apparent reason.” He scanned the horizon. “What the hell were they doing here?”

  Willum sat in a director’s chair outside his dome and stared at the sky as he gulped a cold Corona. He still had the rash on his face but he had slept for sixteen hours and felt better—at least physically. He rubbed his hand through his hair, surprised to see a few dozen strands intertwined in his fingers. Great. As if middle age wasn’t hard enough.

  The hair in his hand only contributed to the malaise that had settled over him. Nobody else at the compound understood enough about chemistry to help him work with the white powder of gold, and there was still much about it he didn’t understand. At times like this people needed to bounce ideas off one-another, to collaborate, to brainstorm. And here he was secluded in a desert compound.

  Not only that, he had missed a great opportunity to connect with Cameron Thorne two nights ago. Just as he could use some help on the white powder mystery, he couldn’t figure all this Templar stuff out himself. Willum was a chemist, not a historian. What did he know about the Templars and their treasures? It was just bad luck that Thorne and his fiancée had been so spooked by Boonie.

  He counted the empties—nine of them. And he was just getting started. In retrospect, he should have anticipated that Thorne would be jumpy. Willum hadn’t been able to get all the details, but based on a few things Thorne had said in interviews Willum had dug up, the federal government had treated Thorne and his fiancée as badly as it had treated Willum. Maybe even worse. Apparently the spooks at Langley had been willing to let the young couple be killed by some rogue agent in order to keep potentially inflammatory information about the Catholic Church from coming to light. Willum swigged the last few ounces of his beer. Can’t be having the truth come out.

 

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