by Brandt Legg
“Come on, Rip. You’re being paranoid.”
“Damn it, Larsen, how long have you known me? We don’t have time to debate this anymore. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
Larsen nodded silently. “I can’t stop you but I can’t be part of this either.”
“Okay.”
Ten minutes had already been lost. The black SUV and the Forest Service vehicle were down there somewhere, winding their way along the old logging road that Rip had come up the day before.
Rip found Josh and Gale and gave them the news.
“Can I hide the bottom section of the stone casing somewhere in your car?” he asked Josh.
“Sure. But what if they search it?”
“Why would they search it?” Rip asked. “Besides, I don’t know what else to do.”
After a couple of minutes looking for the best spot, they decided on the spare tire compartment. Rip jogged to his tent for his notes where Gale caught up to him.
“I’m going with you,” she said.
“I don’t think so!”
“Then stop me.” This was a complication he didn’t need. Who in the hell did she think she was? He pushed past her.
Rip headed breathlessly into the forest. They both knew time did not allow for an argument so he planned to lose her in the climb. By the time the SUV pulled into camp, Gale and Rip were halfway up the first ridge.
Six suits wearing shades climbed out of the government vehicle. They asked for Ripley Gaines. Students directed them from one tent to another until it became clear he had slipped away. “Damn,” Wayne Hall, the senior agent and the only African-American in the group, said as he pushed a button on his satphone. Within thirty minutes, a helicopter arrived and four more vehicles were on their way to the Thomas Jefferson National Forest.
Dixon Barbeau emerged from the helicopter, already disliking the case. Years earlier, hunting a fugitive in the mountains had cost him his marriage. He couldn’t help but recall the frustrating five-year manhunt for Eric Rudolph that had bogged down his early career.
Hall’s mood matched his superior’s. They’d worked together before and Hall dreaded the days ahead if they didn’t catch Ripley Gaines quickly. Less than five percent of the FBI’s special agents were African-American and Hall got the sense that Barbeau resented that the number was that high. He also considered Barbeau outrageously arrogant. Recently his girlfriend had been teaching him deep breathing relaxation techniques, he took in a long breath, held it, exhaled, then joined Barbeau.
Eight more agents ran, stooping, from the copter. While Hall briefed him, Barbeau shouted orders. The agents cordoned off the camp, rounded up everyone, began questioning and collecting “evidence.” Larsen nervously stared at Barbeau – six-three, short blond hair, perfect smile and piercing eyes. He looked more like a combination of an angry marine and a Senate candidate than an FBI Special Agent. The feds had already taken over the largest tent and turned it into a mini-command center. It felt suffocating to Larsen.
“Professor . . . ” Barbeau checked an iPad, “Fretwell. Larsen Fretwell. Would you like to explain just what is going on here?”
“This is an accredited archaeological dig. We have a USFS special use permit. Perhaps I should be asking you what’s going on. Why is the FBI hassling us?”
Barbeau’s eyes narrowed as he swallowed a laugh. “Really? You think we’re hassling you? How about you tell me where Dr. Ripley Gaines and the artifacts he stole from federal land are? Why don’t you tell me what those artifacts are?”
“I think I need a lawyer.”
“I think you need a really good one. We’re not the Mayberry PD here. The ‘F’ in FBI means you’ve stepped in deep. You’re an accomplice in a federal crime and do you know what irritates me more than the humid summers in Virginia? Liars. So, no disrespect, Professor, but why don’t you start over, and this time turn on that highly trained brain of yours.”
“I would like to speak with an attorney.”
“I’ll see if I can find one for you,” Barbeau said, sarcastically. “Wait here.” He left Larsen sitting there, dry-mouthed and shaken.
As the students went through the process of being photographed, identified and questioned, Josh Stadler showed his press credentials and was “allowed” to leave after he turned over his camera’s memory cards. His car got a quick once-over but nothing was found.
Hall reported better results from the student interrogations. They ascertained that Ripley Gaines and Gale Asher had been in the camp at least half an hour before Hall’s group arrived and since they were not passed on the road, the fugitives clearly left on foot. In less than an hour the sun would set, so there wasn’t much point in sending a pursuit team into the forest. The big search would have to wait until first light but he did get a couple sharpshooters up in the air – they might get lucky.
Chapter 7
A wet spring had left the July foliage thick, making the temperature at least fifteen degrees cooler in the forest. Gale and Rip hardly slowed. The quiet collapsed as the first helicopter circled. Rip kept running while he searched the heavy canopy.
Gale’s eyes met his. “How did they know?”
Rip shook his head and continued moving, his single mission to protect the artifacts. After a lifetime of searching, the inconceivable secrets he’d been promised were about to be revealed.
Barbeau always had a plan. “Freedom,” he said to Hall. “The tactic never fails. Allow a suspect to think he’s free, like he got away with something, and he’ll end up giving up everything, unintentionally, of course.”
Hall nodded. He knew how to play it.
“Professor Larsen Fretwell, I’m Special Agent Hall.”
“You must be the good cop. Well, let me save you the trouble, I’ve already told Mr. bad cop Barbeau that I have nothing to say until I get an attorney.”
“Sure thing. You’re free to go,” Hall said.
Larsen couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Turns out I really am the good cop.” Hall smiled. “But let me caution you that you are a person of interest in a federal investigation and are not to leave the country. We don’t have enough evidence to arrest or detain you yet. However, you will likely be asked to come in for questioning. You can, of course, bring your lawyer at that time.”
Twenty-five minutes later Larsen drove out of camp, desperately scanning the woods for Rip. Three vehicles filled with the students followed him. With the entire crew gone, the camp belonged to the FBI.
Gale and Rip maintained their exhaustive pace. Just as darkness descended they emerged onto a narrow dirt road that didn’t look as if it had seen a vehicle in a decade and might be better described as a wide trail.
“Where does it go?” Gale asked, as Rip turned the forest service map in several directions.
“It’s not on the map but it seems to be going north which works for us,” he shoved the map back in his pocket. “More importantly, we can follow it at night.”
They hadn’t talked much as they tried to put distance between themselves and the camp. The Eysen and the many possible explanations for its origins almost completely occupied Rip’s mind, that, and being overwhelmed by his life-destroying decision to run. He knew next to nothing about the artifacts in his pack but knew enough to risk everything to save them.
Having Gale along added several complications and she might not be easy to lose. A yoga enthusiast, Gale normally hiked several miles a day, ate only macrobiotic foods and thus had no trouble keeping up with the strapping archaeologist.
Although they continued their hurried pace along the dirt road, not having to bushwhack through the underbrush made their flight easier. The night, dimly lit by a half-moon breaking through the canopy, was warm and sticky.
“How do you think they found out about the discovery?” Gale asked again. The question had nagged Rip since Larsen told him government agents were converging on the camp. He assumed someone had accidentally told the wrong person.
“You’re the reporter. What do you think?”
“I have no idea, but weren’t there only two satphones in camp?”
“Yeah, mine and Larsen’s.”
“Was yours ever out of your control?”
“No.”
“Then whoever notified the government must have used Larsen’s satphone.”
“It’s not Larsen, if that’s what you’re thinking,” his eyes darting. At that moment, mountain lions and bears worried him more than figuring out who tipped the federal agents.
“I’m just saying, his satphone was the only way to get word out of the camp. That narrows the choices. And Larsen was very reluctant to go along with taking the artifacts.”
“It’s not him.”
“Well it sure would be nice to know who turned us in,” Gale sipped water. “You realize that they turned us in before we even did anything. I’m afraid only the two of us, Josh and Larsen knew we were going to conceal it.”
“It wasn’t Larsen. He believes in Cosega almost as much as I do. Will you just drop it?”
“I guess someone might have heard us talking?”
“Damn it, it could have been anyone. Right now, I’m more worried about the morning. They’ll certainly bring search teams and do more flyovers. We need to get out of the mountains.”
“Cosega is an old Indian word meaning ‘before the beginning,’ right?”
“Yes,” Rip, glad she’d changed the subject, still wished she’d shut up. “Most Native American cultures’ creation stories begin long before the European versions.”
“Meaning they were here more than twenty thousand years ago?”
“Right.”
“So you think some ancestors of Monacan or Cherokee put those artifacts in the cliff.”
“No I don’t think that. Do you ever stop talking?”
“Did it really light up? How could something buried for millions of years light up?”
“That’s why we’re running.”
They didn’t talk again for a while. The weight of their situation was enough to carry – walking, thinking, the coolness of the night, the apprehension of the approaching dawn, each step grew heavier.
If Barbeau had known more about what they found, there would have been soldiers with night goggles in the forest, hundreds of them – but he didn’t have enough information. Still, the Director of the FBI had called twice; for some reason the higher-ups were watching this one. By nightfall, he had transformed the camp into a full-fledged command center with more experts on the way.
In the coming days, the government archaeologists would sift, drill, chisel and dig the cliff down to almost nothing. Rip’s reputation in the scientific community told them the find had to be incredibly significant. One prominent scientist described Rip’s apparent willingness to throw away a brilliant career for an artifact, as “mindboggling.”
Chapter 8
Josh was worried about Gale. He didn’t understand the government’s swift and forceful presence at the dig site. He debated whether he should still deliver the casing but, in the end, decided it would be the most responsible thing to do. They weren’t stealing an antiquity to sell on the black market; they were trying to preserve the items for further scientific study. He habitually checked the rearview mirror, paranoid about the FBI following him.
During the three-hour drive to Bethesda, Maryland, he made three important phone calls. First, he arranged to meet Rip’s contact at the lab at seven a.m. the following morning. Second, he called someone he never would have dreamt of talking to before Rip handed him a card with only “Booker H. Lipton” and a phone number printed in black. Josh’s instructions were to tell Booker that Rip had made a find of vital importance and to explain that there was trouble with the feds. Rip might be in touch with Lipton at any time and would need his help in disappearing.
Third, he spoke with his brother Sean, who found the whole drama very exciting. Sean Stadler’s zest for life had led him into adventures and mishaps since they were kids. Sean needed no convincing to break away from summer classes at nearby Lynchburg College to do a favor for Josh. The two lanky brothers were very close; and even with a seven year age difference could pass as twins: constantly tan, always smiling big toothy grins, goofy flirts with women, and raised to be counted on, especially by family and friends.
Rip felt as if he was running from Gale’s questions as they stumbled through the darkness. Her curiosity about the Cosega Theory continued.
“You already know what my theory is,” he said.
“Sure, but like everyone else, I thought you were a little . . . ”
“Crazy?”
“It wasn’t even that I thought you were nuts. I always thought you were just trying to get attention.”
“You reporters never understood me. Attention was the last thing I wanted.”
“Then why did you publish?”
“Because it’s true.”
“And?”
“I expected to draw out other scientists pursuing the same conclusions, someone with proof. Instead all I found were crackpots and suddenly my peers began to shun me. And the media, you people were the worst. You acted as if I’d just claimed to have flown on a UFO.”
“Don’t lump me in with the haters.”
“Why not? You’ve been harassing me since we first met.”
“Poor baby.” Gale chuckled. “You have to admit that without proof, and not another single scientist in the world backing your thesis, it’s a little wild.”
“Someone always has to go first. Change scares people.”
“Reminds me of what Gandhi said, ‘First they ignore you. Then they laugh at you. Then they fight you. Then you win.’ I believe you, Rip.”
“Sure, you do now because you saw an eleven-million-year-old artifact light up.”
“Yes, but how can you prove it’s age?”
“They have new techniques. LAD, stands for Laser Astronomical Dating. It works with known geological data. It’s complicated but effective in cases like this.”
“Are there other cases like this. What you found seems like a classic OOPArt.”
“Out-of-place artifact,” Rip said raising his eyebrows and with a slight frown. “You do surprise with your obscure knowledge. But most OOPArts, that is; artifacts found in an impossible context, are hoaxes. I assure you these items are real.”
“You believe so deeply in your theory that you’ve given up everything for it.”
“I didn’t really give up anything; Cosega is my life. I never really had a choice.”
“We always have a choice. Why do you say Cosega is your life?”
A cool breeze took him back to the mountains of his youth, filled with mysteries and adventure. Rip recalled the discovery he’d made as a teenager, so powerful that it had charted the course of his life, forced him to seek Cosega. But telling a reporter about that was something Rip could not imagine doing.
“I’m certain of two things; the planet is more than 4.5 billion years old and in spite of what conventional science believes, ours is not the first civilization to flourish.”
“How can you be so certain when no one else is?”
“There are others who believe. Larsen, I could name a dozen others.”
“Are they all current or past students of yours?”
“Yes, but . . . ”
“Maybe I should call them disciples.”
Rip, finished with talking, stomped on ahead. It was true that most of his allies were culled from the brightest students for whom questioning authority came naturally. Not even Larsen knew how Rip knew for sure, but they believed him, because he, likely the brightest archaeologist alive, was unwavering. He pointed to hundreds of finds that had been suppressed in order to fit the current beliefs, but it was his “knowing” that was compelling and irresistible to those who worked closely with him.
For eight years he and Larsen had revised the Cosega Theory, compared notes and had even taken several working vacations togeth
er, until Rip published. He became even more famous; his work had been important and the radical theory couldn’t be ignored, even though it was ridiculed. Without proof, he risked becoming an outcast in his field, a hero only to quacks and conspiracy theorists. Even his greatest supporter, Booker Lipton, had urged him not to publish without proof.
“Did you hear that?” Gale asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Footsteps.”
Rip scanned the night. He and Gale stood fixed, as if trees themselves, trying to hear every twig, the crickets, tree frogs, and all those unidentifiable forest sounds amplified by the blackness, exhaustion, and fear.
“I don’t hear anything. I mean other than the African jungle. It could have been a bear.”
“Thanks, I was just worried it might be the FBI, but now I have bears to think about.”
“Either way, let’s pick up the pace.”
They continued into the small hours of the morning, lost in their weary thoughts. Rip reviewed all that he knew of human origins, and tried to craft a narrative to explain the existence of the Eysen which blew even his Cosega Theory apart. He wanted to talk to Larsen. No one understood it as much as he did. It was a shame they’d disagreed so intently on the way to handle the artifacts. Still, it was fitting that Larsen had actually found the proof. It made him almost an equal stakeholder in Cosega. They had both worked so hard, but neither had been prepared for the shocking age of their find.
Gale explored her own reasons for following Rip into the mountains. The “story” alone wasn’t worth all this, but something from her past also made chasing the Eysen and Cosega nearly as unavoidable for her as it was for Rip.
Wednesday July 12th
Rip fidgeted with his boots; dew had soaked through to his socks. The sun rose over a dark peak across the deep valley, making the sky more pink than blue. Their road/trail had been hugging a ridge for the past hour and now with first light it afforded a three hundred sixty degree view. Gale marveled at the poetry before them but knew the sun was an enemy.