“There’s no public record of anything like that. Then again, all records of Archard Fortescue were expunged. So who knows? But there is one intriguing detail that suggests something was being covered up.”
Monk shifted closer. “What’s that?”
“On October eleventh, 1809, three years after the expedition returned from the west, Meriwether Lewis was found dead in his room inside a Tennessee inn. He’d been shot once in the head, once in the chest. Yet for some reason his death was deemed a suicide, his body hastily buried near the inn. It’s taken two hundred years for this cover-up to be exposed. It’s now firmly believed that he was killed by an assassin.” Heisman turned to them all. “Lewis had been on his way to Washington to meet with Thomas Jefferson. Some believe he had valuable information or was carrying something vital to national security when he was killed. But from there the trail goes cold.”
The room settled into silence. Seichan noted Gray still rubbing the corner of his right eye. She could practically hear the gears turning in his head.
Heisman checked his watch. “And that, dear gentlemen and ladies, is where we should stop for the night. I understand you have a flight to catch.”
Monk stood, and they said their good-byes. Heisman and Sharyn promised they’d continue the search in the morning, but didn’t sound hopeful.
Seichan followed the two men out to the street, where the Town Car still waited for them.
Monk eyeballed Gray. “You’ve got that worried crease across your forehead. What’s up? Nervous about the trip?”
Gray slowly shook his head as a cold breeze swept down the street. “No. I’m worried about Utah. After what we learned about Iceland—and knowing the two places are both showing odd neutrino discharges—I think today’s blast is the least of our problems.”
Monk popped open the car door. “If so, we have someone keeping an eye on things out there.”
Gray climbed inside. “That’s what worries me most.”
Chapter 16
May 31, 4:55 A.M.
High Uintas Wilderness
Utah
Major Ashley Ryan kept vigil with the geologist Ron Chin. The pair stood at the rim of the chasm. Dawn was not far off—and could not come soon enough for Ryan.
It had been a long, bloody night. He and his unit had managed to haul their injured teammate out of the steaming valley, where a helicopter had evacuated the man to the nearest hospital—missing most of his right leg, dazed on morphine, blood seeping through the pressure bandage on his stump.
Ryan had tried to take a nap afterward, but every time he closed his eyes, he flashed to the ax blade as it bit deep into the man’s thigh . . . or he pictured Chin taking that severed limb and tossing it into the smoldering pit, as if throwing another log onto a bonfire. But Ryan understood. They couldn’t risk contamination.
Finally giving up, knowing he’d never sleep, he had climbed out of his tent and kept watch on the valley with the geologist. Over the course of the night, the scientist had set up a whole battery of equipment: video cameras, infrared scanners, seismographs, something he called a magnetometer, used for measuring the strength and direction of the magnetic field. He knew his own men were reporting a growing interference with radios and cell phones. In the past hour, compasses all pointed toward the chasm. But worst of all, the tremors and quakes were rattling the mountain and were escalating in both frequency and severity.
“Unit’s evacuated the area,” Ryan said, glancing back to the open-air Jeep parked nearby. “We’ve pulled back to a base two miles down the mountain. Is that far enough?”
“Should be,” Chin said, distracted. “Come look at this.”
The geologist knelt beside a video monitor. It displayed footage from a remote camera left beside the pit. Chin pointed to a hellish glow radiating from the center of the old blast site, illuminating a dark column of ashy smoke rising into the air.
“The geyser hasn’t blown in over forty minutes,” the geologist said. “I think all the water from the hot spring got boiled away.”
“So what’s coming out now?”
“An outgassing. Hydrogen, carbon monoxide, sulfur dioxide. Whatever process is going on here, it must have drilled beyond the spring and into the volcanic strata underpinning these mountains.”
As Ryan stared, a flash of fire shot through the dark column, then vanished. “What was that?”
Chin sat back, his face going pale.
“Doc?” Ryan pressed.
“I think . . . maybe a lava bomb . . .”
“What?” His voice rose to a girlish pitch. “Lava? Are you telling me that thing’s starting to erupt?”
As they watched, another two flashes streaked out of the column and struck the floor of the pit. A molten gobbet of rock rolled across the surface, leaving no doubt as to what was happening.
“Time to bug out of here,” Chin said, standing up. He ignored the equipment and began rapidly packing all the flash drives that held his data.
Ryan got in his face. After what had happened to Private Bellamy, he had questioned the geologist about this exact scenario. “I thought you said this wouldn’t happen. That even drilling into a volcano wouldn’t make it blow.”
“I said that usually doesn’t happen.” He spoke in a rush as he worked. “Occasionally deep-earth drilling has caused explosions when a borehole hits a superhot magma chamber, vaporizing drilling fluid and allowing lava to flow. Or take, for example, a case three years ago. In Indonesia, a drilling mishap gave birth to a massive mud volcano that continues to erupt today. So, no, it ordinarily doesn’t happen—but there’s nothing ordinary about what’s going on here.”
Ryan took a deep breath, remembering Bellamy’s leg. The geologist was right. What was going on here was off the map and into the weeds. He needed to get his team evacuated even farther back.
He lifted his radio but only got a squelch of static. He spun in a circle, got a brief snatch of words, then lifted the radio to his lips. “This is Major Ryan! Pull back! Pull back now! Get the hell off this mountain!”
A garbled response came through, but he didn’t know if it was acknowledgment or confusion. Did they hear me?
Chin straightened, snapping closed his metal briefcase. “Major, we must get clear of here. Now!”
Punctuating his words, the ground gave a violent shake. Ryan lost his footing and fell to one knee. They both turned to the video feed. On the chasm floor, the remote camera had been knocked over on its side, but the view remained on the pit.
The geyser had returned—but rather than steam and water, a jetting column of boiling mud and fiery rock now bubbled and splashed from the hole, heavily obscured by a churning cloud of smoke and ash.
Underfoot, the ground continued to shake, nonstop now, vibrating through the soles of Ryan’s boots.
“Move out!” Chin yelled.
Together, they fled to the Jeep. Ryan leaped behind the wheel. Chin crashed into the passenger seat. With the keys already in the ignition, Ryan roared the engine to life, tugged the stick into reverse, and pounded the accelerator. With a yank on the wheel, he spun the truck around, throwing Chin against his door.
“You okay?” Ryan asked.
“Go!”
Earlier in the evening, his team had cleared a rough, winding road down the mountainside, but it still required a rugged four-wheel drive to traverse it, and it was best traveled at a snail’s pace.
That wasn’t the case now.
Ryan didn’t slow, especially as the world exploded behind him. A glance at the rearview mirror revealed a brilliant fountain of lava dancing back there, shooting above the rim of the chasm. A glowing black column rose high into the sky, but the valley was not large enough to hold it. The fiery cloud spilled over the edge and rolled like an avalanche toward them.
That wasn’t the only danger.
Red-hot boulders the size of small cars struck the forest and slopes around them, bouncing away, setting fire to trees and shrubs. They hit with
the force of mortar rounds. Ryan now understood why they were called lava bombs.
One sailed past overhead, raining flaming ash. Cinders burned his cheeks, his exposed arms, reminding Ryan all too well that his vehicle had no roof.
He ignored the pain and focused on the road ahead. The Jeep bucked and rocked down the steep, rocky trail. His left fender crumpled against an outcropping, shattering the headlamp on that side. The Jeep lifted. For a moment he swore he was driving on a single wheel, like a half-ton ballerina. Then the vehicle crashed back down.
“Hold on!”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Chin had turned around backward, one arm hugging his headrest. “The pyroclastic flow is moving too fast down the mountain. We’ll never make it!”
“I can’t get any more speed. Not in this terrain!”
“Then turn around.”
“What?” He risked taking his eyes off the road to glare at Chin. “Are you nuts?”
Chin pointed along a streambed that bisected their path. “Go that way. Upstream!”
Ryan again heard the raw command in the guy’s voice, confirming his suspicion that the geologist had spent some years in uniform. He responded to that authority.
“Fuck you!” Ryan shouted, furious at the lack of options—still he hauled on the wheel.
Defying every instinct for survival, he made a right turn into the streambed and gunned the engine. He sped uphill, casting a rooster tail of water behind his rear tires.
“I really mean it, Chin. Fuck you! What the hell are we doing?”
The geologist pointed to the right, upslope, toward the peak’s summit, where it overlooked the fiery chasm. “We have to skirt the cloud’s edge and get higher. Pyroclastic flows are fluidized clouds of rock fragments, lava, and gas. Much heavier than air. They’ll hug the mountainside and flow down.”
Despite his pounding heart, Ryan understood. “We have to get above it.”
But even that was chancy. By now, the surrounding woods were glowing with flames, while boulders continued to crash out of the sky, stripping branches, leaving a swath of fire. Worst of all, the world to the right of the Jeep ended at a towering wall of smoky fire, a witch’s cauldron of ash and rock. The cloud rolled toward them, swallowing all in its path as they sped along below it.
The only consolation was that the streambed was wide and shallow, full of packed gravel and sand. Ryan jammed the accelerator to the floor. The Jeep sped higher, gaining ground, skipping around boulders with deft turns of his wrist. But the farther he went, the narrower the course grew. They were running out of stream.
Fifty yards ahead, a boulder hit with the force of a rocket. Water exploded into steam, gravel rained down on them.
End of the road.
“There!” Chin yelled, and pointed beyond the right bank.
Past a few trees, a steep high alpine meadow spread outward, rapidly being eaten away by the flow of fiery smoke.
Ryan hauled sharply on the wheel and sent the Jeep leaping over the bank, catching air, before it hit the meadow. Deep-treaded tires tore into the grassy soil, patched by snow at this altitude.
“We’re not going to make it,” Chin said, staring to the right, to where the world ended.
Like hell we aren’t.
Ryan raced across the meadow as the cloud bore down on them. The heat of the approaching cloud burned like the breath of a dragon. Patches of snow began to melt around them.
At the end of the meadow rose a steep slope of raw granite. He aimed for it, hit it, and shot up its length. He climbed higher and higher, pressed back into his seat as the Jeep tilted precariously toward vertical. In the rearview mirror, he watched the cloud wash below them, erasing the world and replacing it with a roiling black sea.
Heat washed upward, blistering, searing his lungs, but he still cried out in relief. “We did it!”
Then the tires—all four of them—lost traction on the slick stone. The Jeep lurched, slipping sideways, falling backward. He fought against it, but gravity pulled them back toward the flaming sea.
“C’mon, Major!”
A hand balled into the collar of his uniform. He was yanked from his seat. Chin climbed over the windshield, dragging him along. Ryan understood and hit the hood beside Chin. Together, they shoulder-rolled forward as the Jeep slid backward under him.
Ryan hit the granite slope and scrambled to keep from following the Jeep down. Fingers latched onto his wrist and hauled him to a precarious lip of rock, enough for a toehold. Choking, coughing, the pair of them perched there like two little burned birds.
Ryan followed Chin’s gaze over the valley. The fiery cloud continued down the dark mountainside. Closer at hand, the chasm below belched with fire and flowed with ribbons of lava.
“My men . . .” he mumbled numbly, wondering about their fate
Chin reached and squeezed his elbow, offering sympathy. “Pray they heard you.”
Chapter 17
May 31, 6:05 A.M.
San Rafael Swell
Utah
Hank Kanosh greeted the dawn on his knees, not in an act of worship, but from exhaustion. He’d climbed the steep trail from the circle of cabins just before sunrise. The winding track led up through a maze of slot canyons and into a dry wash. Kawtch sat next to him, tongue hanging, panting. With the sun just rising, the morning was still cool, but it was a challenging trail and neither of them was young.
Still, he knew it was not the passing of years that weighed down his legs and made the climb so taxing. It was his heart. Even now, the feel of it pounding in his chest came with an upwelling of guilt, guilt for surviving, for not being able to doing anything when he was most needed. For the past day, while he was on the run, it had been easier to push aside the pain of his friends’ deaths.
That was no longer the case.
He stared out over the broken landscape below. He and Maggie had made this same hike almost a decade ago, while testing the waters with each other. He still remembered the kiss they’d shared on this very spot. Her hair had smelled of sage; her lips tasted salty, yet sweet.
He savored that memory now as he knelt atop a slab of rock that jutted precariously over a deep gorge nicknamed the “Little Grand Canyon.” The valley lay at the heart of the San Rafael Swell, a sixty-mile-wide bulge of sedimentary rock that had been uplifted here by geological forces over fifty million years ago. Since then, rain and wind had carved and chiseled the region into a labyrinth of steep slopes, broken canyons, and rugged washes. Far below, the San Rafael River continued the eroding process, snaking lazily across the landscape on its way to the Colorado.
The red-rock region was mostly deserted, home to wild burros, stallions, and one of the largest herds of desert bighorn sheep. The only two-legged visitors here were the more adventurous hikers, because entry to the remote area required four-wheel-drive vehicles to traverse its few roads. In the past, the Swell’s nearly inaccessible maze of canyons and ravines had been the hideouts and escape routes for many outlaws, including Butch Cassidy and his gang.
And it seemed such was the case again.
Hank and the others had arrived here in the wee hours of the morning, crawling down a rock-strewn track from Copper Globe Road. Their destination was the family cabins of his retired colleagues, Alvin and Iris Humetewa. Hank’s group had barged in without any warning, but as he had known, the couple had taken the intrusion in good-natured stride.
The small homestead of five mud-and-stone pueblos was half commune, half school for Hopi children who were taught the old ways by three generations of the Humetewa clan, all led by Iris Humetewa, matriarch and benevolent dictator.
At the moment there were no students.
Or almost no students.
“You can come out,” Hank said.
A peeved sigh rose from beyond a boulder in the wash behind him. The slim figure of Kai Quocheets stalked out of hiding. She’d been trailing him since he’d left the cabins.
“If you want to see the sunrise
,” he urged her, “you’d best come up here.”
With a sullen slump to her shoulders, she climbed to the overlook. Kawtch slapped his tail a couple of times against the sandstone slab in greeting.
“Is it safe out there?” she asked, eyeing the drop beyond the edge of the jutting rock.
“Stone’s been here thousands of years, it’ll probably last another few minutes.”
She looked doubtful about his assessment but came forward anyway. “Uncle Crowe and his partner are putting together some sort of satellite dish tied to a laptop and phone.”
“I thought he wanted to stay off the grid.”
The Humetewas’ cabins had no television or telephones. Even cellular reception was nonexistent in the labyrinthine canyons.
She shrugged. “Should still be safe. I heard him say something about encryption software. Probably acts as a scrambler or something.”
He nodded and patted the stone. “You came all the way up here to tell me that?”
She sank cross-legged to the stone. “No . . .” There was a long pause, too long for the truth. “Just wanted to stretch my legs.”
He recognized the waffling and could guess its source. He had already noted how she shied away from her uncle, circled him like a wary dog fearful of being beaten but drawn anyway. Still, there was no timidity to her. She kept her hackles raised, ready to bite. All this uncertainty must have made it too uncomfortable for her to stay below at the cabins, pushing her to follow after him.
He faced the rising sun as it crested fully and set fire to the red-rock landscape below. “Are you familiar with the na’ii’ees ceremony?”
“What’s that?”
He shook his head sadly. Why was it that the most fervent of the Native American activists were so often ignorant of their own heritage?
“It’s the sunrise ceremony,” he explained, pointing to the blazing birth of the new day. “A rite of passage for girls into womanhood. It involves four days and nights of dancing and sacred blessings, imbuing the new women with the spiritual and healing power of the White Painted Woman.”
The Devil Colony Page 16