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  A soldier appeared, pushing his horse hard, then others right behind him. The soldier fired at Crazy Horse, the bullet coming nowhere close. The cluster of soldiers charged toward Crazy Horse, eager for the kill. Crazy Horse put the rifle to his shoulder and fired, knocking the point man off his horse. At that shot, more than two hundred warriors rose and fired bullets and arrows at the soldiers from above on both sides of the riverbed. A half-dozen blue coats were hit immediately. The officer in charge screamed orders, and the surviving soldiers dashed to the south side, where the bank was wider, and threw themselves on their bellies in the waist-high grass. They fired wildly, most without aiming.

  The men who had been so brave killing women and children huddled in the high grass like cowards, dying as arrows and bullets rained down on them. Crazy Horse didn’t bother to fire his rifle again. He stood in the open, watching.

  It was over in less than five minutes. All the blue coats were dead. The warriors swept down, scalping and mutilating the bodies. However, the war leaders of the various tribes who had shown up rode over to Crazy Horse and silently gathered around him.

  Looking at the tribes represented. For the first time Crazy Horse felt a glimmer of hope. If they could come together like this in the spur of a moment, what could they accomplish with · more time?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SPACE BETWEEN

  Amelia Earhart knelt at the edge of the Inner Sea and waited. Taki stood behind her. Naga staff in hand, eyes scanning the shore in both directions. Valkyries rarely ventured anywhere but between their cave and the portals, but one never knew.

  Taki didn’t ask why they had come here. As a samurai in training in fourteenth-century Japan, he had quickly learned one never questioned orders. He had been onboard a ship off tile coast of Japan when they were caught in a terrible storm. They were adrift, out of sight of land for more than a week before a strange mist appeared, enveloping their ship. That was the last Taki remembered of the world he had known.

  When he awoke he was on this same shore and that is all he and the other samurai from the ship had known since. There were several, people who spoke strange languages already here, and Earhart had arrived not long afterward. Her ability to speak Japanese and organize the group had earned her the loyalty of the samurai and Taki in particular. His last master in Japan had been a woman, the widow of his lord, and he felt serving Earhart was as close as he could come to performing his sworn duty while trapped here.

  Duty was all Taki could focus on as he did not understand this place, the strange creatures in white called Valkyries, or the black columns Earhart called portals. Duty and fealty he understood; they were traits that superseded place and time for him.

  Taki’s attention was drawn to the inner sea as he heard a splash. A dolphin swam up near the shore, right in front of Earhart. She waded out. Placed her hand on the dolphin’s forehead, and closed her eyes. The two remained still for several moments before Earhart removed her hand and walked back to Taki. With a thrust of its powerful tail, the dolphin headed back out into the Inner Sea.

  “We must prepare for visitors,” Earhart said.

  “Friendly or enemy?”

  “Friendly.”

  “How?”

  “Come with me.”

  THE PRESENT

  The land was dying. Birds were the first to succumb to the invisible wave of death carried by the air. Their carcasses littered the landscape. The next to die were the animals, both domestic and wild. Cattle sickened and expired in their pens, while wildlife, somehow knowing the threat, tried desperately to run ahead of the radioactive cloud, but exhaustion eventually slowed them and the inexorable cloud caught them.

  The edge of the radioactive discharge from Chernobyl had now spread more than two hundred miles from the nuclear power plant. Kiev, not far to the south, was a ghost town, the inhabitants fleeing ahead of the invisible death. Minsk, to the north, was in a panic as residents’ overwhelmed limited transportation in their dash to evacuate. Four hundred fifty miles to the northeast. Scientists monitored wind patterns as the government tried to figure out what to do. They could keep evacuating those in the path of the radiation, but how far could they keep running? Where would the people go? How would they survive? And what of the reports of the ozone depletion in the southern hemisphere? Were they just delaying the inevitable? Trading one kind of radiation death for another?

  * * *

  The first humans to experience the inevitable fate of the rest of the world were the handful of scientists working at McMurdo Station on the Ross Ice Shelf in Antarctica. They had been studying the hole in the ozone layer for years, ever since the smallest hole had opened in 1972 over Antarctica, and they had revisited every summer.

  A dozen scientists swathed in heavy clothes and wearing protective goggles stared up at the bright sun. To them there was no apparent change. Their instruments told a different story. The readings indicated no plant would survive the sunlight long and skin exposed to it would develop cancerous growths in a relatively short period of time.

  Cargo planes were standing by to evacuate the base, but those assigned there had already taken a vote based on the reality of the situation. The decision to stay was unanimous.

  * * *

  Dane rubbed Chelsea’s head and then scratched behind her ears. He could see the helicopter from the USS Washington approaching. The super-carrier was to the east, just over the horizon, helping keep guard on the Devil’s Sea gate.

  “Take care of her,” Dane said to Foreman.

  The CIA man nodded. “I will.”

  Dane glanced at the dark wall of the gate nearby. “I’d stay clear of it.”

  “You think your plan will work?”

  “It’s not my plan,” Dane said. “I only have an idea of what I’m supposed to do. There are others who have to do their part.

  The helicopter was overhead, lowering a sling.

  Dane was shaking his head as he watched it come down.

  “What’s wrong?” Foreman asked.

  “This isn’t the way to fight a war,” Dane said. “Always on the defensive, always reacting. It’s what we did in Vietnam. It doesn’t work.”

  “When you’re ass-deep in alligators-”

  “Hard to remember your original purpose was to drain the swamp,” Dane completed the saying for Foreman. “After we kill this alligator-if we kill this alligator-we need to take the war to the Shadow.”

  “How?” Foreman asked as the sling reached them.

  Dane slipped it over his head and shoulders then tightened the strap. “I’ll work on it”

  The winch started, and Dane’s feet left the deck.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FORT LINCOLN, DAKOTA TERRITORY: 1873

  The gallows beckoned, casting a long shadow from the morning sun, the tip of which just touched the jail where the condemned man awaited his fate. He did not wait easily or with resignation. He screamed, he ranted, and he ran about his cell. He’d been doing it for three days, ever since the Army Adjutant who enforced the law in the territory had slapped the irons on him while he slept off a drunk at a saloon just down the street. His face matched that on a poster, which stated that he’d already been convicted and sentenced once, and escaped. The sentence was death, and the Adjutant had no problem carrying it out as quickly as possible to minimize the cost of housing the prisoner and then collecting the reward and contributing it to the Seventh Cavalry’s officer fund, which was in line with the colonel’s orders. Given that the colonel was not only the Adjutant’s commander. But also his brother, there was no question of disobedience.

  There was only one thing that bothered the Adjutant, Captain Tom Custer. The prisoner had had in his possession a fossilized human skull and a small leather pouch full of dust-gold dust. Captain Custer didn’t care about the skull, but the dust intrigued him. Given that the prisoner, who the Poster said was Toussaint Kensler, a.k.a. Tucson Kensler, was going to die this morning, Captain Custer thought the time wa
s ripe to question him.

  Captain Custer indicated for the guard to open the gate to the cell. He drew his pistol and walked in, pointing it at the prisoner. “You will sit down immediately, or I will save the hangman some work this morning.”

  Kensler stared at the muzzle of the gun with wide eyes, shaggy, unkempt hair covering most of his face. “Listen, General-”

  “Sit down on the floor.”

  Kensler sat down, fidgeting. “You can’t do this to me, General. I dun it. I finally dun it.”

  Custer kept the gun trained on the man. “Done what?”

  Kensler leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You let me live. Let me go. I’ll draw you a map. Show you where it is. There’s plenty for all. Plenty.”

  “Tell me.” Custer glanced over his shoulder, making sure the guard had moved away from the open door.

  “No.” Kensler shook his head, dirty hair flying back and forth. ‘’No. No. No. No. You got to let me go.”

  Custer reached with his free hand into his tunic pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. It was a roster of the Seventh from the morning role. He tossed it at the man, along with the stub of a pencil. “Draw the map.”

  “No. No. No. No. You’re gonna kill me. Why should I? Why? No.”

  Custer nodded. “All right. Wait.” He walked out of the cell to the office and retrieved Kensler’s wanted poster. He brought it back to the cell. “Here. See.” Custer tore the wanted poster in half. ‘That’s it. We can’t hang you now.”

  Kensler grinned, revealing a few remaining dirty teeth as he watched the pieces float to the floor. He giggled as he crawled over and gathered the remains, tucking them inside his shirt. “I’m free now. Yes, I am.”

  “Draw the map.”

  “Oh sure. Sure thing, General.” Kensler put the roster face down on the floor and took the pencil between grubby fingers. He squinted, tongue stuck out the side of his mouth as he drew. Custer edged forward. Leaning over so he could see what was appearing. “That a river?” he asked.

  “The Yellowstone,” Kensier said.

  That oriented the young captain. The Black Hills. There’d been stories of gold in the hills for years. But those who went in didn’t come back out. Several groups of miners had set out to the west in the past couple of years and had never been heard from again. There was even a story that a flatboat coming down the Heart River had been carrying a load of gold, but it had been ambushed by the Sioux, everyone slaughtered, and the boat sunk along with the gold.

  And then. Of course. There was the treaty that said it was illegal for whites to go into the Black Hill country. It was set aside for the Lakota Sioux.

  “Did you dig a miner” Custer asked.

  Kensler cackled. “No, General. No mine. Just picked it up in the dirt. Just laying there in the stream.” He held up the map.

  Custer stooped over and took the piece of paper, putting it back in his pocket. “Guard.” He called out.

  When the sergeant at arms appeared. Custer pointed at Kensler. “Gag the prisoner.”

  Kensler blinked, not quite understanding, and by the time he did it was too late. The sergeant at arms wrapped a leather lariat around his head. holding a piece of rag jammed into his mouth. Kensler’s protests were muffled as he was hustled out of the prison and to the nearby scaffold.

  Captain Custer waited just long enough to see Kensler fall through the trap and hear the prisoner’s neck snap before he hustled over to Regimental headquarters to show his brother the map. George had aspirations. High aspirations. He’d confided to Tom that he saw a future for himself in politics. If Grant, that damn fool, could be president, George didn’t see why he couldn’t. Especially if he had a great victory over the Indians and the financial backing one needed to run such a campaign. Gold in the Black Hills could solve both those problems.

  THE BLAC HILLS: 1847

  Crazy Horse sat cross-legged on top of a rock on top of the crow’s nest. He could see for many miles to the north, east and west. It was beautiful country, the heart of the Lakota hunting land, and crawling across the center of it, like a black poisonous snake, was a long column of blue coats.

  He reached into a pouch and retrieved the telescope he had taken from a surveyor he’d slain several years earlier. He extended the metal tube and put it to his right eye. He scanned along the column until he reached the front. The blond hair caught Crazy Horse’s eye. Long and flowing in the breeze.

  Crazy Horse had heard of this leader of the white soldiers. Some called him Son of the Morning Star. Others dubbed him Creeping Panther for his attack on Black Kettle’s village on the Washita. Some even said the white man had a mixed-race daughter, named Yellow Swallow, with Me-o-tzi, daughter of the Cheyenne chief Little Rock.

  Crazy Horse didn’t care what anyone called the man. He was leading surveyors into the Black Hills, the heart of Lakota land. He watched the column as it moved north until the last rider was out of sight.

  They would be back. That was as sure as the sun rising the next morning. And when they came back, the Son of the Morning Star would rise no more.

  DENVER: 1874

  Bouyer read the Rocky Mountain News article for the third time. It validated what was already being talked about in all the saloons and on the streets of Denver. There was gold in the Black Hills. Gold for the taking.

  He was standing on the comer of Laramie Square in downtown Denver. He could literally feel the excitement around him. Dry goods stores were packed with people buying mining equipment and provisions, and there wasn’t a spare mule to be bought within twenty miles-this despite the fact it was late fall and snow covered the Rocky Mountains just west of the city. Bouyer knew some fools would head north now and most would perish in the winter. The smarter ones would wait for the spring. Then, just as the mountain streams would swell with run-off, the trails leading north would be packed with prospectors.

  There wasn’t a mention of the treaty in the article. The one the government had signed with the Indians ceding the Black Hills to them in perpetuity.

  Bouyer went back to the part that interested him the most. The fact that the Seventh Cavalry, under the command of George Armstrong Custer, had been the ones who made the discovery while on a survey mission. Bouyer didn’t believe that for a moment-why survey land that had been given to the Indians? He knew there was more going on than was being reported.

  He’d left the Dakota Territory this past summer, even though he’d heard rumors that the Seventh would be marching. He’d had no vision or heard any inner voice indicating s was the year. Plus, most of the leaders on the list that he’d given to Crazy Horse were on reservations, content to eat government beef for the time being.

  That would change now, Bouyer knew.

  He folded the paper and stuck it under his arm. As he walked out of the Square he felt a cold breeze as his back and a tingle in the base of his skull. Bouyer halted, putting out one hand on a wood pole to steady himself. He closed his eyes.

  In his mind’s eye he saw a place. Large slabs of slanting reddish rock towered over a mining town set near the foothills. A voice whispered to him: at the base of one of those slabs of rock.

  That was it. Bouyer opened his eyes. He knew the place. The Flatirons-so named because they resembled the device used to press pants-outside the town of Boulder, northwest of Denver.

  Bouyer headed for the stable.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE PRESENT

  The steady roar of jet engines throbbed in Dane’s ears. The backseat of the F-14 wasn’t the most spacious place, but Dane had managed to open the laptop Ahana had given him and he had it in front of him as he studied the information she had compiled. He had been inside the gate while much had happened and had not had a chance to be fully brought up to speed.

  First he checked Ahana’ s displays from both the Flip and Super-Kamiokande in Japan, showing the current muonic field patterns for the planet. The activity around the Devil’s Sea and Baikal was obvious. Otherwise, t
he planet seemed calm. But for the radiation out of Chernobyl and the growing ozone hole, they might be celebrating a victory over the Shadow-a very big but.

  Ahana had summarized the information quite well-some of the material Dane already knew. Other of it was new, but put together in a way that he was beginning to get a better grasp on the war against the Shadow.

  Ahana had gone back to something Foreman had told Dane-which the Russians had been one of the leaders in investigating the gates, initially calling them Vile Vortices. They had also been the first to propose the concept of the interior of the planet holding a giant crystalline object. The Russian scientists who proposed this claimed that a matrix of cosmic energy was built into the planet at the time of its formation and that it punched through to the surface at the Vile Vortices. When it was first published, the theory was met with scorn and ridicule, and over the years, the scientists who had proposed it became the laughing stock of their fields.

  If they had lived another forty years they would have seen their theory come to life.

  Ahana had laid out her adjustment to their theory based on what she had gathered from the recent attempt by the Shadow to tap the core. She had recorded her summary to complement what came up on the screen. Dane smiled as he put on a headset and hit the play button on the computer. Ahana’s words gave evidence to a more artistic side to the usually serious scientist:

  “Mr. Dane. Please bear with me as I try to explain things. We learned much while you were inside the gate, some of which you might be aware of, much of which is still conjecture, but what I am telling you are my best guesses as to what has happened and is happening.

  “1 must start at the beginning, of course. The birth of our planet, that is. In the very beginning, Earth was only a gathering of fragments of solid rock revolving around the sun. Over the course of approximately two billion years, these fragments coalesced into a planet, a very rudimentary one. Then asteroids and meteors bombarded this rudimentary planet for millions of years. The energy from these impacts melted the entire planet to the extent that it is still cooling off as I say this and will be far into the future. The densest material sank to the center, while lighter materials, the basis from which life could develop. Such as oxygen compounds, water, and silicates, rose. By the time the first humans walked the planet, the interior of the planet settled into four basic layers: the inner core, outer core, mantle and crust.”