The Devil Colony Page 10

  “So who’s this Canasatego guy?” Monk asked, suppressing a yawn with a fist, but from the sharp glint in his friend’s eyes, Gray could see that the yawn was clearly feigned.

  Gray understood Monk’s interest. The letter suggested that Franklin’s shadowy enemies had murdered this Indian chief—and if the symbol on the page was more than coincidence, possibly it was the same enemy against whom Sigma had been battling for years. It seemed impossible, but why else would the Guild have secured and hidden this specific letter, one bearing their mark?

  Heisman took a deep breath and some of the officious coldness fell away. “Chief Canasatego,” he said with the warmth of someone remembering a close friend. “He’s a historical figure few people know about, but one who played a vital role in America’s formation. Some consider him a lost Founding Father.”

  Sharyn explained a bit proudly: “Dr. Heisman has done extensive research on the Iroquois chief. One of his dissertations was vital in getting Congress to pass a resolution concerning the role Native Americans played in the country’s founding.”

  Heisman tried to wave away her praise, but his cheeks grew rosy and he stood a bit straighter. “He’s a fascinating figure. He was the greatest and most influential Native American of his time. If he hadn’t been struck down so young, there is no telling how different this nation might look, especially regarding its relationship with Native Americans.”

  Gray leaned back in his chair. “And he was murdered like the letter said?”

  Heisman nodded and finally took a seat at the table. “He was poisoned. Historians disagree about who killed him. Some say it was spies of the British government. Others claim it was his own people.”

  “Seems like ol’ Ben had his own theory,” Monk added.

  Heisman eyed the letter with a hungry look. “It is intriguing.”

  Gray suspected there would be no further trouble convincing the curator to assist them with their research. The irritated sleepiness in his manner had drained away, leaving behind only avid interest.

  “So why was this Iroquois chief so important?” Monk asked.

  Heisman reached to the photocopied letter and flipped to the crude representation of the bald eagle with outstretched wings. He tapped the claw that held the bundled arrows. “That’s why.” He glanced around the table. “Do any of you know why the Great Seal of the United States has the eagle gripping a sheaf of arrows?”

  Gray shrugged and shifted the page closer. “The olive branch in one claw represents peace, and the arrows in the other represent war.”

  A wry grin—his first of the night—rose on the curator’s face. “That’s a common misconception. But there’s a story behind that bundle of thirteen arrows, one that rises from a story of Chief Canasatego.”

  Gray let the curator speak, sensing he’d get more by letting the man ramble on.

  “Canasatego was a leader of the Onondaga nation, one of six Indian nations that eventually joined together to form the Iroquois Confederacy. That unique union of tribes was already centuries old, formed during the 1500s—long before the founding of America. After generations of bloody warfare, peace among the tribes was finally achieved when the disparate nations agreed to band together for their common good. They formed a uniquely democratic and egalitarian government, with representatives from each tribe having a voice. It was government like no other at the time, with laws and its own constitution.”

  “Sounds darned familiar,” Monk added.

  “Indeed. Chief Canasatego met with the early colonists in 1744 and presented the Iroquois Confederacy as an example for them to follow, encouraging them to join together for the common good.”

  Heisman stared around the room. “Benjamin Franklin was in attendance at that meeting and spread the word among those who would eventually frame our own Constitution. In fact, one of the delegates to the Constitutional Convention—John Rutledge of South Carolina—even read sections of Iroquoian law to his fellow framers, reading directly from one of their tribal treaties, which started with the words, ‘We, the people, to form a union, to establish peace, equity, and order—’ ”

  “Wait.” Monk sat straighter. “That’s almost word for word like the preamble of the U.S. Constitution. Are you saying we patterned our founding documents upon some old Indian laws?”

  “Not just me, but also the Congress of the United States. Resolution 331, passed in October of 1988, recognizes the influence that the Iroquois Constitution had upon our own constitution and upon our Bill of Rights. While there is some dispute as to the degree of influence, the facts can’t be denied. Our Founding Fathers even immortalized that debt in our national seal.”

  “How so?” Gray asked.

  Heisman again tapped the eagle drawing. “At that gathering in 1744, Chief Canasatego approached Benjamin Franklin and gave him a gift: a single feathered arrow. When Franklin expressed confusion, Canasatego took back the arrow and broke it across his knee and let the pieces drop to the floor. Next he presented Franklin with a sheaf of thirteen arrows tied together in leather. Canasatego attempted to break the bundle across his knee like before, but joined as one, they would not break. He presented that bundle to Franklin, the message plain to all. To survive and be strong, the thirteen colonies needed to join together; only then would the new nation be unbreakable. The eagle in the Great Seal holds that same bundle of thirteen arrows in his claw as a permanent—if somewhat secret—homage to the wise words of Chief Canasatego.”

  As Heisman had been relating this story, Gray kept studying the drawing on the page, nagged by something that seemed amiss. The sketch was plainly crude, with cryptic notations along the sides and bottom, but as he stared closer, he realized what had been troubling him about this early rendition of the Great Seal.

  “There are fourteen arrows on this drawing,” he said.

  Heisman leaned over. “What?”

  Gray pointed. “Count. There are fourteen arrows clutched by the eagle in this drawing. Not thirteen.”

  The others stood and gathered closer around.

  “He’s right,” Sharyn said.

  “Surely this drawing is just a draft,” Heisman said. “An approximate representation of what was intended.”

  Seichan crossed her arms. “Or maybe it’s not. Didn’t Franklin’s letter mention something about a fourteenth colony? What was he talking about?”

  A thought formed as Gray stared at the eagle. “The letter also hints at some secret meeting between Thomas Jefferson and the Iroquois nation’s leaders.” He stared over at Heisman. “Could Jefferson and Franklin have been contemplating the formation of a new colony, a fourteenth one, one made up of Native Americans?”

  “A Devil Colony,” Monk said, using the other name Franklin employed in the letter. “As in red devils.”

  Gray nodded. “Maybe that extra arrow in this early drawing represents the colony that never was.”

  Heisman’s eyes glazed a bit as he pondered that possibility. “If so, this may be the single most important historical letter unearthed in decades. But why is there no corroborating evidence?”

  Gray put himself in the shoes of Franklin and Jefferson. “Because their efforts failed, and something frightened them badly enough to wipe out all record of the matter, leaving behind only a few clues.”

  “But if you’re right, what were they hiding?”

  Gray shook his head. “Any answers—or at least clues to the truth—may lie in further correspondence between Franklin and Fortescue. We need to start searching—”

  The jangle of Gray’s cell phone cut him off. It was loud in the quiet space. He slipped the phone from his coat pocket and checked the caller ID. He sighed softly.

  “I have to take this.” He stood and turned away.

  As he answered the call, the frantic voice of his mother trembled out, distraught and full of fear. “Gray, I . . . I need your help!” A loud crash sounded in the background, followed by a bullish bellow.

  Then the line went dead.
r />   Chapter 10

  May 30, 10:01 P.M.

  High Uintas Wilderness

  Utah

  Major Ashley Ryan was guarding the gateway to hell.

  Fifty yards from his command post, the site of the day’s explosion continued to rumble, belching out jets of boiling water and gobbets of bubbling mud. Steam turned the chasm into a burning, sulfurous sauna. In just half a day, the circumference of the blast zone had doubled in size, eroding into the neighboring mountainside. At sunset, a large slab of the neighboring cliff had broken away, like a glacier calving an iceberg. The boulder had crashed into the widening pit. Then as night fell, clouds hid the moon and stars, leaving the valley as dark as any cave.

  Now a worrisome, ruddy glow shone from the heart of the pit.

  Whatever was happening in there wasn’t over.

  Because of the danger and instability of the site, the National Guard had cleared all nonessential personnel from the chasm, cordoning off the valley for a full three miles, with men patrolling on foot and a pair of military helicopters circling overhead. Ryan kept a small squad posted on the valley floor. The soldiers all had a background in firefighting and were turned out in yellow Nomex flame-retardant suits, equipped with helmets and rebreathing masks should the air get any worse down here.

  Ryan faced the newcomer as he climbed into similar gear. “You think you can tell us what’s going on here?” he asked.

  The geologist—who had brusquely introduced himself as Ronald Chin—straightened, cradling a helmet under one arm. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Ryan eyed the scientist skeptically. The man had arrived fifteen minutes ago by helicopter, flown in from Washington, D.C. While Ryan had little respect for government bureaucrats who stuck their noses where they didn’t belong, he sensed there was more to this geologist. From the no-nonsense way the man carried himself, along with his shaved head, Ryan suspected the geologist had a military background. After reaching the chasm floor, the government scientist had taken in his surroundings with a single hard-edged glance and began donning firefighting gear even before Ryan could insist that he suit up.

  “I should go in alone,” Chin warned, and collected a metal work case from the ground.

  “Not a chance. While you’re here, you’re my responsibility.” Ryan had been ordered to give the geologist his full cooperation, but this was still his operation. He waved one of his men over. “Private Bellamy and I will escort you to the site and back.”

  Chin nodded, accepting without argument, earning a tad more respect from Ryan.

  “Then let’s get this over with.” Ryan led the way, thumbing on the LED flashlight mounted on his shoulder. The others followed his example, like a team about to explore an unknown cavern.

  As they ventured into the dark woods, the air grew hotter with each step, stinging with sulfur. All three men quickly donned their helmets and masks. Still, the heat fought them like a physical wall. Steam condensed on their faceplates and clouded the view ahead. The canned air tasted metallic in his mouth, or maybe it was from his own fear. Stepping clear of the forest’s edge, Ryan drew them all to a stop. He hadn’t realized the deteriorating state of the blast zone.

  Ahead, the valley floor dropped into a shallow declivity, roughly circular in shape, stretching thirty yards across and worn deep into the cliff face to the left. Closer by, the rocky edge still continued to crumble into gravel and coarse sand, slowly expanding the pit. Beyond the rim, the pit itself sloped downward, full of fine rock dust, until near the center it dropped precipitously into a deep, steaming hole.

  Water boiled down that dark throat, aglow with subterranean fires. A tremor shook underfoot, and a geyser of superheated water and steam jetted into the night sky, accompanied by a sonorous roar. They all backed away warily.

  Once the fountain died out, Chin crossed to within a yard of the crater. “The blast has definitely broken into the geothermal strata under our feet,” he said, his voice muffled by his mask. “This entire region sits atop a volcanic hotbed.”

  Ryan followed with Bellamy to the rim of the pit. “Careful of the edge. It can give way.”

  Chin nodded, stepped warily to the lip, then dropped to a knee and opened his portable case. Inside, meticulously organized, was a slew of scientific tools and chemicals, along with rock hammers, containers, brushes, and picks.

  The geologist spoke as he prepared a series of collection kits. “I need several samples of the detritus and silt, starting from the periphery and working toward the middle.” He freed a hammer and chisel and held them out. “If one of you could chip a piece of granite near the lip, that would speed things up.”

  Ryan motioned for Bellamy to obey. “Why do you need a chunk of stone?”

  “To use as a baseline for the composition of the local bedrock. Something to compare against the samples from the blast zone.”

  Bellamy took the tools and a small sample bag, crossed a few yards away, and set to work. The young black man had been a linebacker for the Utah State Aggies, but a knee injury had sidelined him. With a wife and a young daughter on the way, he had quit school and joined the Guard. He was a good soldier and knew how to work fast and efficiently.

  Chin attached a glass vial to a telescoping aluminum pole. Bending down, he stretched the rod and scooped up a sample of the coarse sand closest to the edge.

  While the geologist worked, Ryan stared across the pit. The debris grew even finer out there, becoming a powdery dust near the center, where it seemed to swirl in an hourglass shape, spiraling downward and disappearing into the throat of the steaming hole.

  A muffled gasp drew his attention back to Chin. The geologist held his pole out over the pit. He’d been successful in scooping up a sample of the hot sand in the glass vial. Only now the jar’s surface was covered in a web of cracks.

  Had the heat shattered it?

  As Ryan watched, the vial’s bottom cracked off, spilling the sample back into the pit. As the chunk of glass hit the surface, it seemed to melt into the powder. No, not melt. In a matter of seconds, it dissolved away, vanishing into nothingness.

  Chin straightened from his crouch. He still held aloft the pole with the remnants of the broken vial clamped at its end. As both he and Ryan stared, the rest of the container crumbled into a fine glassy powder and sifted into the pit. Even the tip of the aluminum rod began to disintegrate, working slowly down its length. Before it could travel more than a few inches, Chin tossed the pole into the pit. It impaled the powdery surface like a javelin—then continued to sink as if into quicksand.

  Ryan knew it wasn’t just sinking.

  “It’s denaturing,” Chin said, amazement countering Ryan’s terror. “Whatever’s going on here, it’s breaking down matter. Maybe at the atomic level.”

  “What the hell’s causing it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then how do we stop it?”

  Chin only shook his head. Ryan pictured the process continuing to spread like a cancer over the mountains, digging ever deeper at the same time. He remembered the geologist’s words, describing what lay beneath his feet.

  This entire region sits atop a volcanic hotbed.

  As a reminder, the ground gave another violent shake, much worse than before. The geyser spouted again, reaching as high as the treetops, casting out a wall of superheated air.

  Chin shielded his face with an arm while pointing the other man back toward the Guard post. “This is far too unstable! You need to evacuate this chasm. Retreat at least a mile.”

  Ryan had no intention of arguing. He yelled to Bellamy, who still stood a few yards away with a hammer and chisel. “Forget that! Get the men ready to move out! Gather all our gear!”

  Before the big man could take a step, another boulder broke off the cliff face behind the private and crashed into the pit. Damp powder splashed outward. Several black splotches struck Bellamy on the lower right leg.

  “Get back from there!” Ryan ordered.

  Needing
no urging, Bellamy trotted toward them. By the time he reached them, his face was a mask of pain. He hobbled on his right leg.

  “What’s wrong?” Ryan asked.

  “Leg’s on fire, sir.”

  Ryan glanced down. The flame-retardant trousers should have protected his skin against any burn from the splatter of hot powder.

  “Get him on the ground!” Chin barked out. “Now!”

  Ryan jumped, responding to the command in the geologist’s voice. He reached for Bellamy’s shoulder, but the private suddenly screamed, toppling as his right leg crumpled under him. The limb cracked midshin, breaking sideways.

  Ryan managed to catch him and lower him to the ground.

  “Fuuuuck,” the private yelled, writhing in agony.

  Ryan didn’t admonish the cursing. He felt like doing the same himself. What the hell was happening?

  Chin knelt by Bellamy’s legs. He had a blade in hand, a military KA-BAR knife. He slit the private’s trouser leg from knee to ankle, revealing an ugly compound fracture midshin. A splintered chunk of tibial bone poked out of his calf, stark white against the man’s dark skin. Blood seeped, but not as much as Chin had anticipated.

  “He’s contaminated,” Chin said.

  Ryan struggled to understand what that meant—then as he watched, the sharp end of shattered bone began to turn to dust before his eyes. The skin along the edges of the wound retreated, dissolving away from the wound. Ryan pictured the splash of powder hitting Bellamy and remembered the word the geologist had used a moment ago.

  Denaturing.

  The powder must have eaten through Bellamy’s suit and set to work on his leg.

  “Wh-what do we do?” Ryan stammered.

  “Get an ax!” Chin ordered.

  It wasn’t the force of command that got Ryan moving this time, but the fear in the geologist’s voice. Chin had already cut away the stained piece of fabric, careful not to touch it, and tossed it into the pit. If Ryan had any doubt as to Chin’s plan, it was dispelled when the geologist yanked off his belt and began preparing a tourniquet.