This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ATLANTIS: ASSAULT ON ATLANTIS, series book FIVE

COPYRIGHT © 2003 by Bob Mayer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author (Bob Mayer, Who Dares Wins) except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Who Dares Wins Publishing

www.whodareswinspublishing.com

Bob Mayer is the Best-Selling author of numerous books, both fiction and non-fiction. He is a West Point graduate, served in the Infantry and Special Forces (Green Berets): commanding an A-Team and as a Special Forces battalion operations officer; and was an instructor at the JFK Special Warfare Center & School at Fort Bragg. He is the CEO of Who Dares Wins Publishing.

His books have hit the NY Times, Wall Street Journal, Publishers Weekly, USA Today and other best-seller lists. With over 3 million books in print, he’s the author of Who Dares Wins: The Green Beret Way to Conquer Fear & Succeed and Hunting Al Qaeda. He has appeared on/in local cable news around the country as well as PBS, NPR, the Discovery Military Channel, the Wall Street Journal and Sports Illustrated as an expert consultant.

Bob is an honor graduate of the Combined Arms Services Staff School, the Infantry Office Basic & Advanced Courses, the Special Forces Qualification Course, the Special Warfare Center Instructor Training Course and the Danish Royal Navy Fromandkorpset School. He is Master Parachutist/Jumpmaster Qualified, earned a Black Belt in the Orient and also taught martial arts and boxing. Bob also earned an MA in Education. He's spoken before over 1,000 groups and organizations, ranging from SWAT teams, Fortune 500, the University of Georgia; IT teams in Silicon Valley, the CIA, Romance Writers of America and the Maui Writers Conference. He brings a unique blend of practical Special Operations Strategies and Tactics mixed with the vision of an artist.

www.bobmayer.org

Fiction work published by Who Dares Wins Publishing:

www.whodareswinspublishing.com

Books by Bob Mayer

BLACK OPS: THE GATE

BLACK OPS: THE LINE

THE OMEGA MISSILE

THE OMEGA SANCTION

THE CELLAR: BODYGUARD OF LIES

THE CELLAR: LOST GIRLS

CHASING THE GHOST

Books by Robert Doherty

ATLANTIS

ATLANTIS: BERMUDA TRIANGLE

ATLANTIS: DEVIL’S SEAL

ATLANTIS: GATE

ATLANTIS: ASSAULT

ATLANTIS: BATTLE FOR ATLANTIS

ATLANTIS:

ASSAULT ON ATLANTIS

by

ROBERT DOHERTY

THE DISTANT PAST

10,000 B.C.

A thousand men manned the fortress walls waiting to die bravely as the High Defender of Atlantis had ordered and foretold. They were the elite of the Atlantean army, handpicked for this last mission and the survivors of a decade-long war against an enemy none who had faced had ever returned to describe. They were armed with spear, sword and bow and knew their weapons would be useless against the coming darkness. Still, they stood tall on the ramparts and looked out to the sea from which their doom would come.

The fortress was set on the smallest of thirteen volcanic islands in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Although the smallest, this island, centrally located, was the most important, as it was the seat of power for the Empire of Atlantis. The fortress wall surrounded a magnificent city, consisting of more than forty square miles of homes, temples, government buildings, and businesses constructed from a fine white marble, which gleamed in the late afternoon sun. In the very center of the city, a huge pyramid had been hurriedly built. It was more than three hundred feet high with a level top twenty feet wide. Contrasting with the rest of the city, it was built of black stone.

On the top of the pyramid stood Pri Tor, the High Defender. She was a tall woman, with short red hair and pale skin. She wore a white robe with red trim and a crystal amulet around her neck as a sign of her special position.

Her eyes were icy blue, and they were currently scanning to all points of the compass from the center of Atlantis. In every direction, darkness covered the ocean, a black wall over a mile high of an undeterminable depth: the Shadow’s domain. The circle of black was slowly closing in on the center island of Atlantis, the capital city of the kingdom that had once ruled the other twelve islands in the center of the Atlantic Ocean and colonies on both sides of the ocean. As far as she knew, the twelve were uninhabited now, overrun by the encroaching darkness of the Shadow.

Many had escaped, warned by the Defenders of the coming doom, spreading out across the ocean before the darkness finished encircling, the twelve tribes of Atlantis seeking haven, carrying with them the legend of Atlantis and the knowledge that had been given in visions to the Defenders by the Ones Before. It was only four days ago that the blackness had appeared, completely encircling the thirteen-island empire. In that time the darkness had constricted, overrunning the other islands coming ever closer.

Some warriors had stayed on each of the islands, unwilling to give up their homes so easily. The Defenders had felt their deaths as the Shadow closed in. Their defiance had not slowed the inevitable in the slightest.

A little less than ten years ago, the Shadow had first appeared in the form of a triangular-shaped mist upon the sea far to the southeast. A ship sent to investigate had never come back out, as had no ship since then. The mist had turned to darkness over the course of two years. Then the colony on an island near the darkness had been overrun; every person had been swallowed by it. In the following years, several other colonies, on the both sides of the ocean, had been absorbed by darkness that appeared nearby.

Then a select few among the Atlanteans, mostly woman, began receiving visions and hearing voices from some unseen entity calling itself the Ones Before telling them the nature of the force behind the darkness—the Shadow—and telling and showing them ways to combat the threat. At first, they were ignored as the warriors tried to use traditional means to fight the Shadow, but when all these attempts became abject failures, the people were forced to turn to these oracles.

Thus the Defenders were formed. The darkness to the south-west was destroyed by a pyramid such as and the sacrifice of a Defender and several warriors exactly as the Ones Before instructed. For a couple of years there was peace and no sign of the Shadow—until the previous week. Desperate visions warned of the coming threat and now it was here. The visions they were given and the voice that whispered inside their heads told the Defenders there was only one desperate way to stop the Shadow this time.

Pri Tor shifted her gaze to those gathered on the broad stairs of the pyramid, twelve priestesses like here, the Chief Defender from each island, especially chosen for this. There was a young girl, also with red hair and blue eyes, in front of them on the top step. Two warriors, the taller of which held a staff, one end of which was a razor-sharp spearhead and the other a seven-headed snake—the Naga. Behind her was large a large slab with the contour of a human etched into its stone surface.

Pri Tor signaled and her daughter came to her. The High Defender knelt so she was the same height as the young girl. “You must be brave.”

Her daughter, Pri Ker, could only nod. Pri Ker was the first of one born to a Defender and a warrior who had some of the sight and hearing, brought into light nine years ago. She was the future.

Pri Tor removed the amulet from her neck and placed it over her daughter’s head. “You must carry the knowledge of the High Defender.” She glanced over her daughter’s shoulder at the Shadow. “It will come back, and you and those who follow you will be the ones to fight it.”

Pri Ker finally spoke. “Will we ever completely defeat it?”

Pri Tor frowned. “I have not been shown that nor heard of it. I only know what must be done now. It is time for you to go. I do not know where your travels will take you.” She reached inside her robe and removed a slim metal tube, capped at both ends. It was covered with fine runes etched into the metal. “Take this also. It might help others some day. And perhaps someone can read the strange writing that we could not.”

Pri Ker swallowed, holding back tears, knowing such a sign of weakness would be insulting to tall the chosen ones gathered around. She took the tube, reached up and hugged her mother, then turned and made her way down the stairs where several warriors waited to take her to the strange ship moored at the dock.

Pri Tor rose to her feet. “It is time.”

The dozen priestesses bowed their heads in prayer for several moments.

“Go,” Pri Tor ordered, and the priestesses made their way down the stairs, then scattered to the twelve positions on the walls that Pri Tor had chosen as a result of the vision she had been given. Meanwhile, Pri Tor took a dark red cloth from her pocket and draped it over her shoulders. It had runic writing on it, a gift from the Ones Before, one of the few substantial things received via a gate, the name given by the Ones Before for the darkness. As near as Pri Tor could tell both the Shadow and the Ones Before used the gates, although no human had ever entered one and come back to tell of it, and no representative of either side had ever come out of the darkness of a gate into light.

Pri Tor walked to the slab and climbed onto it, standing tall, where she could see all of the capital of Atlantis spread out around her. She saw the chosen thousand on the walls. Would they be enough? she wondered briefly, and then dismissed the doubt. It was one of many decisions she’d had to make in the past week as the inevitable drew near. They had to be enough. The plan she’d “heard” from the Ones Before had indicated a thousand should be sufficient and she had to trust in it.

Her eyes were drawn to a long, slim ship tied at the nearest dock. It was a hundred meters long by five wide. The hull was of black metal, open to the sky with no docking. A single thin mast of the same black metal poked into the sky, almost twenty meters high. In the rear was a raised platform on which rested a black box two meters cubed. There were rows of seats inside, manned by sailors. In the prow of the ship was a golden sphere about a meter in diameter. The surface of the sphere writhed and moved, each strand pulsing as if alive.

The ship was a gift from the Ones Before. It had come out of the darkness with no one on board two days ago and been brought to shore by Atlantean sailors from a nearby warship. The warship had been waiting in the correct spot; because Pri Tor had had a vision, telling her what was going to happen. She had also had a vision as to what was to be done with the ship and that which was onboard it. The metal tube had been on the ship, and she knew it needed to stay with it.

Pri Tor saw her daughter on the dock, then cross the gangplank onto the ship. The ship immediately began moving, although there was no apparent propulsion system. As it cleared the harbor, the ship paused. As she had been instructed by her mother. Pri Ker placed her hands on the golden sphere. A black hole opened in front of the ship, and the prow entered the gate.

I love you. Pri Tor used her mind to send the message to the ship, and she “felt” the message returned by her daughter, Pri Tor saw several dolphin fins appear near the prow of the ship and she felt some relief that their brethren of the sea were escorting it as it disappeared into the gate. As soon as the stern of the ship was through, the gate snapped out of existence. Where her daughter was now, Pri Tor had no clue. The vision had only shown her this far. But she had to trust that the Ones Before would take care of her daughter.

Pri Tor raised her gaze beyond. The Shadow was closer. Pri Tor looked at the fortress walls. The thousand warriors were ready. At the twelve designated points along the walls her priestesses stood.

Pri Tor felt a tremble come up out of the ground. The earth itself was unsteady, a result of the Shadow’s power. Several islands to the south, where colonies had taken root, had disappeared over the past several years due to disturbances in the earth.

She signaled and the two warriors came up the stairs and joined her.

“Be ready,” Pri Tor ordered. One of the warriors put the spearhead into a slit next to the slab. His steady hand rested on the snakeheads.

Then Pri Tor lay down, her body fitting into the outline. She felt more tremors. High above, all she could see was blue sky. A single seagull flew overhead. She felt a tremendous wave of sadness knowing this was her last day. There would be no more beautiful dawns and wondrous sunsets. No more playing in the warm surf with her daughter. The simple joys and the pains of life were all to be ended, and she didn’t understand why. Why was the Shadow doing this? She didn’t even know who or what the Shadow was or who or what the Ones Before who had aided them were. The only contact with either had been through the gates. Among the Defenders, there had been much discussion, both about why they had been chosen and who had done the choosing. Were the Ones Before gods? Was the Shadow a demon force? Were humans’ just pawns in a battle between heaven and hell?

“How close?” she called out.

“Just about to touch the walls,” the warrior informed her.

She could feel the sheer evil of the darkness that approached. Of that, there was no doubt. Theological questioning and reasoning aside, there was the reality of the threat that had proven itself again and again over the past decade.

“At the walls,” the warrior announced. He was the father of Pri Ker, a brave man, and one who heard the whispers of the Ones Before, not anywhere near as loudly as a Defender, but enough to let Pri Tor know he had something of the sight and make her decide to mate with him. She briefly wondered how powerful their daughter’s sight and voice would be.

Pri Tor could hear the screams of the warriors as the darkness slid over them and they encountered what was inside. She closed her eyes. She “felt” the wave of bravery mixed he closed her eyes. She “felt” the wave of bravery mixed the despair from the warriors. It was a bolt of high-power energy into the right side of her brain.

With great effort, Pri Tor lifted her head and looked toward e walls. Darkness had encompassed the southwest part of it ‘St, but she could see the two priestesses who had been overrun as deep blue silhouettes in the blackness, a beacon of positive power. Their skulls were absorbing the same thing her mind was feeling, the raw power of the warriors’ emotion, and e energy was pouring through them to the pyramid.

A third and fourth Defender fell into the darkness. Bolts of blue flickered from the four now covered out to the others arranged around the wall, but mostly to the pyramid.

Pri Tor felt the power in her head building, almost unbearable. ‘Now,” she ordered.

The warrior turned his spear.

The pyramid began to vibrate. A blue glow suffused the .lab and Pri Tor’s body. Energy from the outlying Defenders came toward her, adding to the power. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. The skin on her face began rippling as if there were something alive beneath it. Then her flesh began peeling way as her eyes turned into two blue glowing orbs.

The darkness was closer now on all sides. Seven of the twelve Defenders were covered, sucking in power from the doomed warriors’ minds. Pri Tor had a moment of clarity when she realized what was happening-the absolute desperation of the warriors, combined with their bravery in the face of it, was tapping something primeval and very powerful, and the nearby Defenders were able to channel it to her.

Still the Shadow closed in.

Deep inside Pri Tor, she felt the darkness slide over the top of the pyramid and her body. She was still alive, her head the focal point of the twelve skulls-the skulls of twelve priestesses, the twelve Defenders, who had already given their all in the battle against the Shadow.

Her body felt faint and far away. She distantly heard the warrior shout something and then scream in agony. More power flowed in. All the Defenders were active now.

Bolts of blue shot out of Pri Tor’s head into the encompassing darkness.

Again and again, blue lightning seared off the top of the pyramid into the darkness. The consistency of the darkness began to change. Swirls of blue mixing with the black. The blue and black spun about the top of the pyramid.

Pri Tor’s head was now a clear crystal, suffused with blue. The power from the twelve Defenders still poured into the pyramid, their heads also crystallized now, still channeling the raw emotion from the dying warriors.

So the earth did.

The explosion centered on the pyramid, on a scale not seen. Nee meteors battered the planet long before life existed. A tidal wave more than a mile high spread outward from the center of the Atlantic, so powerful it circled the entire globe core slowly subsiding. As far as Atlantis itself, the thirteen islands were gone so completely there was no indication there had even been land in the center of the mighty ocean, no ruins for later civilizations to find.

CHAPTER ONE

1844

Bone-cold wind blew down from the white covered peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Sweeping across the High Plains. Nestled in the valley that held the Greasy Grass River, known as the Little Big Horn to the whites, were two-dozen lodges of the Lakota Sioux. They were somewhat protected from the wind by the surrounding bluffs. But small wind devils still swirled about the lodges. It was the time of the Moon-of-Frost-in-the-Lodge, January, and only dire necessity would cause one to be outside before the sun rose.

The woman known as Nahimana, wife of the medicine man Crazy Horse, pulled the frozen rawhide flap to her lodge entrance aside and peered out into the dark. Not just the cold. But also, the foreboding darkness caused her to pause before exiting, as she knew she must. She glanced once over her shoulder at her sleeping husband, and then silently left the tent, one hand cradled underneath her swollen belly, the other bolding a small leather pouch with an eagle feather tied to the binding. She had a small buffalo robe draped over one shoulder but wore only a simple one-piece dress made of deer hide. Her teeth were already chattering, the wind cutting through e thin garment and swirling up her bare legs.

She wove her way through the lodges toward the cottonwoods next to the river. Tethered ponies watched her, gathered tightly together for protection from the cold. Even the logs the village used for warning were quiet, recognizing her cent, content to watch from their snowy havens underneath bushes.

Nahimana passed the edge of the village and made her way into the cottonwoods. There was barely enough starlight and moonlight for her to avoid bumping into a tree. She stopped abruptly as the ground suddenly dropped off, telling her she had reached the bank of the Greasy Grass. With great difficulty, she slid down the steep four-foot riverbank to a small shoal consisting of pebbles and sand. Ice framed both sides of the flowing water for about two feet, leaving a free-flowing center channel. The river was not deep, a few feet at best in the center.

Looking up, Nahimana saw the uncountable stars overhead, twinkling in the clear night sky in the space between the bare branches from the trees on each bank that framed her view. She felt very small and alone. All her visions seemed foolish now. How could she—and the child inside of her who now wanted to come out-matter in light of such vastness? Why should she and her child be chosen, as she knew they had been? And chosen for what fate?

Her child-the thought made her pause. It was tradition for a woman to leave the village to give birth, but not one scrupulously followed, especially when the weather was so dangerous. However, she had another reason to give birth away from the eyes of others. Although she had not slept with another man beside her husband, she was worried about what had grown inside her. Slightly more than eight moons ago, in the Moon of Shedding Ponies, she had awoken in great pain while Crazy Horse was off on a bunt. The dogs were barking loudly as if a bear had wandered into the camp. It was just few weeks past the night; she knew she had conceived with her husband. Her hair had crackled as if a summer storm were passing overhead. But such storms were still a few months off. Her abdomen was wracked with pain, and she’d feared she’d lost the child. But examining herself, she’d found a small, fresh cut on her stomach.

While warriors scoured the camp, she’d covered the wound with a poultice. She knew in the way she had always known such things, that something had been done to her. What, she had no clue, but she feared for her child.

The next night she’d had a dream. She “saw” her son leading their people to a great victory over the white skins, their soldiers falling into camp and her son killing many. But for some reason she couldn’t pin down, she’d felt no elation at the vision. Since that night, she’d had the same dream many times, of soldiers falling into camp and her son defeating them, but she shared it with no one. Because in concert with that vision, she had another. One of a dark-haired man with blue eyes who was with the white skin soldiers. This man disturbed her greatly, because she knew he was connected to her and also knew his fate. But still he charged into battle.

She also had dreams of skulls. Not the white bleached skulls of the dead when left on their funeral platforms, but skulls that were solid yet clear in a way she did not understand. The man with blue eyes carried several in a bag tied off on his pony. Sometimes her son did, and sometimes he didn’t. The skulls were very powerful, but their purpose eluded her.

The latest bout of recurring pain pushed aside such musings and returned her attention to the task at hand. She knelt, putting the pouch down to her right. She grimaced as another contraction rippled through her body. Despite the chill in the air, sweat ran down her forehead and along the chiseled lines f her face. It was so cold that small ice beads formed underneath her chin before the sweat could drop off.

Nahimana used her fist to punch a hole in the nearby thin ice. She cupped a handful of water and splashed it over her face, trying to distract herself from the pain in her womb. She began to hum to herself the tune her mother had taught her to focus her mind elsewhere and hold the pain at arm’s distance. She opened the pouch and pulled out a small flint knife that bad been her mother’s and her mother’s mother before her, through the long maternal line of the family. She pulled her garment up to her waist, spread her feet apart and waited, pressing her back against the bank for support, feeling the .train in her thighs. This was her first child. And although she had witnessed a few births and had consulted other women, the experience was novel to her.

He child came surprisingly easily. She used the flint knife to cut the umbilical, then reached forward to wash him with the river water when pain once more spiked through her abdomen, causing her to collapse back against the riverbank. the baby on the buffalo hide stared up at her with wide, The baby on the buffalo hide stared up at her with wide, against the cold riverbank.

Another child? She had not seen this. Or felt it. A shiver passed through her, some cold, mostly fear. She remembered the cut that had healed slowly. The pain that night eight moons ago. The warriors coming back saying not only had found no tracks of beast or man. But she knew dogs did not ark like that for nothing. She’d had a visitor.

She cried out as the pain came again and lingered for several moments before subsiding. The second baby would not be born. She reached down and flipped the edge of the buffalo robe over the silent child to protect him from the cold.

She strained with effort, trying to force the second child Out of her body. But to no avail. After almost a half-hour. The line was growing intolerable and blood soaked the pebbles and sand below her. She tried once more, and then collapsed sideways onto the pebbles, staring directly into the eyes of her first-born. She could feel the wet between her legs and. reaching down, drew back a hand covered with dark red blood.

She would die here. The thought angered her. She had always had the sight, and she had never foreseen this. She had visions of her son—, it was a son who stared back at her, and they had extended from his early childhood to his great victory. How could she die here and now?

She had not had visions of another child. A brother or sister to her first-born had never appeared in her dreams. Then again, what had happened eight months earlier-whatever it was had never appeared, either.

She heard a low rumble, like thunder but muted, even though it sounded nearby. A strange feeling passed over her skin. One she had experienced before during the night of the strange visitor who left no tracks.

She tried to right herself. To let gravity help. But she couldn’t get to her feet or even her knees. If she died, would they find her son? Would he fulfill the destiny she saw for him? Or would he die here on the shoals of the Greasy Grass, frozen?

With a painful hiss, she reached up with a blood-soaked hand, grabbing a root that extended out of the bank. She tried to pull herself up and was almost back in the crouching position when the root gave way, sending her tumbling onto the smooth pebbles of the shoal.

Through her pain, she was vaguely aware of the sound of someone or something coming closer through the underbrush on the far side of the river. She looked in the direction, and fear washed over her, blanketing the pain for a few moments. There she saw a figure with smooth white skin unlike any she had ever seen before, floating six inches above the water, moving without any apparent motion.

The eyes scared her more than the strange mode of movement-they glowed slightly, and were red and bulging. This was no human, of that she was certain. It had to have come from the world beyond where the Great Spirit dwelled. The figure floated to a halt just in front of Nahimana. She noted that it had a pack looped over one shoulder.

The young Sioux reached down to grab her first child as she noticed starlight glinting off of blades on the end of each of the creature’s fingers. It was a demon creature, coming to kill her and her son. She gasped in pain but gathered up the buffalo robe and held her firstborn tight against her chest.

Nahimana blinked as the front half of the figure split from the back half, swinging open, revealing a woman inside, as if tie hard white exterior were a garment of some kind. A pale-skinned woman, like those she had seen at the white-man’s fort to the east, with curly, short brown hair and dressed in a one-piece garment from neck to booted feet, stepped out. She took the pack from the shoulder of the white skin suit.

“I am here to help,” the woman said. her accent very strange and the Lakota words pronounced with difficulty.

Nahimana closed her eyes and sank to the pebbles. A hand on each shoulder helped her up, back to her crouching position against the bank. There was a strange odor in the air, one she had smelled only once before, in her lodge on the night of the pain during the Moon of the Shedding Ponies. She knew now that this woman had visited her that night. Why? And ‘why was she here now? What had the woman done to her?

Nahimana cried out in pain as another contraction futilely passed through her body. The hands left her shoulders and went between her legs. She felt the invasion as they penetrated into her, but she welcomed the relief as the small hands righted the breached baby. In a moment, the second child was free of her body. Nahimana tried to reach for the dropped flint, but the movement was too much and she slid down into a seated position.

Her benefactor picked up the ceremonial knife and cut the umbilical. Then she passed the newborn to Nahimana, who opened her robe and held both babies close to her bosom. Another boy. A great blessing, Nahimana thought.

“Thank you,” Nahimana whispered.

There was no immediate response. Nahimana peered in the darkness, able to see more as the first hints of dawn were appearing above the bluffs to the east. The person was indeed a woman, Nahimana realized, which didn’t surprise her, as no man would have known how to help her. The woman’s face was lined beyond her apparent age.

Two sons. Nahimana had not seen this. All her visions had been of one. This thought troubled her and muted her happiness over the dual birth and her rescue from certain death.

She looked closely at the second-born and was shocked to see icy blue eyes reflecting the first of the morning sun’s rays. And the skin was paler than the first-born’s. like the woman’s. This could not be. They bad both come from her womb and been born of her husband’s seed. Or had they? What had happened that night?

Nahimana realized she had seen the second son in her visions. He was the one who rode with the white skins guiding them into the great battle against her first-born. He was the one who carried the strange skulls.

The woman knelt in front of Nahimana. The woman pointed at the first-born, then at Nahimana, nodding. Then she pointed at the blue-eyed child. Then back at herself. Nahimana frowned, trying to understand. The message was clear as the Woman reached out and took hold of the second-born, trying to pull him from the cocoon of Nahimana’s robe. Nahimana tried to fight. And the woman paused and then stopped. She placed both hands on the side of Nahimana’s head, pressing in.

Nahimana gasped as a sharp pain passed through her skull. Then everything went black for a moment.

“A great destiny awaits your son,” the woman’s voice was surer with the language as if drawing it straight from Nahimana’s mind in some way, “as you have seen before in your visions.”

“And the other?” Nahimana asked.

“He, too, has a destiny, and he is yours by virtue of the past nine months,” the woman said. “But he is also mine.”

“How can this be?”

“They are connected,” the woman said. “By your womb and by your blood and by the time they have spent together. They will share that connection for the rest of their lives. And they will bring about that which is needed when they come together later. They will be together again at the end but against each other, to bring about that which I cannot show you, nor would you understand. The fate of the world and all those who walk upon it rest upon their final meeting.”

The woman removed her hands from Nahimana’s head and reached for the child once more.

Nahimana wouldn’t let go.

The woman paused and looked deep into Nahimana’s eyes. “You know the truth. There is nothing but doom for your children. For your tribe. For your people.”

“No.’’

“It is the truth. The people with skin like mine come from the east. They are like a mighty river that cannot be stopped.”

“So why are you here?”

“Out of doom comes great power.”

“What do you mean?”

The woman tapped the side of her head. “Our minds are very powerful, more so than we realize.” The woman reached into the pack and pulled out a crystal skull like the one Nahimana had seen in her visions. It was beautiful, enticing. Despite her fear and pain, Nahimana reached out with her free hand. The woman let her touch it. The surface was perfectly smooth. It gave off warmth, although there was no flame. Starlight glinted through the crystal and sparkled. There seemed to be a slight blue glow inside the skull, but Nahimana couldn’t see the source.

‘’There is something greater than your tribe, your children, your people. Greater than my people.”

“There is nothing greater than my people for me.”

‘’There is the Great Spirit’s domain, which goes beyond the borders of your people’s land, of my people’s land, even beyond what you know of the river of time and of this world.”

Nahimana frowned. “What are you talking about?”

The woman spread her arms wide. “The world. The future for all children. The battles, past and future, where so many b.ave already died to try to save the world.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand it completely, either” the woman said. “There is an evil force. The Shadow. It seeks to destroy our planet. Power is needed to fight it.” She held the crystal skull once more. “This will be his--” she indicated the blue-eyed boy. “With it he will turn defeat into power for victory.” The woman put the skull back in the pack and tapped the side of her own head once more. “There is great power in the mind. You know that, but you don’t know how powerful it can be under the right circumstances. These two--” she indicated the two babies --“will bring about the right circumstances.”

“And my people? You say they are doomed?”

This gave the woman pause. “I am sorry. I am not responsible for what will happen to your people. It is inevitable here and now. But in their sacrifice, and the sacrifice of others, many, many people will be saved. It is like the fall when much must die before there is rebirth in the spring. A winter comes for many which your son must help prevent.”

Nahimana knew the words were true. It was the curse of the “sight,” to know the truth when it was spoken, even if it was a terrible one. She had seen the blue-eyed one grown, and she had seen the skull. And she had seen her son leading the people into battle.

The woman rested a hand on Nahimana’s shoulder. ”Your son will gain a great victory, one that will be talked about for many generations.”

“But in the end his people lose.”

The woman said nothing.

“Where are you from?” Nahimana finally asked.

The woman looked past Nahimana, her eyes becoming unfocused. ‘The Space Between.”

“‘Between’?”

“The world I came from and this world. The time I came from and your time.”

It made little sense to Nahimana. She looked at the two children snuggled against her chest. It was the blue eyes more than the words that made the decision for Nahimana. She knew Crazy Horse would see those eyes and wonder what magic was afoot. He might even proclaim the child to be possessed by a demon. Nahimana opened the buffalo robe and nodded at the woman. The woman stood with the children in her arms.

Nahimana raised a blood-soaked hand as the woman turned back to the strange suit that still floated in the air. “I am Nahimana, the mystic one, hearer of voices and receiver of visions. This one--” she indicated the child she still held--“will take his father’s name, Crazy Horse.”

The woman nodded. “That is the name he should have.”

“What is your name? And what will you call the child you take?”

“The child’s name I cannot tell you, as he who I bring him to will give him that,” the woman said. “My name would mean nothing to you.”

“It is a sign of trust to exchange names.”

The woman gave a sad smile. “My name is Amelia. Amelia Earhart. I, too, hear the voices and see the visions. They are what brought me here.”

“You were with me before.” Nahimana didn’t phrase it as it question.

“Yes.”

“Will you take the child to this space between?”

“No. I take him to the white skin people to be raised.” Earhart paused. ‘They will meet again here.” She waved her hand about, taking in the Little Big Horn River and the surrounding bluffs. “It will be a great battle. A terrible victory and a terrible defeat. But it will help those in another place and time.”

“Nahimana wanted to ask more, to understand, but the woman was already moving away toward the suit. Earhart wrapped the child in the pack; head exposed, and hung the pack over the suit’s shoulder. Then she stepped into the suit as if consumed by it. The two halves closed. Nahimana watched as the figure floated back over the steam and up the far bank slope. In a minute, it was gone from view. There was a sound of muted thunder once more, and Nahimana felt her skin crawl with the strange sensation for a few moments, then return to normal.

Nahimana looked down at the child in her arms and shivered once more. Not so much from the bitter cold, but from the bitter truth. It was terrible indeed to know fate.

CHAPTER TWO

THE PRESENT

“Some say the world will end in fire; some say in ice.” The words were muted by the thick muffler wrapped around the speaker’s face. As if to emphasize the statement, he brushed Way the thin layer of ice that was encrusted on the cloth, and then aimed. “I never thought 1 would see it end in both.”

A burning crescent of light touched the southern horizon, chasing away the soothing darkness of the long Arctic night and illuminating the man and his companions-a handful of men swathed in heavy clothes. Standing on the small bridge top a nuclear submarine’s sail that had punched up through the surface. Stenciled on the metal was the craft’s name: USS “’AUT/LUS. The rest of the submarine was still below the five-foot thick Arctic ice.

The light was tinged with red. As if the sky to the south was n fire. The submarine had been chased by the sun ever northward for the past week, sliding under the shelter of water most of the way during daylight and now trying to hide behind the cover of the long Arctic night. As the sun began to move along the horizon. Never fully appearing. The men on the conning tower slid dark goggles over their eyes to protect them. The long Arctic winter was nearing an end, and they knew the sun would slowly climb higher and higher until one day soon it cleared the horizon. It was an inevitable law of physics. It was also a law of oxygen and supplies that they could only stay submerged so long.

One of the men, who had a silver eagle pinned to his parka indicating he was the captain of the submarine, put a pair of binoculars to his eyes and looked about for a few moments at the desolate ice before lowering the glasses. “This is it. The North Pole.”

“We can’t run anymore,” the poet said. “There is nowhere else to go.”

Captain Anderson fingered his binoculars, twisting the focus. “Some of the men--” he paused.

The poet slowly unwrapped his muffler, revealing blistered and burned skin. His deep blue eyes contrasted starkly with the destruction on his face. A crop of thinning white hair crowned his head. “They want to go quickly,” he said, his breath producing puffs of warm moisture in the cold dry air.

The captain nodded. “Yes, Mister Frost.”

Robert Frost, poet laureate of what had once been the United States, absentmindedly rubbed a gloved hand across his cheek. He didn’t appear to notice as a section of skin peeled loose and blood slowly oozed out, freezing within seconds. “It isn’t time yet.”

“‘Isn’t time’?”

“For us to die … Frost said. “ We’ve heard the last broadcasts from the northern towns. There’s been nothing for three days now. They’re all dead or dying. We’re all that’s left.” He thought for a moment. “Here stands man … Frost said. his voice changing, “for the last time.”

“Is there no hope?” Anderson asked.

“Not for us,” Frost said. “We were too late. Too late. I was too late. I didn’t interpret the visions, the words, until it was too late.”

“Then why did you come with us?” the captain asked.

Frost looked over the desolate, wind-swept ice. “We were too late for us. I said there is no hope for us. But maybe there is hope for others, which is why you and your men must wait.”

“’Others’” What others?” Captain Anderson was confused. “Everyone else on the planet is dead or dying. You just said so yourself.”

“There are others,” Frost said. “Not here and now, but there and then. We must be prepared to take what they need to get rid of.”

The captain’s mouth opened as if he were going to ask a question but then shut as he realized he didn’t even know what to ask in light of what Frost had just said. The poet had not spoken much on the journey north. And when he did, his words were like these, making little sense.

“I have heard the voices,” Frost continued. “They directed me here. We must wait to see what is revealed. Something will happen. Then it will be time for sacrifice to help others.” Frost continued to look with the binoculars. Scanning around in a complete circle.

“What are you looking for?” Anderson asked.

“A gate.”

*****

Eric Dane lay still, keeping his eyes closed, trying to continue the vision and hear more of Frost’s words, but it faded with his growing consciousness of his surroundings. He could feel a very slight sway, indicating he was onboard a ship-the Flip, he knew, a special U.S. Navy research vessel. He was horizontal, lying down, with a thin blanket covering his chest. He heard a low canine whine and felt a hairy muzzle press against his shoulder, and he knew what had awoken him.

“Easy girl,” Dane whispered as he opened his eyes. A gray steel bulkhead was overhead. He turned to the left, saw a Golden Retriever’s white snout less than four inches away, and smelled her hot breath as she panted in the warm cabin. He reached out and ran his fingers through Chelsea’s fur, feeling comforted by her presence.

Too late.

The words remained with him. He swung his feet to the deck and sat up. A volume of Robert Frost’s poetry was on the desk next to the bunk.

Waiting Sacrifice.

Dane didn’t bother to pick up the book. He knew what he had just seen was most likely a true vision of another Earth ne line where Robert Frost had ended up on the Nautilus. After all, his previous “vision” of Frost meeting with President Kennedy just before the Cuban Missile Crisis exploded in nuclear destruction had been an accurate one of another time line-verified when Dane had traveled through a gate into the Space Between and then through another gate to that devastated world.

He now knew there were many parallel Earths, connected via portals/gates through the Space Between. The portal was De actual connection between points, while the gate was the spillover from one world into the other, usually in the form of dark mist. And there was a malevolent force, the Shadow, raping various Earth time lines for water, air, power and even people. This, his Earth and his time line, had barely survived. The most recent assault by the Shadow. The first assault had occurred more than ten thousand years earlier with the destruction of Atlantis by the Shadow.

Dane turned to the computer next to the book and moved the mouse, then clicked. A current intelligence summary appeared.

The Rift Valley had split, and most of Africa east of the valley was now underwater. Millions were dead.

The New Madrid Fault in the central United States had been active, devastating the land on both sides of the Mississippi from New Madrid to St. Louis. Hundreds of thousands dead.

Both were a result of the Shadow trying to tap into power from the core of the planet via one of the gates.

Many were dead and the face of the planet had been changed. But now the planet was still. Dane looked down at is hand, almost expecting to see scars from where he had cut Ile Shadow’s portal through which this devastation had been brought. Others, from other time lines, had sacrificed to get a nap/control sphere of the portals to him, and he had cut the link between his time line and the Shadow’s source just before the core of the plane had become unstable.

Apparently it was a Pyrrhic victory, he now saw as more data came up on the screen.

While he was doing that, a craft of the Shadow had swept through the southern hemisphere, scooping up most of the Ozone, before disappearing itself into the gate. The summary indicated the depletion had started a chain reaction that was irreversible and the world’s protective layer of ozone would be gone inside of two years. Dane was nodding to himself as he read the vision he just had. It must have been of an earth line where the same thing had happened. Except earlier, when Frost was still alive and the Nautilus, the world’s first nuclear power submarine, was still sailing.

It had been too late for that time line. Was it too late for his? Dane wondered.

There was more in the intelligence summary. More bad news. The Shadow had destroyed all four reactors at Chernobyl, breaking the containment building and spewing massive quantities of deadly radioactive gas into the atmosphere. The cloud was spreading, promising death and destruction in the northern hemisphere to Russia and Europe. Death was coming from the sky in both hemispheres.

Frost was waiting for something, Dane knew. What? To take what orders need to get rid of, Dane remembered. Dane knew his world needed to get rid of the radioactive cloud, and it also need to reclaim the ozone. Two tasks apparently impossible but absolutely necessary if the world was to be saved.

Dane closed his eyes and cleared his mind as he had been taught, and concentrated on the inner eye. He “saw” Washington as it had been in the Frost/Cuban missile time line, devastated by nuclear weapons as the Shadow had caused one of the Russian freighters en route to Cuba to disappear in the Bermuda Triangle gate, and event the Russians blamed on the Americans, launching their missiles. Frost’s warning to Kennedy was ignored as the Americans retaliated, resulting in a dead world, a dead time line. But near the capital, on the other side of the Potomac, had been one of the Shadow’s spheres. Derelict. Crashed. He knew he’d been shown that for a reason. Frost was waiting in that time line. Were there others, also waiting or taking asking, trying to help his world?

The Ones Before. Dane knew they were influencing 19S, trying to guide him in the right direction. Why didn’t they take more direct action? Why did they always use others to represent them?

Too many questions, he realized. He had to trust that there Was more in place than just what he knew or had seen in visions, as there had been in the past.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus, to get another vision or to at least hear the voice of the gods, but nothing would come.

CHAPTER THREE

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Amelia Earhart’s hands wouldn’t move no matter how hard she tried. Through the cockpit windows she could see the top of the sun coming up out of the Pacific Ocean, as if the water –were giving birth to fire. A glance at the instruments told her he plane was at twelve thousand feet. Why could she move Lee eyes and not her hands? She wondered. She glanced to her ‘right. Fred Noonan sat in the navigator’s chair, staring directly ahead.

There was a smudge on the ocean ahead. Earhart felt a sense of dread. She wanted to turn the plane, but her hands wouldn’t move and they continued to head directly for the growing darkness.

Noonan had a set of binoculars and he put them to his eyes. I don’t think that’s a ship’s smoke.” They were supposed to link up with the Coast Guard cutter Itasca off Howard Island for refueling.

Why could he move and she couldn’t? Earhart wondered. Why couldn’t she speak and tell him what she knew?

“It’s like fog,” Noonan said.

It wasn’t fog or ship s smoke, Earhart knew.

“It’s getting bigger,” Noonan said.

There was a yellowish tinge to the fog, and it was billowing upward and outward at an unnatural rate.

“I’m getting something,” Noonan said. He had his hands over his headset. Listening intently.

Amelia’s gaze shifted between compass and the growing cloud on the horizon as she waited. She looked down at her hands. Frozen on the controls. She desperately wanted to turn, but the command wouldn’t go from her brain to her hands.

“I don’t know what it is,” Noonan finally said. “A lot of static, then what sounds like Morse code, but I can’t--” he fell silent once more as he focused on listening. His eyes closed. “It’s clearer now.” Noonan opened his eyes and picked up a pencil and began to record the letters in the flight log, speaking them out loud as he heard the dashes and dots. “T-U-RN-O-F-F-R-A-D-I-O-O-R-D-I-E. Turn off radio or die”

The fog was now fewer than five miles ahead and was huge, blocking their path at twelve thousand feet and continuing to climb. In all her flights she had never seen anything like it. She was sure they shouldn’t fly into it, but she couldn’t turn the controls.

“I think we should shut off the radio,” Noonan suggested. “I don’t like the looks of that.”

Earhart tried to answer, to say something, to order him to fly the plane, but no words would come. Why didn’t he notice her paralysis, she wondered.

Noonan had a knee-key on his thigh, and he tapped out a quick query in Morse. Trying to get the identity of the sender of the message.

A golden beam slashed out of the fog directly for the Electra. The gold beam hit the nose of the plane and the engine sputtered. She knew Noonan needed to stop transmitting but she couldn’t tell him. He seemed oblivious to what had just happened, still tapping on the knee-key.

The fog was now fewer than two miles away, a wall stretching as far she could see. North and south. And reaching up at least fifteen thousand feet.

Another golden bolt came out of the fog and struck the plane. Earhart felt the power ripple across her skin. The engine died, and there was only the sound of the air racing by. They were losing altitude, heading down toward the ocean and forward toward the dark wall.

Beads of sweat broke out on Earhart’s forehead as she fought to regain control of her body. She knew they absolutely had to turn away from the dark wall. The front edge of a massive sphere appeared, coming out of the mist. The top half was opening like a gaping mouth, preparing to swallow them. Why wouldn’t Noonan see that? Why didn’t he help her?

Because Noonan was dead. Earhart’s eyes flashed open, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The air coming into her lungs was unnatural, something she had grown used to in her I time in the Space Between. It felt thick. With an oily tinge, as it slid down her throat. She lay in a gully, near a black wall that curved up overhead, eventually fading out of view inward. Beneath her was coarse, sand like material.

She heard a voice speaking in Japanese and turned her seeing Taki and another samurai. They were dressed in I black tunics, having abandoned their armor when their ship was attacked by the Shadow. They were more victims’ trapped .out of time and world in the Space Between. The mime she had given to this strange place. It was a transit point for the portals between worlds and times, consisting of a black land surrounding an Inner Sea, enclosed inside what appeared to l be a massive semi-circular cavern. How large the cavern was she had no idea. The one time Earhart tried to circle the Inner: Sea. It seemed as if she moved in place, never completing the circle and being forced to return to her base camp.

Also in the Space Between was an area where white-suited creatures known as Valkyries had a cavern where they conducted grotesque experiments on humans. A slightly damaged Valkyrie suit floated in the air just a few feet from Earhart’s resting place, the front half-split open, the interior empty. It was one of two she and the Samurai had captured from the experiment cavern. They’d discovered that the creatures inside were humans, but badly warped, missing much of their skin.

The discovery that humans manned the Valkyrie suits troubled Earhart as much as her recent dream did. Were they servants of the Shadow? Or was the Shadow a human force? If so, from where and when? And why was it so bent on destroying Earth time lines?

Earhart sat up. She tried to remember all the details of the dream. Some of it was exactly what had happened when she’d disappeared inside the Devil’s Sea gate while on her around-the-world flight in 1937, trying to become the first woman to accomplish this feat. She’d already been acknowledged as the first woman to cross the Atlantic in 1928. But that accomplishment had been soured by the fact that she had not piloted the plane.

Earhart and her navigator. Frank Noonan. Had been on one of the last legs of the epic Journey, having covered twenty-two thousand miles over the course of several months. Earhart reached into the box she had rescued from the Lockheed Electra and pulled out her leather journal. Tucked into the pages were photos. She pulled one out-of her husband, George Putnam. The Journey had been his idea, a chance for more publicity and to sell more books and magazines. She wondered if he was alive and then realized such a thought was worthless, as there appeared to be no time here and connections via the portals to many Earths and many times.

He thumbed through the journal, noting a picture of herself standing on the wing of the Electra in Miami, Florida, the starting point of her long journey that had ended in a most unexpected place. She was smiling in the photo. She had originally planned on starting from Hawaii and heading west. She wondered now if things would have turned out differently if she hadn’t clipped the wing of the heavily laden plane on the edge of the runway during takeoff and damaged it. Instead of going west, she’d had the plane repaired and shipped back to the States, eventually to Miami, where she’d taken off June 1, 1937, and flown east.

Earhart turned the pages of her journal, noting the entries and remembering the journey. Along the east coast of South America, across the South Atlantic and then Africa. What a beautiful continent, Africa!

She turned the page. She’d been the first to fly across desolate Arabia. Desolate? Nothing compared to this forsaken place or to India. She grimaced as she remembered. It was a horrible place where she’d become sick. She’d wanted to quit then. She’d sent a telegraph to George, begging him to let her stop, but he’d been firm. She must go on Glory and fame awaited. That had been the first time Earhart had questioned the price she was paying for something that no longer seemed so important Perhaps it was the teeming millions she saw in the streets of Calcutta. Living lives where their fate seemed so bleak yet many seemed so happy.

Then Rangoon, Bangkok, Singapore and Bangkok, where no one knew who she was and cared less, although they marveled over the plane and the fact that a woman flew it. She looked at a picture-Darwin, Australia, where people knew her name and the reporters flocked to the airport. She had not felt the same jolt from seeing the area in front of the control tower crowded with them. She just remembered feeling so utterly exhausted.

Had she had a vision before the last flight? She now wondered. One that she had dismissed as a dream? Had she heard the voices of the gods as she slept? She scanned the words printed in her fine block lettering, but there was no mention of such, but that meant little, as back then she would have dismissed either.

From Australia she’d flown to New Guinea and then they’d taken off on the final leg-and run into the gate. It had not occurred as in the dream she’d just had. They had not been blasted out of the sky by golden bolts. Earhart had turned the plane and managed to land on the ocean. As she and Noonan tried to escape, he’d been killed by a kraken, one of the sea creatures that inhabited water inside a gate, a creature that must have slid through a portal.

Earhart and her craft had been captured by a large sphere, and when she awoke, she was here. She’d found others trapped around the Inner Sea, and most told the same story of being caught by a blue glow. Currently there were fifty people at this small camp. All from various time lines. No one could clearly say how long they’d been here, as there was no night or day, just constant light from a source high over the Inner Sea.

Strange things had happened, and strange things continued to happen. She thumbed ahead in the diary, to entries made after arriving. A man named Dane, who claimed he was from the beginning of the twenty-first century. Had come through, Followed by a Roman legion from the first century A.D. who had been battling the Valkyries. The legion had been destroyed and the men turned into stone by a weapon of the Valkyries, but not before one of Dane’s companions had shut one of the portals that ran through the Space Between. Dane had returned inside a strange watercraft from his time, this time trying to destroy another portal that he said was draining power from the very center of his Earth and making the world o unstable it would soon be destroyed. Again he had succeeded, and again he had gone back to his time.

Earhart had stayed with her group, barely eking a survival by raising food in a few patches of Earth soil they’d managed to scavenge near the occasional portal that opened on the shore. Occasionally they supplemented their diet with either Earth or Shadow-side creatures that wandered through an open portal. Even that was strange, as once a small dinosaur had appeared before wandering back through another gate.

It was a quirk of the portals that these creatures could survive travel through them. Not long after she had arrived in the Space Between, one of the groups had tried going into one of the portals in an attempt to get back to Earth. The man swam out to the dark. Cylinder while the rest of the band lined the shoreline. He disappeared into the blackness, only to reappear seconds later, screaming in agony, his skin red and blistered. He died within an hour, and no one had attempted to enter a portal since. The portals, cylinders of black, usually opened in the large circular lake in the center of the Space Between, but sometimes they opened on land.

Earhart glanced up at the captured Valkyrie suit. One had to be shielded to go through most portals, especially because there was no telling where the portal would lead or what would be on the other side. The key question was which one led to the Shadow’s home? If they could figure that out, they could take the war to their enemy rather than constantly reacting to assaults.

Earhart thought back to her dream. She’d been powerless in the cockpit, which she knew was significant. Power was important, very important in this war. It was one of the things the Shadow sought from Earth time lines it scavenged. It was also what was needed to fight the Shadow.

Earhart glanced at a metal case next to the Valkyrie suit. She got up and walked over to it. She flipped up the lid and stared at the contents-crystal skulls, each set in thick foam padding. Nine of them.

Earhart reached into her Pocket and pulled out a small metal cylinder with runic writing on it. She unscrewed the top and pulled out a piece of parchment. A design was drawn on It-twelve small skulls, m a pattern around a center, higher point where there was a thirteenth skull. Earhart couldn’t read. He writing, but she knew what she was seeing. A formation of power using the skulls. What surrounded the skulls, though, was what was most interesting. Intricate drawings of warriors in battle against an encroaching darkness. There was also writing. Names.

Humans are at their best and most powerful when things are the worst and most desperate. Earhart had heard that not once, but several times. The voice of the gods. And that wasn’t all. She’d been directed via a vision to a portal, which she· d traversed in the protective Valkyrie suit. She’d come out t a graveyard -- boats, planes, and other craft, all captured m a gate. She’d gone directly to the ship she’d “seen,” a long black ship with a single mast and a black cube in the rear made of black metal, the likes of which she had never seen. She’d found this cylinder there. A piece of the puzzle.

Not long after that, she’d also had a vision that had directed her to lead another raid on the Valkyrie people’s farm. She’d stolen a piece of equipment, a long thin needle with a loving red bulb on one end. She’d taken it through a portal and injected it into the womb of a woman. She’d gone back again to that time line for the birth of the woman’s children and had taken one of the children from the woman.

Earhart shook her head. She was doing as she saw in her visions, but she didn’t know exactly why she was doing all this. She had to trust that the Ones Before had a plan and she was one piece of making it happen.

And now it was time for her to implement another step in the plan. But there were twelve skulls in the drawing and she only had nine. Would it be enough? Earhart reached into the case and retrieved one of the skulls. She placed it in a pouch, which she tossed over her shoulder.

“You go?” Taki asked.

Earhart had learned the basics of Japanese prior to her flight--after all. George had arranged for her to spy on Japanese facilities during the trip-and had added to what she knew in her time here with the samurai. “Yes.”

“No?” Taki indicated the Valkyrie suit.

Earhart closed her eyes. The words had come the previous day, echoing in her mind. “This portal should be safe.”

“None are safe,” Taki said.

“I must go.” She handed him the cylinder. “It is not time for this yet.”

Taki took the cylinder. “Be safe.”

Earhart nodded and walked out of the camp, feeling the eyes of the others on her back. They knew if she wasn’t wearing the suit, she was going to a portal that was “safe.” A way out. However, what neither they nor she knew was what was on the other side of the portal. And because she was on a mission dictated by the ‘’voices,’’ they had to assume it was dangerous.

Earhart had been given the opportunity by Dane to travel back to his world and time with him, and she’d turned him down. She wasn’t quite sure how many of those in her camp would feel the same way.

The Inner Sea came into view. There were a half-dozen portals in sight, black columns rising from the surface upward toward the ceiling. They varied in width from three meters to one more than a thousand meters wide. Earhart paused as she noted something floating between two of the portals--a massive sphere more than four hundred meters wide. It was one l the Shadow’s craft used in traversing the portals. It had dropped here when Dane shut the portal from his world to wherever the Shadow had drained the ozone, and it was still here. Which indicated that the crew might not have survived. She felt a tingle as she stared at the sphere. And she knew immediately the sphere was important.

But not at the moment. She turned to her left as if drawn in that direction. A three-meter-wide black column was about fifty meters away. Earhart walked along the shoreline until she was opposite the column. It was just off the shoreline, and she waded out to it. When she was right next to it she paused. What if the gate was deadly? What if she went to a dead world, toxic to humans? The voice had told her she would revisit a place and near time she’d already been to, but what if it were wrong?

Amelia Earhart. Who had crossed oceans and nearly circled the world at the controls of her plane, cursed, then stepped forward into the gate.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE PAST: 1861

The old mountain man with the .54 caliber Hawkins rifle in the crook of his arm towered over the dark-haired teenager at his side. They were deep in the Rocky Mountains, near the continental divide in the northern part of the land; those far to the east in Washington had labeled the Colorado Territory. Jim Bridger was a legend from the west coast to the east, the most well known mountain man in the land. He wore fine buckskin. With half the fringes gone. Used as expedient string for one thing or another during this trip.

“Tunes are changing,” Bridger said. His voice was rough unused to speaking much. He had never had a companion—until the boy came into his life.

The boy made no reply. His blue eyes scanned the land ahead, searching for a way up to the divide, which was about ahead. Searching for a way up to the divide. Which was about two miles to the west and five thousand feet above. He’d been with Bridger ever since he could walk. Gaining experience by his side, and he’d learned that when the mountain man spoke. Which was rare. He was imparting something of importance. They’d left St. Louis four months ago, heading west. On a trip the purpose of which Bridger had kept to himself. The boy’s name was Mitch Bouyer. A name given to him by Bridger. Mitch, because, as the old man said, it sounded like a man’s name, and Bouyer, because it sounded kind of French and deflected the rumor that the boy was half-Indian. Bouyer had no idea who his parents had been, nor had Bridger ever spoken about how he had come to take the youngster in.

Bouyer wore buckskin, too, but with a black-and-white calfskin vest over the shirt. The vest was a gift from the foster family he’d lived with in St. Louis for several years, and he took great care of it.

“It’s time for you to know your part in those changes,” Bouyer said.

“What do you meant Bouyer asked. Feeling a stir of excitement. He had learned the patience of a hunter and trapper from Bridger over the years, so be had never questioned the older man, accepting that if and when he chose to reveal things, he would, and not a minute sooner.

“I been out here for thirty-eight years,” Bridger said. “I found the Great Salt Lake in ’24. South Pass in ’27. The hot geysers on the Yellowstone in 730. I’ve crossed the mountains--” Bridger nodded toward the peaks ahead-“twenty-six times. Some say I’m lucky. Some say I’m good at what I do. I am both.” The words were simple, no sign of a boast ‘’But there’s more.” He turned toward Bouyer and tapped the side of his own head with a long, leathery finger. “I got the sight. That’s why you were brought to me. You got it, too.”

“Who brought me to you?’ Bridger had never spoken of bow be came to bringing up a boy not his own, and Bouyer had never raised the subject, simply happy to be in the company of a man who knew so much and wandered in wondrous places.

“Another with the sight. A woman.” Bridger laughed. “A ‘Very strange woman. She brung you to me when you was just out of the womb. I was on the Yellowstone, camped in for the winter with the Crow. You were still covered in your birth blood. I had to get a squaw who’d just given birth to feed you along with her own. Cost me quite a few pelts to keep you alive that winter.”

Bouyer put the stock of his own Hawkins rifle--a .50-caliber, but a genuine Hawkins nonetheless on the ground and leaned on it. “Who was this woman? My mother?”

“Don’t know. She wouldn’t say who your mother was. Nor your father, for that matter. She said you were special, but I saw that as soon as I set eyes on you. Felt it.” Bridger shrugged. “Can’t quite explain it. You know. You got the sight, t~. You hear the voices, the spirit voices, as the Crow call ‘em. I think you got it better than me, much stronger. Powerful medicine, as the Crow say. In touch with the Great Spirit, whatever that might be.”

Bouyer did know what the old man was talking about. Sometimes he had visions of things, visions that most would call dreams, but some of his came to be true. He’d learned to trust those visions and the feelings he got. He also heard things. Once, when recovering traps high up a mountain stream away from the old man, he’d heard a voice whisper “danger” and he’d stopped what he was doing and hid ridden by. Bouyer knew they’d have had his scalp if they’d seen him. He knew Bridger had managed to stay alive on the seen him. He knew Bridger had managed to stay alive on the voices.

Lately, he’d been having strange visions. Of many soldiers. Led by a man with golden hair. Soldiers falling into an Indian village. A village of many tribes, Cheyenne, Lakota, Crow, others. It was a strange vision because Bouyer knew those tribes would never camp together.

“What’s my part in these changes?” Bouyer asked. Bridger had brought him back to St. Louis as a baby and put him in a foster home for several years. He had been homeschooled to read and write and do math. Then, when Bouyer could carry a pack. Bridger had shown up one fall, wintered In the city, and then took him west. That was SIX years ago, and they’d covered many miles together, every spring heading west. Sometimes wintering out there, twice going back to St. Louis.

They worked well together on the frontier. Bouyer spoke little and Bridger even less. It was as if each knew what the little and Bridger even less. It was as if each knew what the words.

Bridger shook his head. “If I’d a known, I’d have told you long before now.”

Bouyer frowned. ‘’Then--” he paused as Bridger pointed.

“She who knows is up there.”

“Who? My mother? The woman who brought me to you?”

“One who has the sight better than us. Word’s been sent for us to meet. For her to meet with you.”

Bouyer picked up his flintlock. ‘’Then let’s be going.”

Bridger shook his head once more. “It will be dark soon. Best we rest. Go at first light.” His eyes narrowed as he looked to the north. “Besides, I see a storm coming.”

Bouyer looked in that direction but saw only blue sky and white peaks reflecting the setting sun. He had learned to trust the old man on such things, so he shrugged off his pack and set about making camp.

Gathering wood, Bouyer paused, feeling a warm breeze across his face, but he noted that the leaves on the nearest bush didn’t move at all. Strange. He picked up the Hawkins as he slowly turned, searching for the source of the strange feeling.

“Wrong?” Bridger picked up his own rifle.

“Don’t know. Felt something.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. Never felt it before. A warm breeze on my face, but there isn’t a wind.” Bouyer looked to the north. “There’s someone coming. I can feel him.”

Bridger put his rifle back down. “Your brother.”

Bouyer turned to the mountain man in shock. “My brother?”

“Sorta. The woman who brought you to me told me you were--” here Bridger shifted from English to Lakota--” one of two alike but not alike from one who came forth from one womb. Half of a whole that must come together.” He shifted back to English. “I figured that kind of to mean you might have a brother of some sort, given the way the Lakota speak.”

Bouyer wondered what else he didn’t know about himself, but he didn’t have a chance to dwell on it as Bridger continued.

“It would make sense if you’re up here that he’d be up here, too. Both drawn to the same place.”

“If-“ Bouyer began, -but Bridger cut him off.

“Get Some sleep. You’ll be needing it. Tomorrow promises to be an interesting day.”

*****

The light snow touched Crazy Horse’s skin and melted, adding to the sweat pouring down his naked body and the steam that drifted upward. He moved slowly about the center pole, slapping each bare foot to the frozen ground with a solid thud. The two lariats from the top of the pole were attached to bone splinters thrust through his chest on either side. The splinters were not only under the skin, but imbedded into the muscle. As he leaned away from the pole, the skin was taut around the self-inflicted wounds. His eyes were closed, yet he walked among the arranged buffalo skulls without tripping over them, as if he knew the exact placement of each one.

His hands were painted red and black, in a pattern as if he had stuck them in a fire until they were scorched. Large black circles surrounded his eyes, and red tears were dabbed among the paint. He paused, turning to face the pole and leaning back, the bone pulling on the covering muscle and skin until they were four inches out from his body. The flesh held, even as he pushed backward.

He was on the fourth day of his private sun dance. Normally held by a tribe during the summer, Crazy Horse had come here alone, traveling far from his village. He could not wait for the next summer. Nor did he wish to dance with others, for he was seeking a vision, and he knew, deep inside, it was not a vision that could be shared.

Anger drove him.

He had chosen the center pole tree carefully. Straight and strong. He’d carefully cut off all the branches and stripped off the bark, a job usually done by elaborately dressed maidens. Then he’d fasted for a night before “attacking” the tree in the morning, firing several arrows into it to symbolically kill it. After that he cut it down and brought it to this open Spot. He placed a large buffalo skull that he had found on a hunt three years earlier on the top, tying off the lariats through the eye sockets. Then he placed it upright, sliding the other end into a hole he’d dug.

He’d arranged the rest of the skulls he’d brought, all from beasts he’d killed over the past several years, in five parallel lines facing east. The buffalo skull was on the top, facing west. The pole represented the center of the world, a connection between the heaven and earth, between the dancer and Wakan- Tanka, the Great Spirit. The skulls represented the powerful spirit of the buffalo, the beast on which the survival of the Plains Indians depended.

Once all was set he had taken two arrows and broken off e point with six inches of shaft. He’d pinched one breast between his fingers and skewered the point through on one side, then the other. Then he’d attached the lariats. He’d been dancing ever since.

The goal was two-fold: to have a vision while dancing and then ultimately to break free of the skewers by ripping them out through his flesh. But in the process, one was supposed to be reborn as the torture represented death. And Crazy Horse desperately wanted to be reborn.

His throat was parched, as he had long since drained the leather flask of water he’d carried within reach. His stomach was a tight knot, empty for days.

Crazy Horse stopped. Not from the pain, but because he sensed something. He took a step closer to the pole and slowly turned outward, the lariats sliding over his shoulder, fresh blood dripping down his chest unnoticed over dried blood.

For a moment he became aware of his surroundings, The pole was set in the center of a glade next to a river. It was ten feet high, a cottonwood stripped of branches and bark. A scattering of snow covered the ground and surrounding trees. Through the trees came a woman. She wore tan pants of some fine material and a leather jacket that was tattered and torn. She had a staff in her right hand that she used to support tom herself.

Crazy Horse took an angry step forward as he saw the woman more clearly and was jerked back in pain by the skewers. She was white, with curly brown hair, like the woman his mother had described who had visited at his birth, the one who had made the terrible prophecies and taken away the other who had been born with him.

Crazy Horse blinked, not certain if this was the vision he had been seeking during his four days of self-torture, or if she was real. She paused at the tree line. Returning his gaze. Her face was lined with. Anxiety, and she appeared as exhausted as he felt.

He shook his head and blinked once, but she was still ere, although now he could see there was a fog behind her, slowly moving down the hillside toward the glade, passing through the trees. She raised her left hand, her palm open toward him. Then slowly she turned her hand until the back faced him. Then she gestured with her fingers for him to come to her.

Without hesitation he stepped forward. The lariat tightened. The arrows jamming against the covering layer of muscle and skin. He took another step and the arrows tore through muscle and skin, the blades ripping free. The pain was distant, a dull throbbing, the blood flowing down his chest now unnoticed like the snow that still fell.

‘’Warrior,’’ she said in perfect Sioux, even though from her skin and dress he knew she was not of his tribe. You are the one who was named Crazy Horse after your father and born )f Nahimana, the mystic one.”

Crazy Horse knew it was a statement, not a question.

“You seek a vision from the spirits,” she continued, “something to guide you in battle against those who encroach on your land. You seek to be reborn as someone who does not have the fate your mother foretold hanging over you.”

“Are you the one called Earhart?” Crazy Horse asked. He reached down and picked up his hatchet. Feeling more secure with the weapon in his hand. With the other hand he grabbed a spear.

“Yes.” She was looking over her shoulder at the encroaching fog that was now fewer than a hundred feet away. For the first time Crazy Horse noticed there was something strange about the white mist. Its front was a uniform straight line, and he could not see far into it. There were swirls of yellow on the leading edge. A disconcerting odor preceded the mist, something that made Crazy Horse take an involuntary step back.

“Danger comes,” she said. “I will help you with the vision you seek--and more--if you will help me.”

“What help do you need?” Crazy Horse was confused. Should he help her? She was not of his tribe. And according to his mother she was the one who had foretold of his people’s ultimate doom.

She pointed to the fog. “You must come with me to meet someone. It is part of your destiny as your mother foresaw.”

Crazy Horse looked at the fog and knew it was dangerous, like a bad patch of snow high on a mountainside that hid unseen crevices.

“Go!” The woman shoved him in the back, and Crazy Horse bristled at her manner. ‘’There is not time to stand here and think about it.” She turned toward the fog, leading the way.

He followed her with his spear at the ready, his hatchet tucked into the leather belt around his waist. His shoulders hunched involuntarily as he entered the mist. It felt strange against his bare skin, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He felt an almost overwhelming sense of dread and fear, but the warrior in him ignored those feelings and continued forward. He could see barely a few feet, but he could sense movement all around. His stomach rumbled and he staggered, nauseous. He wretched, spitting out acid.

Crazy Horse twisted and turned nervously. The woman was now at his side, nudging him to move. A scream echoed through the fog. Someone was in extreme fear and pain, worse than Crazy Horse had heard when they’d burned captives at the stake. He tightened his grip on the shaft of his spear.

Something leapt toward him from the right, and he reacted as he had been trained to since he could walk, spinning, the point of the spear leading. A bizarre animal was spitted on the spear, one he had never seen before and didn’t have time to study, as it struck at him with a scorpion like tail. He twisted the spear, staring at a mouth full of three rows of razor-sharp teeth, the head mounted on the body of –the only thing he could think of was a mountain lion. He let go of the whipping out the hatchet and slamming the edge into the creature’s skull. It collapsed to the ground, but still the barbed tail jerked spasmodically, seeking a target. Crazy Horse gave the body a wide berth.

He heard movement in several directions. At least he knew the way back out--downhill. He was tempted to turn and run, but duty held him. Plus the woman showed no fear, indicating that he should continue to follow her. He was a Warrior, a Sioux warrior, and his entire upbringing had taught him to stand fast in the face of danger; indeed, this was the time to excel, to earn honor.

He turned left as he heard something crashing through the trees. A man, dressed in a strange garment, staggered toward him. He held up his arms, and blood sprayed from bloody stumps halfway down his forearms. He reached for Crazy Horse as if he still had hands, smearing blood down Crazy Horse’s chest.

‘’Leave him,” the woman yelled over her shoulder as she ran through the trees.

Crazy Horse hesitated, but then the man slumped over, dead.

Crazy Horse stepped over the body, but when he looked about, the woman had disappeared into the mist. He heard a yell, the woman’s voice directly ahead. Although it was hard to judge the distance in the fog. Bathed in blood, Crazy Horse let go of his fears and charged forward. A tree limb smashed into his face. Breaking his nose. He snorted, blowing out blood, and continued, dodging limbs. Something snatched at him, something red and long like a whip, and he ducked under, rolled, keeping the hatchet tucked tight across his belly, and sprang to his feet.

“Hurry!”

A woman giving orders-it was unheard of. But Crazy Horse didn’t argue. He scrambled to catch up with the woman, following the sound of her voice. He spotted her about ten feet ahead. Beyond her was a black circle about eight feet in diameter. She waved at him to follow and then stepped into the circle. She was gone.

Crazy Horse reached. The circle and hesitated. He could hear things moving, branches snapping under a heavy Weight. He spun about as a tree crashed to the ground, his eyes widening in disbelief at what he saw; a massive snake with seven huge heads, each as large as a horse’s.

Crazy Horse turned back to the circle and jumped into it.

He landed bard, rolled, and was on his feet, the hatchet at the ready. There was no sign of the fog, and within a second the black circle he had come through disappeared. All that remained was the woman.

“What was that?” Crazy Horse demanded. “What happened?”

“They tried to ambush me, To stop me,” She shook her head. “And someone else was using the gate.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“There are those who invade the world, just like the whites invade your hunting grounds and sacred lands.”

‘’Who?’’ Crazy Horse repeated.

“Those of the Shadow.”

‘’What is this Shadow?”

“Your mother foretold your future. Yours and your brother’s.”

Crazy Horse spit. “I have no brother.”

“He is your brother in fate,” she corrected.

Crazy Horse held back his irritation. “What do you know of my mother’s vision?” he demanded. All his mother had told him was that he would meet his half-brother in a great battle, one that would determine the future of the people, and that while winning the battle, his people would eventually lose the war to the whites.

“You will fight a great battle that will open a gate through which the salvation of the world will pass.” She paused and looked to the southeast. “Even now, your brother comes closer. Come with me.”

*****

Bouyer woke to the sound of thunder. They were camped on a flat spot high on the side of the creek they’d been following up into the mountains. They were high enough so that if it rained above them, the water coming down wouldn’t flood the site. Bouyer had been in many storms in the mountains and his oil slick that he had wrapped around his body would repel even the heaviest downpour, but he didn’t go back to sleep. He lay still. Listening to the approaching thunder, seeing the immediate area lit up by lightning strikes higher up. He heard Bridger unwrap from his slick and Bouyer immediately did the same, picking up his Hawkins, his fingers checking the priming, making sure it was ready.

In the next flash of light, Bouyer saw Bridger kneeling at the edge of the camp, peering upslope to the north, weapon In his hands. Bouyer silently crept up to a position next to the old man.

“Something’s coming,” Bridger said in a whisper.

Bouyer glanced hard at his mentor. Something? What did he mean by that? Bridger could tell any animal in the mountains by track, scent and just plain experience. And they’d seen no sign of Indians for more than a week.

“Something bad,” Bridger added. He nodded to the right and up. A white fog was rolling down the slope. Bouyer had never seen the like. The front edge was smooth, and it moved without a wind to propel it. He felt a knotted ball of fear in his gut. He agreed one hundred percent with Bridger’s comment--his was bad, whatever it was. During the brief moment of illumination from another bolt of lightning, he saw that the fog was a boiling mess of white and yellow, a very unnatural color. It was now about four hundred feet away and approaching slowly.

“We should leave,” Bouyer suggested.

But Bridger was looking to his left. Bouyer shifted his attention from the strange fog to that direction. As another bolt lit the mountain, he saw two figures coming toward them. He saw one was a woman, but little detail else. He had to figure the woman was the one who had sent for him. Next to her was a young brave, a hatchet in his hand.

In the next flash, Bouyer could see that the woman had halted. And she was signaling. Indicating that he and Bridger should come to her.

Bridger saw the same thing. “Let’s go. Leave everything but your weapon.”

Bouyer hurried after the mountain man, scrambling along .e steep terrain to where the woman and brave waited. During another flash he could see the woman was middle aged, with short brown hair. She had a pack over one shoulder. When he shifted his gaze to the young warrior, he felt the bond that had always been distant begin to solidify. The brave had blood on his chest and was smeared with war paint. As he got closer, Bouyer could barely make out the images: a lightning bolt on his chest along with hailstones. strange symbols. The brave was staring back at Bouyer, his dark eyes emanating hate.

The woman raised her hand in a peaceful greeting, but her first words, spoken in Lakota. Contrasted the gesture. “Shoot for the eyes.”

“Whose eyes?” Bridger asked in the same language.

“Their eyes.” The woman was pointing behind them at the strange fog.

Bouyer turned. Three figures were floating in the front edge of the fog, three creatures unlike anything he had ever seen. All white, With red bulging eyes and hands that ended In blades.

Bridger had his Hawkins tight to his shoulder. Bouyer followed suit, sighting down the long barrel as his mentor fired. He sighted in one movement, smoothly pulling the trigger. The stock bucked against his shoulder as the half-inch-diameter bullet sped down the barrel. It smashed into the left red bulge in the creature’s face. The impact knocked e ~g back a few feet, but it remained upright, even as black smoke--not blood--issued forth from the hole.

Bouyer was watching the creatures even as he reloaded, his movements so well practiced that he didn’t need his eyes to ensure he was doing it correctly. He saw that Bridger had hit the middle creature in the same spot with the same result. Both were halted, but the third continued forward, fewer than a hundred yards away now. Bouyer packed the powder he’d poured down the muzzle with his ramrod, noting out of the corner of his eyes that he was still slightly behind the older man, who was already tamping a .54-caliber ball in his own gun.

Both were startled when the brave let out a yell and dashed forward, hatchet raised. Bouyer was so shocked he even paused in his loading, but not Bridger. The old man was Priming his weapon quickly but carefully. The white figure, .till moving, had raised both arms, claws extended, accelerating toward the charging brave, moving out of the forward edge of the fog. The two were fewer than five feet apart when Bridger fired. The ball passed just over the brave’s left shoulder and hit the creature’s right eye, smashing through.

The brave skidded to a halt. Swinging his hatchet at the other eye. It bounced off harmlessly. The fog enveloped both the brave and the creature.

“Crazy Horse!” The woman’s voice echoed into the darkness.

The brave stood still for a moment, his figure slowly fading from view in the fog, then Crazy Horse slowly backed up, hatchet at the ready. The fog stopped and Crazy Horse came out of it as Bouyer brought his musket to his shoulder, at the ready. He couldn’t see the first two creatures, as the fog had swallowed them. The third wasn’t moving, black smoke seeping from the hole in its right “eye.”

Bouyer fired as another creature swooped in from the right toward the damaged one. His bullet hit the left side of its “head” and ricocheted off, causing no apparent damage. This latest creature swept up the damaged one with one taloned hand and disappeared into the haze.

Slowly the fog began to dissipate, but that didn’t stop Bouyer from quickly reloading. Bridger had taught him never to have an empty rifle in his hands.

“It’s been a long time,” the woman said to Bridger.

The mountain man was watching the fog disappear, weapon at the ready. “I’m here like you wanted. With the boy.” As the fog disappeared completely, he turned to her. “And I see you brought his brother.”

Bouyer could feel both the connection to the warrior and the hate that rode over it.

“Very courageous charge,” Bridger commented in Lakota, “but not very smart.”

“A coward stands at a distance and fights his enemies,” Crazy Horse said.

Bridger chuckled. “A smart warrior uses the best weapons available.”

Crazy Horse spit at the ground to indicate what he thought of that.

The woman stepped between the three men. ‘’My name is Amelia Earhart.”

Bridger made the sign for peace to Crazy Horse, who ignored him. Bouyer did the same, but again, the sign had no effect on the warrior. Bouyer studied Crazy Horse. The war· nor was physically impressive, with broad shoulders and a noble face, marred only by the anger that consumed it. His skin was surprisingly light for a Sioux. A very dangerous man, Bouyer realized, and one full of rage.

“And your name?” the woman asked, startling Bouyer out of his examination. She was staring at him intently, which made him shift his feet m discomfort, unused to such attention.

“Mitch Bouyer.”

Bridger put the stock of his Hawkins rifle on the ground and leaned on the long rifle. He looked from one young man to the other. “Not much resemblance.”

Crazy Horse spoke for the first time. “’That is because we are not brothers.”

Earhart reached out and placed a hand over the one Bridger had on his rifle. “I must speak to the young ones alone. I must talk to them of their destiny.” She removed her hand.

Bridger picked up the rifle and moved off. upslope to an over watch position. The woman slowly sat down on a log, then indicated for Bouyer and Crazy Horse to sit in front of her. They did so, Crazy Horse angling himself so that both Earhart and Bouyer were in front of him.

“You were born out of the same mother,” Earhart said. “You were connected at birth, and you will be connected in death.”

“He is not my brother.” Crazy Horse said it flatly, slapping his open palm onto the flat side of his hatchet blade to emphasize the point “He is not of the Lakota. He is white.”

“So you can see with your eyes if you wish,” Earhart said as she leaned forward and pointed one hand toward Crazy Horse’s face. “Do you see that he has two hands? Two feet? Two eyes? That he is a man just like you?”

“He is not like me,” Crazy Horse argued. “He has blue eyes and pale skin, and his heart is not like mine.”

“That is where you are most wrong.” Earhart said. “Your hearts are more alike than you can imagine.”

“Why have you summoned him,” Crazy Horse demanded, “and brought me here?”

“I have been shown things and heard the voices,” Earhart said.

Crazy Horse interrupted her. “What were those things in white?”

“Servants of the Shadow.” Earhart said. She held up her hand as Crazy Horse opened his mouth to speak again. “You must listen. You and your brother will meet in a great battle and a victory.”

It made no sense to Bouyer. But he said nothing, listening as Bridger had taught him.

“That is the prophecy my mother gave me,” Crazy Horse said. “Which she received from. You. But I do not accept it as my fate. I do not accept the end of our way of life for my people.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you accept it or not,” Earhart said. “It is what will happen.”

“Not if I don’t allow it to,” Crazy Horse argued, which brought a slight smile to Earhart’s lips.

“Do not laugh at me, woman,” Crazy Horse spit out. “I do not have to lead anyone into battle. I can ride away.”

“And be called a coward?” Earhart asked.

Crazy Horse leapt to his feet, hatchet raised. Bouyer was up as quickly, his Hawkins rifle half aimed toward the warrior.

“Sit down!” Earhart snapped.

Surprisingly, both young men reclaimed their position on the ground.

“I have only been shown so much,” Earhart said. “I have been told by the voices that when enough men come together in a desperate situation they can achieve that which cannot be achieved any other way.”

Seeing the looks on both men’s faces, Earhart tried to explain as much as she knew. ‘’There are pathways, gates, that lead from one place to another. Paths you cannot see, and gates that only open at certain times.” She looked at Crazy Horse. “You just traveled through one of the gates. Will you deny that?”

Reluctantly, Crazy Horse shook his head.

“Will you deny there were strange creatures in the darkness?” She pressed. “Creatures you have never seen before?”

I have not been everywhere,” Crazy Horse argued without much conviction.

“The two of you have some power,” Earhart continued. “Combining that power with that of others in a battle. You can do that which needs to be done. Along with this.” Earhart reached into her bag and brought out a crystal skull. She extended it toward Bouyer. Who carefully took it. He was surprised how heavy it was.

“What is this?” Bouyer asked.

“It will channel the power. Use it carefully at the right time.”

“And how will I know when that is?” Bouyer asked.

“You will know it when it happens.”

Bouyer caught Crazy Horse’s look, and he felt a flickering kinship with his ‘’brother.’’ That feeling was gone in a second as Crazy Horse stood.

“Your words are those medicine men use when they do not know the truth and seek to confuse the stupid with many words.”

“But you are not stupid, are you?” Earhart asked.

Crazy Horse stared down at her for a few moments before gesturing at Bouyer. “If he will know it when it happens, then I will know it, too. But do not count on it to be what you want, woman. Until then I will go my own way.” Crazy Horse walked off into the darkness and disappeared.

Earhart stood. She looked down on Bouyer, who was turning the crystal skull to and fro in his hands. She switched to English. ‘There will be more.”

“More?”

‘’More visits, more signs, more parts. I hope you can keep your mind open, unlike your brother.” Then she turned to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Bouyer asked.

“Back where I came from,” Earhart said.

“Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE PRESENT

Dane walked out on the narrow gangway along the side of the Flip toward the rear, Chelsea at his side. The ship was long and narrow, more than two hundred meters in length by only average of ten in width. The bow was wider, expanding in a bulb shape. The rear was also wider, as was where the control section was located. It was also the only part of the craft that remained above water when the ship was “activated.” The other end would fill with water and submerge until the craft was vertical in the water, the bottom end bulb extending into the ocean almost two hundred meters. That end contained a probe that could both detect and emit muons, currently the only way they could track Shadow activity around the planet.

Dane paused as a gray fin cut through the water fewer than five meters away. A dolphin’s head popped up, dark eyes staring at him. Dane returned its gaze as Chelsea sat next to him, waiting.

“Rachel,” Dane whispered. The dolphin’s powerful tail thrust back and forth, lifting its body another half meter out of the water. Dane felt drawn into Rachel’s eyes. For a moment he was no longer onboard the Flip, but underwater, swimming, free of responsibility and worry. He “saw” what Rachel saw. Then it went further as the dolphin projected a vision to him.

Inside the Devil’s Sea gate. Near the black column of a portal, the actual cross-world/cross-time entrance inside the ate. A feeling of intense dread came over Dane. Danger. Great danger awaited. Ambush.

The moment was gone as quickly as it had come as an alarm bell stridently rang out for several seconds. It was the warning that the Flip was going into operation. Dane tried to shake off the negative emotion he had picked up from Rachel, but it clung to him. The dolphin emitted several clicks then disappeared under the waves. Dane envied the creature its freedom.

“Come on,” Dane said to Chelsea, heading toward the control section as he felt the deck under his feet shudder. He opened the hatch to the control room and walked in. The room as dimly lit, allowing the display screens to more clearly portray their data. The first thing Dane noted was the large dark red circle over Antarctica and South America--the hole in the ozone layer. Another red circle encompassed an area in Russia--Chemobyl’s deadly legacy.

A short, dark-haired Japanese woman was sitting in the center of the room surrounded by several computers. Dane went over to her position, Chelsea padding lightly next to him. “Any activity?” he asked.

Ahana, who was now the senior scientist, given the death of her mentor Doctor Nagoya, reached down and rubbed Chelsea’s ears. “Nothing. The gates are stable.”

“Are y sure the Devil’s Sea gate is stable?” he asked, still feeling the dread that had been brought to him by Rachel’s vision. The Flip had been attacked before by the Shadow sending a ship loaded with explosives out of the gate. Was another attack coming?

‘Some slight muonic fluctuations,” Ahana said, “but nothing major.”

They had managed to save the world from the Shadow’s attempt to tap energy from the planet’s core, a victory that now appeared to be in vain given the growing hole in the ozone layer and the spreading cloud of radiation. Dane briefly wondered if the time line he had seen in his vision this morning had also had such a victory or if the Shadow had gone first for that Earth’s ozone before trying to tap the core. They had learned little about the Shadow, but enough to now know it was an intelligent race that was able to use portals inside the gates to travel between parallel worlds, and that there was a group beyond the Space Between, known only as the Ones Before, that were trying to aid mankind, although that assistance always seemed obliquely given.

Dane felt the deck under his feet shift slightly and the walls appeared to move. It was actually the deck rotating in response to the ship’s movement, as the probe was slowly submerging.

“How many gates are open?” Dane asked.

“Here,” Ahana said. “And the one in Lake Baikal is still “Here,” Ahana said. “ And the one in Lake Baikal is still survey, which is why we’re rotating.”

“How about the radioactivity from Chernobyl?” Dane ked her. The Shadow had been tapping the Russian nuclear plant for a long time and finally destroyed it, releasing a toxic cloud of radioactive gas that was being borne by winds across Russia.

“The gate is still closed-after all, they’ve taken everything they can from the reactors. The cloud will reach Moscow in about a week. It’s strong enough that it will continue over most of Russia and Northern Europe.”

“Have you ever found a gate near the North Pole?” Dane asked.

“No.”

“Can you check to see if there is any activity there when you do your scan?”

“Certainly.”

Dane rubbed the stubble on his chin as he looked about. “Do you have the imagery taken by the Aurora spy plane of the sphere that took the ozone?”

Ahana pointed at the seat next to hers and indicated the computer screen. “I’ll bring it up there for you.”

Dane took the seat and waited. The screen flickered, then came alive with a view of an empty sky. He could hear the sound of an engine in the background, then a voice on an intercom:

“Let’s take this slow.”

“Range?”

“Two hundred klicks. ETA in two minutes.”

“Paint me something.”

“Extending imaging pod.”

The view shifted as the display went from the nose camera to the pod imager extending out of the belly of the SR-75. Dane could now see ocean far below the plane, but still clear sky ahead.

“One minute, thirty seconds.”

The image went black for a second, then a new scene appeared as the lens adjusted.

“What the hell?”

Dane didn’t blame whoever had just excited. A black rectangle filled the screen, almost filling it from top to bottom and extending beyond the left and right limits.

“Wide angle,” someone ordered.

“Geez! How big is that?”

“Radar indicates more than two hundred miles wide by twenty high.”

“What is it?”

“Thirty seconds.”

Dane could tell the SR-75 was slowing as it got closer to the object. The plane was also turning, but the imager-rotated o compensate. Stretching across the entire screen was a latticework of black struts supporting panels of gray material. In the very center was a black sphere—one of the Shadow’s. Dane had seen one crashed on another time line and had an idea how big it was-at least a half-mile in diameter—, which gave him an idea how large the latticework was. Even as the camera recorded, more panels were unfolding at the ends, extending it farther and farther.

The view shifted once more. About a mile behind the black sphere was a black circular portal, and a stream of ionized matter was flowing from the panels into the portal. Lightning crackled around the panels.

“What the bell is that thing doing?”

Dane had been told as soon as he arrived back at the Flip that it had drawn a large amount of ozone out of the atmosphere, but although he knew this was a bad thing. He wasn’t quite sure why.

Dane continued to watch as the end panels began folding in on themselves. The flow of ozone through the trailing portal was slowing. Dane checked the location data at the bottom of the screen. The sphere had entered over the bottom end of South America. It was now over the Gulf of Mexico.

Finally the panels bad all folded in and been tucked inside e sphere. Dane watched as the large black sphere slipped back into the portal and disappeared, the portal snapping out of existence.

Dane turned to Ahana. “I know ozone is important. But I don’t know why. Exactly what is it? What form is it in and how could we get some?”

Ahana paused, assimilating the questions, and then answered … Ozone consists of three oxygen molecules bonded together. It actually makes up a surprisingly small percentage of the atmosphere--or did. If compressed into one layer, ozone would be a very thin band in the stratosphere less than a tenth of inch thick. However. This small amount is spread in a band about twenty kilometers wide in the stratosphere.”

Dane held up a hand interrupting her. “Where exactly is the stratosphere?”

Ahana pointed up. “From here to an altitude of fifteen kilometers is the troposphere. 1be five kilometers above that is a transition zone, then you hit the stratosphere, which extends mother twenty to fifty kilometers.”

“I thought it was all just air.” Dane said. “Oxygen. With carbon dioxide and water in the forms of clouds.” He felt ignorant. But he’d learned early in his Army career to ask the stupid question if it could get information that could save his life and, in this case, perhaps the planet.

“The atmosphere is indeed mostly oxygen, which is formed by photosynthesis. Ozone. As I said, is three oxygen molecules bonded together. At the very top of the atmosphere, high-energy ultraviolet radiation from the sun hits oxygen molecules--which is 02 They split into single oxygen molecules. Some of these single molecules, as they circulate down, bond to form 03 which, in turn, rises and is broken down again and descends in a perpetual cycle.”

“All right. I know what it is and where it is, but why’s it so important that we’ll all be dead soon because it’s gone?”

‘”Ozone screens long-wave ultra-violet-C light and the majority of ultraviolet-B radiation. Although the most immediate threat would be various forms of skin cancer if exposed to se types of radiation, it also does other things. Deeper inside our bodies, our immune systems would be suppressed if exposed to high levels of these wavelengths of light. Various viruses, such as chicken pox, HIV and papilloma would be activated or re-activated by exposure to UV-B. Increased exposure to UV has also been linked to elevated risk of malaria, tuberculosis, leprosy, and various infections including e. coli.”

“All this just because we get more direct sunlight?”

“More unfiltered sunlight,” Ahana corrected. “It would also lessen the effect of vaccinations. And you have to remember, it’s not just humans who are going to be effected. Every living thing on the surface of the planet, including plant life, will be affected negatively. No one is really sure which part of the ecological system will collapse first. But there’s no doubt something will go relatively quickly. Then, the chain reaction of disaster will become an avalanche. Most people have no idea how inter-reliant all living things on the planet are.”

Ahana wasn’t done. “Radiation also causes mutations. Although most people think of mutations in the science-fiction term of five-legged dogs, it’s much more serious than that. Mutations happens quicker the faster something reproduces. Bacteria and viruses reproduce at a phenomenal pace. We could see new deadly forms within weeks, if not days, occurring much faster than science’s ability to fight them. We’re still trying to deal with HIV –imagine a dozen new strains occurring next week.”

Dane was beginning the feel bad about asking. He’d hoped the threat would be simple and that perhaps there would be a simple solution. But it appeared the only solution was to replace the ozone layer.

‘’Can we manufacture ozone?”

“Yes. But nowhere near the quantities needed now.”

“Is there any place where we can find a large source of ozone?”

“Not on this planet. The Shadow saw to that.”

“Then we’ll have to go get some,” Dane said.

CHAPTER SIX

EARTH LINE IV: 1958

Robert Frost disliked the cold intensely, and he was bitter both because he had not listened closely enough, soon enough. And because now that he was listening, this is where he ended up. He had an intense headache, a sign of something impending. The sun was still below the horizon, but the rays were stronger, bouncing off the cloud cover above. The clouds were swirling as if a storm was brewing. Frost looked about, searching the desolate terrain and trying hard to ignore e pain and keep his mind open for a message.

Frost had first heard the voices when he was nine. His mother told him he shared her gift for what she called “second hearing” and “second sight.” He had not been impressed with the gifts. His father died when he was eleven, leaving his family with only eight dollars. They were forced to move to New England, where his hatred of the cold began.

Standing on the bridge atop the sail of the Nautilus, Frost coughed several times, trying to clear a blockage in his throat that had been there for a week. He wasn’t sure if it was related .0 the cold or something to do with what had-happened to the planet south of them and was slowly making its way north. His hair felt electrified, and he “heard” faint whispers. He wished the voices were louder and more specific. He’d tried. It wasn’t much consolation at the moment. but he had tried.

In late 1946, he’d seen a vision of a large, round flying craft at the South Pole. Along with the sight had come an intense feeling of dread. There was pending danger, of that he b.ad pad no doubt. He’d gone to Washington to try to get someone to act.

· He knew the power of words. But something went wrong. He hadn’t used the words correctly. He knew that because no one believed him. Was it too late?

The hatch opened and Captain Anderson appeared, along with an ensign carrying a wooden box. Frost followed them as they climbed down the ladder on the side of the sail, reaching tile broken ice. They carefully maneuvered around the large blocks until they were clear. “Where?” Captain Anderson asked.

Frost closed his eyes, then pointed. ‘’That way.”

Hey moved another hundred meters when Frost held up his hand. “Here.”

The ensign put the box down on the ice. Frost unlocked the top and flipped it open. Inside rested a crystal skull with a dull blue glow deep inside.

“Now what”

“We wait”

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE PAST: 1866

Crazy Horse sprinkled dirt from a gopher hole over his body and then over the horse he was mounted on. He ignored the stares of the other young warriors around him on Lodge Trail Ridge. He· was already painted for battle, with a lightning bolt on his face and hailstones on his body. The dirt, which he always carried in a small leather satchel around his neck, was because of a vision-dream he had had a few years previously, where the “voices” had told him that the dirt would protect him from bullets. Because he had yet to be shot at, he had no idea whether there was truth to the vision. But his mother had taught him to trust such things. She had assured him he had the “eye” as she had and her mother before her lad and that he must pay close attention to whatever it showed him.

He could hear shots from the northwest, over the ridgeline where others of Red Cloud’s warriors had surrounded a group of woodcutters from the white man’s fort, which lay a mile and a half to the south, along the Bozeman Trail. Crazy horse, and the other four warriors with him, watched the fort loosely. They knew the shots could be heard inside the wooden palisade, and they could see blue coats running about.

“It is a good day to die,” Crazy Horse said, stretching his urns wide and pushing out his bare, painted chest. It might have been a good day to die, but it was a bad day to be practically naked. December in the Montana Territory, near the Big Horn Mountains. Was guaranteed to be cold. And the gray sky overhead hinted heavily of snow.

A bugle call echoed plaintively out of the fort and Crazy Horse calmed his nervous horse. The white men were very slow. A warrior could be ready for battle in less than a minute. More than fifteen minutes had already passed since Red Cloud’s warriors had attacked the woodcutting party .ear the stream, and still the fort’s gate was closed and the soldiers ran about like ants after their nest had been poked With a stick.

Crazy Horse could see a few men inside the fort dressed in buckskin, most likely trappers and hunters among the blue coats. One caught his eye, a tall man with long black hair tied with a leather braid and wearing a distinctive calfskin vest. Even though he couldn’t see his face clearly, a shiver ran up Crazy Horse’s spine--not from the weather, but from recognition. He’d felt the presence for weeks now, ever since arriving near the fort, and now he knew whose presence he had felt.

He didn’t want to admit it. This could not be it. The whites were too few. Too stupid. Too scared. This would not be a great victory, and he wasn’t even leading, having almost had to beg Red Cloud to allow him to lead this part of the plan.

The bottom line though, was that Crazy Horse did not want to believe in the prophecy. For if any part of it was true, then his people were doomed.

*****

Mitch Bouyer edged closer to the two arguing officers. Colonel Carrington was the post commander of Fort Phil Kearny and someone Bouyer had little use for. The man was a deskbound bureaucrat who rarely strayed outside the fort’s gate. Even during the recent war in the east between the States, Carrington had never seen action. The younger officer, Lieutenant Fettennan, had graduated West Point too late to be bloodied in the Civil War and was also pretty much Worthless in Bouyer’s opinion.

Just the previous week, Fetterman had loudly boasted after the Indians had run another woodcutting party back to the fort, that with one company of soldiers he could ride through the entire Sioux nation. Bouyer had known the stupidity of such a statement. He also knew the.re were more an just Sioux in the hills to the north of the fort. While hunting in the past week he had spotted Cheyenne and Arapahoe signs, which he had reported to Carrington, who had stared at Bouyer as if he had informed him that snow was white. All Indians were the same to most white men, but Bouyer knew there was great significance in finding sign of those three tribes in the ‘same area. They were traditional enemies, yet here they were gathered in one place.

Carrington—indeed all the blue coats-were new to the west. Fort Kearny had only been established five months ago in July. Along with the other two new forts in the territory, it was placed here to protect civilians traveling along the Bozeman Trail into the gold fields of Montana. The Bozeman frail also ran straight through some of the best hunting land the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahoe had-a fact, which, Bouyer knew, was unacceptable not only to the Lakota, but all the tribes in the area.

The blue-coat officers were arguing about what to do to rescue the woodcutting party, how many men to send, and what route to take. Bouyer looked over the palisade at the Ridge to the north. He could clearly see five mounted braves on top of the ridge, one of them practically naked despite the cold weather. That warrior was staring directly at him. Bouyer took an unconscious step backward as if he had been hit in the chest. He, too, had felt the presence of the other, but this was the first time he could see the source of the presence. Was it time? He had not had a vision that it was, and this place didn’t feel right. Still, there was his half-brother on the ridge. There must be a purpose to this meeting.

Bouyer looked at the arguing officers once more. He found it hard to believe such incompetents could be part of the prophecy. Still—

‘’Colonel,’’ Bouyer called out.

Carrington and Fetterman both turned to him in surprise.

“The wood party ain’t got much longer,” Bouyer said.

He could see anger cloud Carrington’s face. “I did not ask your opinion.”

As a contract hunter for the garrison, Bouyer knew he held no stature in the colonel’s eyes. “Sir.” Bouyer tried to think of the best way to ‘say it. “Sir,” he repeated, “they’re--”

He was cut off as Fetterman gave the spurs to his horse, yelling orders to the company of men that had finally formed Some semblance of a formation.

“Under no circumstances must you cross Lodge Trail Ridge,” Carrington ordered Fetterman.

Bouyer looked once more at the ridge. The Indians were gone. Cursing, Bouyer went to his small lean-to against the inside of the palisade and gathered his Henry repeating rifle and a box of ammunition along with an embroidered leather satchel that had been hidden underneath some straw. He walked to the stables as the gates opened and Fetterman led his column of Infantry out. He was in no rush, as the vast majority of Fetterman’s eighty-man force had not yet mounted.

By the time Bouyer exited Fort Kearny, Fetterman’s column was a half-mile from the fort, heading toward the valley to the west of Lodge Trail Ridge where the woodcutting party had gone. When the column was in the valley and out of sight of the fort, Bouyer had reached the trail elements. The column was spread out, with Fetterman in the lead mounted. A few civilian scouts with him also on horses. Then a platoon of infantry. A gap. Then another platoon. The trail platoon was spread out, a sign that some of the men were obviously reluctant in the mission.

Bouyer turned to his right as several war crimes echoed down from the ridge. Five warriors-the same five as before—were once more visible. Taunting Fettennan and his troops, tiding parallel to the soldiers’ column. Bouyer dug his heels into his horse’s side, picking up the gait. He cursed as he saw the head of the column already angling toward the Ridge, Fetterman in the lead. A shot rang out as one of the civilian scouts fired at the small war party.

As he rode, Bouyer checked the satchel, feeling the hard shape of the crystal skull inside. Surprisingly, it felt warm to his touch, something he had not experienced before. Perhaps hi~ was the time?

More shots echoed across the valley. Fettennan, pistol out, was trying to spur his horse up the ridge. One of the civilian scouts was yelling at the lieutenant, trying to make him wait for his command. The column had stretched out along the side of the ridge, extending over a half-mile.

Bouyer pulled back on the reins, halting as Fetterman and the lead men went over Lodge Trail Ridge. Bouyer knew the terrain. Beyond the ridge was a jumble of more ridges, valleys, boulders and trees. He knew what was coming. Hell, Fettennan had had the same thing happen only two weeks previously and barely escaped. Bouyer spurred his horse and raced up the ridge, passing foot soldiers.

Reaching the top, Bouyer paused to get an idea of the situation. Fetterman had slowed down, a platoon of Infantry now right behind him. Only one warrior was still visible, just inside rifle range, screaming taunts. The one who had lightning bolts painted on his face and hail on his body—Crazy Horse. Bouyer ignored the sweating, cursing soldiers who ran by him, trying to catch up to their leader. He stared at the warrior and was rewarded with Crazy Horse pausing in his tirade to return the glare. Bouyer raised his rifle, parallel to the ground, and nodded. The warrior ignored the gesture even as several shots kicked up dirt around his horse’s hooves.

Bouyer slowly lowered the rifle. He dismounted, standing astride lodge Trail Ridge. Over his shoulder he could see smoke from the cooking fires at Fort Kearny. The last of Fetterman and Captain Brown move forward, a platoon around them, descending into the next valley, still chasing the taunting braves.

As the last blue coat disappeared into the valley, a vast volley of shots and war crimes issuing from almost a thousand voices rose out of the low ground. Bouyer remained still. He heard screams, a bugle blowing for several long seconds then ceasing abruptly. Shots continued, not volley fire from a unit n a coordinated defense but scattered. And screams. Bloodcurdling yells from the depth of a man’s essence elicited by pain and imminent death. It was a sound Bouyer knew could ever be imitated and would stay with him to the end of his days.

Bouyer remounted and moved forward. A soldier appeared, running out of the valley, no weapon in his hands and fear on his face. He staggered, then stumbled to his knees as m arrow struck him in the back. Within seconds, at least two-dozen more arrows struck around and into the soldier, pining his lifeless body to the ground.

Bouyer halted less than ten feet from the dead soldier. He could see the entire battlefield now. The blue coats had been ambushed while they were stretched out. Most were already dead. There were at least a thousand warriors visible, moving forward from their ambush positions. He could see Fettennan and Captain Brown with perhaps a half-dozen of their men round them making a stand near a couple of large boulders. The warriors weren’t charging into their guns, but rather standing back and firing volley after volley of arrows up into the air A light snow had begun to fall, coming down onto the soldiers along with the deadly arrows.

Bouyer could feel the desperation in the air as the warriors closed on the soldiers. There was no hope of escape. He saw the young warrior he had exchanged signals with, Crazy Horse, gather a large group of braves near Fetterman, preparing for a final charge. Bouyer opened the satchel and removed the crystal skull. He held it in his hands, feeling it grow warmer by the second.

Fetterman and Brown also saw the last charge preparing. Bouyer swallowed hard as he watched the two officers kneel side by side, pistols pointed at each other’s temple. Fetterman’s mouth was moving, counting, Bouyer realized.

On three both men fired.

Cowards. The word came to Bouyer. They had not died fighting but in shame.

Crazy Horse galloped forward at the lead of a wave of a hundred warriors. They swept over the little knot of resistance, and in seconds no white man was left alive there. Bouyer watched as survivors from the rest of the column were run down and killed. A few of the warriors looked in his direction, but none headed toward him. The skull was too warm to hold in his naked hands, so he used the satchel to cradle it in.

A bolt of lightning crackled through the falling snow, hitting a tree not far from Bouyer. While the rest of the warriors were scalping and dismembering bodies, Crazy Horse turned his horse and galloped up the ridge toward Bouyer. He came to a halt twenty feet away, staring at the skull in Bouyer’s hands. It was glowing, giving off a slightly blue hue.

The two men stared at each other as another bolt of lightning struck directly between them. Both horses reared and lied to run, forcing them to dismount. Bouyer could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing straight out. The heat from the skull was coming through the satchel’s leather.

Another bolt struck in the same place, and Bouyer lost his grip on the skull. It fell to the ground in front of him, now glowing bright blue. He blinked as a black circle appeared between him and Crazy Horse. It was small, less than a foot in diameter.

Was now the time? Bouyer wondered.

He could see Crazy Horse beyond the black hole. The young Indian was gesturing, stopping other warriors from approaching and killing Bouyer but keeping his eyes on the circle.

The hole grew larger, extending down to the ground.

A hand appeared, the skin blistered and burnt, holding a metal tube. The arm followed, then half a person. His other arm Was stretched back the way he was coming from, as if someone or something were trying to hold on to him.

Bouyer stepped forward to take the metal tube, but a hock of electricity knocked him back a few feet.

The man collapsed through the hole and the circle napped out of existence. The man turned blind eyes toward Bouyer, hands raised in supplication. Crazy Horse and Bouyer both moved forward. The hands fell to the ground.

Bouyer knelt, feeling the man’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He looked up at Crazy Horse standing over him. “Brother,” he said in Lakota.

A grimace crossed Crazy Horse’s face. “You are not my brother.”

Bouyer ignored the correction as he examined the body. The man wore strange clothes. Even though they were scorched, Bouyer could tell they were made of some kind of tiny material he had never seen before. There was fur around the coat’s hood. It must have been cold like this, where the man had come from, Bouyer realized.

Reaching inside the coat, Bouyer found a metal chain with two small metal plates. He pulled them out. There was writing on them, in English. Bouyer frowned as he read the few words:

Ensign Graeheme

U.S. Navy

USS Nautilus

It made no sense to Bouyer. What would a Navy man be doing out here on the High Plains, as far from ocean as one could get? And where he had gotten the clothes made of such strange material? And how had he been burned? There was something clutched in the man’s hand. Bouyer pulled back the burnt fingers to reveal a slim metal tube, which he removed.

Bouyer didn’t have time to look at the tube as Crazy Horse stepped up to him, coming to within dew feet. Bouyer slowly stood to face the Sioux warrior.

“It is as Earhart predicted,” Bouyer said. He waved his and to indicate the scene of the massacre below. There were no survivors among Fetterman’s troops, and scalps were being taken while bodies were mutilated. “A desperate battle opened a gate.”

“But it was not time,” Crazy Horse noted. He spit as he nodded his head toward the site of the massacre behind him. “They were weak and cowards.”

Bouyer nodded. “As she said, we will meet again, brother. Another battle, much greater than this, with many brave fighters on both sides.”

“And then you will die,” Crazy Horse said.

Bouyer gave a wistful smile. “We are guided by a greater spirit than our own. And we are more brother than we are not.”

“Next time we meet, only one of us will walk away,” Crazy Horse said.

Or the greater good,” Bouyer said.

The anger left Crazy Horse’s face for the first time. “Whose greater good? My mother said the same thing.”

“Our mother.” Bouyer said.

“I should kill you now,” Crazy Horse said. “Perhaps that will change the prophecy.”

Bouyer noted that Crazy Horse made no move to attack, even as he said the words. “It is our fate to meet again.”

He looked at the scorched tube. There was a mark near one end. Bouyer twisted it and the tube came apart into two pieces. A piece of paper was inside. Bouyer pulled it out and unrolled it. It appeared to be a page tom from a book, but Bouyer had never seen such smooth paper or fine typesetting.

“What does it say?” Crazy Horse asked, his curiosity overcoming his hatred.

“It is a list of names.” Bouyer nodded to himself as he read down the two columns.

‘’Whose names?”

In response, Bouyer tore the paper in two, separating the Columns. “1 believe it is those who must be there for our next meeting.” He handed one piece to Crazy Horse.

Crazy Horse glanced at the paper in his hand. “I cannot read the white man’s writing.”

Bouyer looked at the warriors below, reveling in their victory. “Some are here. Some are from tribes far away.” He took the list back and read it out loud. “From your tribe, the Oglala: yourself, Big Man, Black Twin and He Dog. From the Brule Sioux: Crow Dog. From the Blackfeet: Kill Eagle. The Sans Arc: Fast Bear and High Elk. The Hunkpapa Sioux: Sitting Bull, Gall, Black Moon.” Bouyer continued reading even though Crazy Horse was shaking his head. “From the Cheyenne: Brave Bear, Crazy Head, Two Moons.”

“Those tribes will never gather under one leader,” Crazy Horse argued.

Bouyer folded the list and put it in his pocket. “You have time to prepare. It will most likely be years before we meet again where mother foretold. At the Little Big Horn,”

“And your list?” Crazy Horse asked.

“A man I’ve never heard of. A soldier named Custer and several of his brothers, along with some other officers and men.”

“Why these people?” Crazy Horse demanded.

“Warriors. Brave warriors in one place. As Earhart foretold.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

EARTH LINE IV: 1958

“God-damnit,” Captain Anderson cursed. The mitten on his 19ht hand was still smoking from his vain attempt to hold Ensign Graeheme out of the gate.

Frost had the crystal skull cradled in his hands. There was a blue glow in the center of it, and his hands were warm. He pressed the skull against his chest, feeling the warmth penetrate the layers of clothing.

Anderson turned to Frost. ‘’Where the hell did he go?”

‘’To deliver the message. As I told you.” Frost reluctantly put the skull back in the box. He glanced toward the southern horizon. The glow was brighter. “Dawn” was only a few days away.

“Using a person’s life to deliver a message?”

“It’s war,” Frost said.

“War against who?” Anderson demanded ‘’What the hell ‘as that?”

Frost was latching the top of the box, apparently unconcerned about the loss of the ensign or the captain’s anger. “I don’t understand myself, but the thing that destroyed the sky, le big sphere, that’s the enemy.”

Anderson didn’t give up so easily. “You didn’t tell me this thing would take him. Did you see his skin? It was burning him alive.”

Frost stood with difficulty, hefting the box. “My dear sir, we’re all dead. At· least he went quickly and served a purpose. Let us all hope for the same fate.”

CHAPTER NINE

PRESENT

The hatch to the control center opened and Foreman entered, twisting as he came in to meet the angled floor. The CIA agent vas the man who had involved Dane in this war so many years ago during the Vietnam War.

Two years was optimistic,” Dane said, turning away from updating himself on the current world situation.

“I know,” Foreman replied. He had a hatchet face and thick white hair. The recent weeks had been hard on him as he Shadow had launched several all out assaults against the planet. There were deep pockets under each eye and Dane could swear whatever dark color had been left in his hair was completely gone now.

Foreman had a long association with the gates. In 1945, Foreman’s brother had disappeared into the Devil’s Sea off he coast of Japan while on a war mission off the Enterprise. Then, assigned to Fort Lauderdale Air Station, Foreman had watched Flight 19--which he was supposed to have been a member of--disappear into the Bermuda Triangle. Since then he’d dedicated his life to discovering the secret of such places and in the process had learned something of the gates and the Shadow behind them.

Foreman took the sheet of paper that Ahana held out to him. “The Shadow’s craft took enough ozone from the upper atmosphere to deplete the planet’s supply by over sixty percent. The entire southern hemisphere will be unshielded in less than two months. People will be unable to expose their skin to direct sunlight. But even if they survive the radiation, the loss of crops and livestock will result in starvation within a year.”

“The bottom line?” Dane asked.

“Annihilation of the human race within eighteen months. Most of Europe and Russia will be unlivable much quicker than that--within the month due to radiation. Some pockets might live longer if they go underground and use stored food and hydroponics, but they’ll need energy and water. And once the oxygen cycle is broken because of the ozone depletion--” Foreman didn’t finish.

“Options?” Dane knew the answer, but he felt the need to ask anyway.

“None that we’ve come up with.” Foreman waited. When Dane had come out of the Devil’s Sea portal the previous day after shutting down the portal draining the core of the planet, he had said he knew of a possible way to stop the growing disaster.

Dane went to the small porthole and looked out. The dark line delineating the Devil’s Sea Gate was a few miles to the west. “Tell me about the Nautilus,” he said. “What?” Foreman was momentarily confused by the sudden shift.

“I had another vision,” Dane explained. “I saw Robert Frost again. Except this time he was onboard the Nautilus at the North Pole. The rest of the world was dead and they were the last survivors. If I remember rightly, the Nautilus went to the North Pole around 1960?”

“1958.” Foreman had worked at the CIA from the end of World War n until the present and knew much of the hidden history of the past five decades.

“Did you ever use the Nautilus to investigate the gates?” Dane asked. He knew Foreman had used both the submarine Thresher and a U-2 spy plane in 1968 to investigate the gates, both of which had been lost. Dane’s first encounter with a ate had occurred in Cambodia that year when his Special Forces team had been ordered into that country by Foreman to try to recover the U-2’s black box.

The fact that Foreman had not bothered to brief the team about the gate he suspected there or any other aspect of the mission had been Dane’s first exposure to the CIA man’s duplicity. As the two had been forced to work together recently, Dane had reluctantly accepted that much of what Foreman had done in the past had been because of the disbelief he had received in his quest to uncover what was behind the strange gates. However, Dane had also learned that old habits were hard to break.

Foreman’s pause of a few seconds told Dane the answer even before the CIA man spoke. “The Nautilus was commissioned in 1954. It was the first nuclear powered submarine. What most people don’t understand about the significance of that is that the nuclear power plant allowed it to stay submerged for weeks, even months. Before the Nautilus, submarines had to surface every day to recharge their batteries.”

“And?’ Dane wanted Foreman to get to the point.

“You know I spent many years researching the gates. Tracking down legends. Like the Bermuda Triangle.” Foreman nodded toward the porthole. “The Devil’s Sea. Others.”

Dane jumped ahead. “And one near the North Pole?”

Foreman sat down. “You ever read Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth?”

Dane nodded. “As a kid.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Not really.”

“The opening chapter is most interesting. It’s about deciphering a runic message.” Foreman looked at Dane. “Runes. The language of the ancients.”

Dane remembered the runic writing on the sail of the Scorpion written by a Viking warrior more than a thousand years ago, a Viking warrior who had become one of the many across time and worlds to help in this battle against the Shadow.

Foreman closed his eyes and recited from memory. “In sneffels, Yoculis craterem kem delibat umbra Scartaris Julia intra calendas descende audas viator, et terrestre centrum attinges. Kod feci, Arne Saknussemm.”

“Which means?” Dane asked.

‘It’s not classic Latin,” Foreman said. “A perverted form. But basically: Descend into the crater of Yocul of Sneffels, which the shade of Scartaris caresses, before the calends of July. Audacious traveler. And you will reach the center of the Earth. I did it. Signed, Arne Saknussemm.”

“And?” Dane prompted. Usually Foreman was direct and to the point, but whenever he wandered into theory he became more tentative and explanatory. Dane thought something about what Foreman had just recited was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t pin it down.

“Over the past sixty years,” Foreman said, “I’ve gone many places, listened to many strange stories and followed every possible lead I could find, no matter how outrageous. I learned early on to look into legends. Also, to search for those with the sight. I think Jules Verne had it. Much like you feel Frost heard the voices of the gods. After all, he considered himself a poet also.”

“How is that?” Dane asked.

“Verne considered himself a poet in the old sense--that of a maker. He once said that poets weren’t just dreamers, they were also prophets but a prophet who tried to stay grounded in facts as much as possible. If you check his books, other than the fictional assumptions underpinning them, they are factual to an amazing degree.

‘’Think about it. Verne wrote Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea long before anyone had drawn up a plan for a submarine. He wrote about cars and airships before they were invented.”

A prophet. Dane knew if he had been born in another time and another place, he, too, might have been considered one. He’d always been able to sense things, to see things others couldn’t. Some called it a sixth sense. During his tour of duty in Vietnam so many years earlier, he’d always taken point and his team had never been ambushed. That is until they went into the Angkor Gate under Foreman’s order to recover the U-2’s black box. There he had run into creatures not from this Earth and powers he could not comprehend and still didn’t, more than thirty years later.

Foreman got to his feet, agitated. “It all fits. I knew that for Ii long time. I just couldn’t, still don’t. totally understand it. Journey to the Center of the Earth. Think about it. Even the Buddhists had an inner kingdom. Agartha. A worldwide web of underground passages.”

Dane remained quiet, realizing Foreman was feeling guilty that he hadn’t understood the threat from the Shadow early enough to prevent all that had happened.

“Caves.” Foreman stared at Dane, as if he knew what Dane was thinking. “Our early ancestors lived in caves. Nowadays we all look to the sky, to the stars for the unknown. But the interior of the Earth itself--” Foreman pointed down--“has always been as much an unknown.”

Dane glanced at Ahana, who was listening raptly. Even as the Flip continued its rotation. She had been the one who had briefed them on the interior of the planet so they could understand--and defeat-the Shadow’s recent attempt to tap the power from the core of the planet. Dane had been shocked to learn how little science knew of the Earth on which they all walked, but upon reflection had realized that it wasn’t so strange. Although ships with men onboard had actually traveled into space, even to the moon-as Verne had predicated, he suddenly realized--the farthest man had penetrated into the planet was only about eight miles, hardly a scratch on the surface of the planet.

“Plato wrote about Atlantis,” Foreman continued. “Which we now know existed and was destroyed by the Shadow. But he also wrote of ‘tunnels. Both broad and narrow in the interior of the Earth.”

“The best way an ancient could explain the portals inside the gates,” Dane said.

Foreman nodded. “Yes. As good as ally. And I studied all the ancient myths and legends regarding routes through the planet and an interior world-which would be the best explanation an ancient could come up with if they had happened to survive going through a portal.

“Edmond Halley, who the comet is named after, was one of the first who tried to converge the myth of an interior planet with science. He was fascinated with magnetism and discovered that magnetic north was not always in the same place.”

Dane reached out and grabbed one of the chairs, sliding into it. The Flip was almost completely horizontal. The floor having rotated more than eighty degrees. It was a strange experience, standing level while the walls rotated but the floor remained level.

“Halley had no way to explain this,” Foreman continued. “He also found that variation--the lateral deflection that could be determined according to longitude--was slowly changing over time. For lack of a better explanation. Halley posited that there had to be more than one magnetic field causing these conflicting readings. And to produce more than one magnetic field, he suggested that the Earth had an inner twin. That the surface we walk on is just a shell, with another entire planet inside with its own axis and magnetic poles. This, combined with this inner world having its own rotation slightly off from our own world, could account for the data he had.

“When he found readings that couldn’t be accounted for by one inner world, he suggested there were several, one inside the other, like those Russian dolls where several are nestled inside each other.

“Then there. Was an American in the early 1800s.” Foreman continued, “who jumped on this concept. A man named Bouyer. He claimed that not only was there an interior world, but that he could get to it by traveling north into the Arctic and entering through a hole at the pole-he claimed there was an opening at each pole. To give you an idea of how seriously this was taken, President John Quincy Adams gave him support and even planned to mount an expedition to find this opening. However, when Andrew Jackson replaced him as president, the idea was squashed. But in 1836, Congress actually allocated three hundred thousand dollars for an expedition to the South Pole.

“The four-year Wilkes expedition didn’t find an opening, but then again it couldn’t penetrate the shoreline of Antarctica. In the same manner that later water-borne expeditions to try to fix the North Pole were stymied by ice. A surface vesse1 simply could not get there.”

“So you figured the first nuclear submarine would be the best way to check it out?” Dane interjected.

Foreman waved a hand, indicating that Dane had jumped too far ahead in his story. “Verne wasn’t the only one who wrote about a journey into the Earth. Edgar Allan Poe wrote The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket about a ship getting sucked into a hole at the North Pole. He was crying out Bouyer’s name on his death bed.”

Poe. Dane found he was nodding. If Frost heard the voice of the gods, he had no doubt people like Poe and Verne heard them. Too. It seemed as if artists were the ones most open to visions, people whom society saw as being somewhat mad to start with, outside of the bell curve. Dane had never been, and ,till wasn’t sure, that being outside the majority of society was a good thing or not.

“Which brings me back to Verne,” Foreman continued. “He wrote Journey to the Center of the Earth in 1864. After reading the runes, the characters in his story head to Iceland, where they find a chimney deep inside an extinct volcano, which they follow deep into the Earth. There they discover a sea inside the planet.”

Dane glanced at Ahana. She had been inside the gate with him to the Space Between, a place that consisted of an inner sea surrounded by a ring of black sand leading up to a wall that curved in overhead. And Iceland, which the Shadow had destroyed not long ago, using nuclear missiles from an American submarine to split the tectonic plates on which the island had rested.

Foreman caught the look. “Yes. An inner sea. Just like what you’ve seen where all the portals seem to channel through. Maybe his fiction wasn’t so fictional. In his story, his characters sail on the inner sea and are attacked by monsters--again, sound familiar?”

Dane nodded. The things his team had encountered inside the Angkor Gate --monsters were the best way to describe them. “Here there be monsters” –the phrase had always haunted him, every time he looked at an ancient map that indicated unknown, unexplored areas.

The Flip was vertical, the muonic probe two hundred meters below them. Dane felt a sense of urgency, but he kept it at bay--once one entered a gate, time didn’t seem to be an Issue. Not only did the gates move one from world to parallel world, but also along the time line, as had been proved recently when the Thresher, thought to be lost in 1968, returned to the present world. Of course, it had detonated inside the Naval base in Connecticut, destroying other submarines, another assault by the Shadow upon the world.

“After Verne, there was a man named Edward Lytton, who wrote a book called The Coming Race about the inhabitants of the inner world. His were less benevolent than Verne’s. They used a source of power called vril, something so powerful that it could destroy the Earth. And their goal was to conquer the world above them.”

Foreman must have sensed he was moving too slowly to the question that Dane had started this with. But he still didn’t move ahead to the Nautilus and his involvement with it. “In April 1942, a Nazi scientist, an expert on radiation, led a team to the Baltic island of Rugen. They aimed a powerful camera loaded with infrared film into the sky at a forty-five degree angle. The goal was to take a picture of the British Fleet across the hollow interior of a concave Earth. That’s how seriously Hitler took the concept. I’ve found classified SOE and OSS documents about what they found in Berlin after the war, and there were reports of Nazi expeditions to both poles, most by submarine, searching for the entrance to the inner world.”

Dane noted that while still listening, Ahana was typing commands into her control console. Foreman seemed oblivious to his surroundings.

“All this activity, all these writings and reports, all the scientific interest--it couldn’t have come from nothing. There was something up there in the Arctic. I figured it had to be a gate. One that only a few had ever come close to, given the remoteness of the location.”

“But the North Pole’s been explored,” Dane said. “If there was a gate there, don’t you think it would have been reported? If my history is correct, didn’t Admiral Peary get there early last century?”

“Apri11909,” Foreman said. “Although there is some argument whether he actually made it to the exact pole or not. And Byrd overflew it in 1926, although, again some say he might have missed.”

“And many others have been there since,” Dane said.

“Yes,” Foreman agreed. ‘’Many have been to the North Pole, but how many have been under it?”

“Thus the Nautilus,” Dane said.

“Thus the Nautilus,” Foreman said. He sighed. “All right. listen.”

Dane felt a surge of anger. He knew Foreman was about to let them in on something important that he’d withheld. The CIA man’s penchant for secrecy was ingrained deeply, after decades of having to fight an enemy no one really believed existed.

“In 1946, Frost came to Washington. He had already won several Pulitzers and was quite popular, so when he began rambling about ‘visions’ be bad, people got concerned. Not about the visions, but about him. However, I heard about it and went to see him. I’d just begun working with a unit called X-2, part of the Strategic Service Unit, what used to be the Office of Strategic Services. SSU was the bridge between the OSS and the CIA after World War II when demobilization was wiping out a lot of organizations. With everything so jumbled and a lot of people opting out of service, even a young guy like me could hold a pretty important slot then.”

Dane could sense Foreman’s discomfort. The logical man had had to accept that which couldn’t be made sense of.

“Frost said he’d seen visions pretty much all his life. At that time I was just beginning to collect reports like this and investigating the history of oracles and seers in connection with the gates, so I listened.

‘’He said he’d had several visions of large spherical craft—very big--” Foreman saw both Dane and Ahana nodding—“yes, as we know, Shadow craft. Frost said he saw one of them above a large, ice-covered land, which to me meant either the North Pole or Antarctica. I’d found a couple reports in the OSS war files of similar things, and I also had access to captured Nazi records, showing Hitler’s obsession with both poles and that he had sent several U-boats to Antarctica during the war. There was even speculation that some senior Nazi officials had escaped there after the war. Also, I’d uncovered several reports of UFOs, although we didn’t call them that then. There were the foo fighters reported by bomber pilots flying mission in both theaters and also quite a few reports from the Argentine military who flew closest to Antarctica.

“So-“ Foreman drew out the word, and Dane knew what was coming next-“I managed to funnel enough data to the Department of Defense to convince them that we needed to go :o Antarctica to check this out. They were focused on the Nazi d exploration angle--I didn’t say anything to them about large flying spheres.

“The Navy dubbed the project Operation High Jump. More than four thousand men. A dozen ships, including a carrier, the USS Philippine Sea. All under the command of Admiral Byrd.”

“Did Byrd know your real suspicions?” Dane asked.

Foreman laughed. “’Know’? He spent the winter of 1934 alone in a hut on the ice in Antarctica. He almost died, and when he was rescued he told a lot of crazy stories that people put down to his trying experiences. But he told me in 1946 bat he saw one of the spheres fly overhead. He described it quite well.”

“And what did High Jump find?” Dane asked.

“I went with them. It was the first time anyone had ever made a real attempt to map Antarctica. We did the most extensive mapping ever and barely covered two percent of the land mass. Two days before we were to return, one of the napping craft disappeared after some strange radio messages.”

“It got grabbed by a sphere,” Dane said.

Foreman nodded. “My guess.”

“And?”

“And it had a nuke onboard with a timer set to go off at a certain time--after they should have been back at the carrier. The crew didn’t even know it was onboard—it was in a crate marked ‘Generator.’ I was the only one who could turn it off.”

“Jesus,” Dane muttered He’d known Foreman was ruthless. After all, the man had sent him on what had turned out to be pretty much a one-way mission into Cambodia. But to put a nuclear weapon onboard an aircraft? “No sign of the plane or the nuke going off?”

Foreman shook his head. ‘’That’s why I know it was taken. If the plane had crashed anywhere, we still would have picked up signs of the atomic blast by seismograph.”

“So if the plane was taken by the sphere, the nuke went off after it was inside.”

“Yes.”

“That might shut a gate, or at least keep the Shadow from using it again.”

“Right.”

“But maybe in the time line I saw this didn’t happen,” Dane said. “And a sphere came through in the mid-1950s and took the ozone.”

‘’That’s possible. I had a lot of luck being able to accomplish what I did,” Foreman said. “If one or two things out of many had gone the other way, I would have failed and High Jump would never have been conducted.”

“Which is most likely what happened in the time line I saw in my vision,” Dane said.

“I would imagine,” Foreman said. “There are a lot of things that could have gone differently.”

“And the Arctic?” Dane asked.

“That brings me back to Frost once more. After High Jump, Frost went back to poetry for a while. Then, in 1954, he went back to Washington. By then he’d been honored by a resolution of Congress so he had even more status. He went to Eisenhower—one of his friends was a man named Sherman Adams who was Ike’s chief of staff. He told Ike he’d seen visions of strange craft near the North Pole—just like what he saw in Antarctica. Ike, of course, was not too thrilled, especially because we didn’t really know what happened to the missing plane and I wasn’t about to tell anyone what I’d done.

‘’1 was called in and took Frost off the White House’s hands. I listened to him, assured him we’d do something and sent him on his way.”

“And what did you do?” Dane asked.

“I knew the North Pole had been explored. I knew about Peary and Byrd and all the others who followed, but I also knew no one had been under the ice. When the Nautilus was commissioned, I saw my opportunity. It took me four years, and a lot of--” Foreman paused as he searche4 for the words, which Dane willingly supplied:

“Deception and misdirection?”

“Yes. The angle that worked was making the trip a big propaganda boon for Admiral Rickover and his nuclear boys.”

“And did they find a gate?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one there. There just wasn’t one there when they looked. I think there was a gate in the vicinity of the North Pole a long time ago, a gate that led to all the speculation and legends, as the other gates did in other places around the planet.”

Dane considered this. “1 think my vision had to be another time line. One where I think what’s happening here and now, happened there and then. The ozone layer was completely gone. So maybe Frost is there in the Nautilus in a parallel world because a parallel you sent him there? Too late to stop what happened to his world, but not too late for something else.”

Ahana spoke up. “What something else?”

Dane tried to follow the twisted logic. “Frost said he was waiting for a gate. Maybe a gate we could use. After all, we’ve determined that the Shadow uses the gates, but they don’t have complete control over them. The Ones Before seem to influence things somehow, but the biggest thing is we don’t completely understand the physics involved.”

Dane nodded toward the black wall on the horizon. “I’m going to have to go back in. I think we can repair the damage.”

“That’s not much of a plan,” Foreman said.

“It’s as good as any that’s worked before,” Dane replied. We have to reverse what the Shadow has done, and the only way I can think of doing it is by using its own technology.”

“What do you mean?” Foreman asked.

“I saw one of its spheres that had crashed in one of the time lines. I was taken inside. That must have happened for a reason. And the one that raped our atmosphere was dead in the Inner Sea after I cut the portal. Maybe it’s still there. If we could get control of that. we might able to come back here and restore the ozone and sweep up the radiation.”

Foreman frowned. ‘’That’s pretty thin. Even if you could control the sphere, where would you get the ozone? And how would you sweep up the radiation in the air?”

“We take ozone from another time line,” Dane said. “And--”

Ahana interrupted. “So we do what the Shadow has done to us, to another time line?”

“A dead time line,” Dane said. “I’m sure there’s one out there that still has ozone.”

“How can you be sure?” Foreman pressed.

“Because if I’m wrong,” Dane patiently said, “then there is no hope.”

“How about the portals? How can--”

Dane cut off Foreman. “I’m not going in here.”

“Where then?”

“Baikal.”

“Still--” Foreman drew out the word-“how can you know you’re going through the right portals? To the places you need to go? You gave the portal map back to the priestess who brought it to you.”

Dane heard the accusation in Foreman’s tone, but he chose not to respond. He had no idea who the woman was who had brought him the portal map and allowed him to shut the gate in his time line/world in order to save it. But he also knew his wasn’t the only time line being threatened.

“And the radiation?” Foreman pressed when Dane didn’t respond.

“We use whatever they used to take our ozone to take out the radiation.”

Foreman wasn’t buying any of Dane’s answers. “And how can you fly one of their spheres?”

Dane remembered being inside the sphere. ‘’That might be the biggest problem. We’ll need fuel.”

“What kind of fuel?” Ahana asked.

“People.”

CHAPTER TEN

THE PAST: 1868

Mitch Bouyer screamed as the knife sliced down the inside of his right arm, severing muscle and tendon. The pain was blinding, and his body convulsed, straining against the leather straps binding him to the tree. He blinked sweat out of his eyes. In the glow from the surrounding fires he could see the black “U.S.” stamped on the leather wrapped around his chest and upper arms. Must be from a packhorse, he thought, trying to keep his mind from the warrior approaching him again.

Beyond the warrior he could see a circular framework of rough-cut poles, connected with rawhide thongs, some of the thongs disappearing over his head to a center pole. Buffalo skulls leered at him from the top of some of the poles. Warriors squatted around the outer poles, staring impassively in. In the darkness beyond them, he could make out the figures of women and children moving about.

A sun dance site, he realized.

He blinked. There was a Lakota woman in the inner circle who was standing close around him. In a flicker of firelight he locked onto her eyes and felt a shock, as strong as if a blade had touched him once again--she had blue eyes, just like his! But she was translucent, as if she were not really there. And behind her, his half-brother, Crazy Horse, staring back at him with a strange look on his face. A white man, arms bound behind him, stood next to Crazy Horse, a white man with dirty blonde hair cut short and a thick mustache and scraggly beard. He wore a tom buckskin shirt with an epaulette on one shoulder, the other one apparently ripped off.

Farther in the distance, Bouyer saw a scaffold mounted in the branches of a young tree. A body, a small body, was up there. Crazy Horse was shifting his gaze between the woman’s image in front of him and the funeral scaffold with the same strange look.

His left arm exploded, ripping his attention from the man. How could cold steel cause such heat? Bouyer wondered with the dwindling sanity left to him. Agency steel. He would have laughed if he could have. Agency steel and cavalry leather.

The warrior held up the knife, showing Bouyer the red blood dripping off the blade, his blood, then lowered it. Bouyer felt the tip touch just below his sternum. He sucked in his stomach, desperately trying to pull away from the blade, the rough wood of the pole he was bound to scraping along his back.

He screamed again as the point punctured skin with a ripping noise. He felt his stomach muscles part. The warrior held a handful of thick, knotted red rope under Bouyer’s face. It took Bouyer a second to realize those were his guts. The warrior yelped-and walked back toward the nearest fire, pulling Bouyer s intestines with him and dropping what he had into the fire.

Mitch Bouyer woke to utter darkness and a feeling of being buried alive, his scream echoing back right at him. He blinked several times, but there wasn’t the slightest hint of light. After a lifetime on the frontier he had learned to trust his inner clock and he had no doubt it was after dawn, yet there was no sign of daylight.

He could feel his breath hitting something just in front of his face. He tentatively reached up and felt the wool blanket he had placed over the trench he’d dug in the snow the previous evening. It was less than four inches from his face, although it had been two feet above when he’d put it in place. It also didn’t move, as if it were weighed down by snow.

Bouyer remained still, trying to get his panicked breath Hiller control. He closed his eyes. He knew Crazy Horse was somewhere not far away. He’d always bad a sense for his half-brother’s presence. But it wasn’t his brother who he needed to go to now.

Southeast. In his mind’s eye, Bouyer could see the vast stretch of plains in that direction. Across the Colorado Territory, Kansas, into the Indian Territory just north of Texas. A river winding through a snow-covered plain. A river that ran with blood. And the officer he had seen in the dream. Bouyer knew he was down there somewhere.

Had the dream been something that would happen or something that could happen? That was the question Bouyer always had when he had a vision. As he got his breathing under control, Bouyer thought about what he had “seen” and decided it was something that could happen but shouldn’t. After all, his fate as foretold was to die nobly, not tied to the stake. Perhaps the vision was a warning letting him know that if he did not stay true to his fate, things would turn out worse.

Also, there was the Army officer. He was important.

Bouyer shoved his arms upward, the blanket and snow slowly giving way. He stood up. It had snowed during the night. And the ground was now covered with almost three feet of white powder.

Bouyer gathered his gear, wrapped it in the blanket and pushed his way through the snow to the tree where his horse was tethered. He tied off the roll behind his saddle and swung up onto the horse. The skull, still retaining a slight blue glow, was wrapped in a leather satchel underneath the bed roll.

He knew he needed to go to the southeast. But there was someplace he needed to stop by on the way. He nudged his horse’s head and began to move.

*****

Crazy Horse knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the village. He had been gone for a month, chasing Crow warriors who had stolen some ponies. During that time the village had moved, something he’d been apprised of when he met a hunting party two days ago. The movement was normal, as ponies ate grass and a village could not stay in one place for long before the available grazing was gone.

Although others in his party carried scalps, Crazy Horse, despite killing two Crow in battle, did not. His mother had told him never to partake of the custom, and. it was one of the few things she’d said that he took to heart.

No one would meet his eyes. That was what told him there was bad news. He knew Black Robe, his wife, had the white man’s wasting sickness. She’d been coughing for more than five moons now and was not expected to last much longer. As he slid off his horse in front of his lodge, he was prepared for the bad news of his wife’s death.

He threw back the flap to the lodge and paused, seeing his wife seated by the fire. Wrapped in several robes in a vain attempt to get warm. She, too, would not meet his eyes, and he felt a pain rip through his heart as he wildly looked about, not seeing his young baby girl anywhere.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“At the last camp,” Black Robe whispered, before breaking out in a spate of coughing. “The quick draining death disease.”

Crazy Horse sunk to his knees. His only child, dead of another of the white man’s fevers. He had not seen this. Why? Why was she taken?

Black Robe finished coughing, wiping the thin stain of blood from her lips. “I am sorry.”

Crazy Horse ignored her. She was not the woman he had wanted for a wife. His face bore the scar where a bullet had punched through his left jaw when he had been with Black Buffalo Woman, the one he had always desired. But Black Buffalo Woman belonged to another man, and Black Robe had born him the one thing he had cherish above all else—his daughter.

Crazy Horse howled, the yell echoing across the village. He was cursed, of that he had no doubt. The woman he loved was with another man. The child he loved was dead. The wife he didn’t love. But lived with, was dying, and could not even look him a decent meal or bear another child.

Crazy Horse staggered to his feet. He left the lodge. Many were gathered about, wondering what he would do. He was known as a strange man. one who had visions, who often rode off alone. Who took no scalps, yet was brave in battle. Who bad pursued another man’s wife beyond the bounds of Lakota law. Who had been shot in the face because of it yet had not wreaked revenge on the man who shot him.

Crazy Horse ignored them all and jumped on his horse. He knew the previous location of the village. Almost seventy miles away. He didn’t bother to get water or food. He rode out of the village, pushing his horse mercilessly through the new snow.

*****

Bouyer felt the urge pulling him to the southeast, but he resisted it He sat cross-legged in the glade near the small stream, whispering the Lakota prayers Bridger had taught him. He heard a horse coming upstream, breathing hard. But he didn’t turn his head.

The rider stopped between him and the scaffold. Bouyer watched Crazy Horse run forward, even as his horse collapsed in the snow. The Lakota warrior climbed up the tree that held the end of the scaffold until he could look down at the small wrapped bundle tied to it. Gingerly, Crazy Horse laid down next to his daughter, holding her to his chest. Bouyer didn’t move the entire time.

And as the sun arced across the sky and day turned into night, neither man changed positions.

When dawn came, Bouyer stiffly got to his feet and gathered wood. He built a large fire and waited by it. It was late afternoon before Crazy Horse rose from the scaffold and climbed down. The warrior seemed drained to Bouyer, empty of any energy, even of the anger Bouyer bad always felt coming from his ‘’brother.’’ Crazy Horse walked up to the fire and stared into it.

“I am sorry,” Bouyer finally said.

“Why are you here?”

“I felt your pain.” Bouyer paused. “And your anger.”

“Why are you here?”

“I can always feel your anger. Sometimes strong, like the full moon, sometimes weak, like a distant star in the sky. But it is always there. This is the first time I’ve felt your pain.”

“My daughter is dead. My wife is dying. All because of your people.”

“And my people will make your people pay in turn,” Bouyer said. “Where does it end?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he angrily turned toward Crazy Horse. “Your anger is selfish. All you care about is how you feel. Why is it always about you? It is your daughter who is dead. You should mourn her, not be angry. But your anger makes you feel better, so you give in to it.” Bouyer reached across and slammed Crazy Horse in the chest, surprising the warrior, who staggered back a few steps. “Until you let go of the hardness in there, you will not be a great leader, nor will you fulfill your destiny. I have seen what happens to me if I do not fulfill the destiny foretold. It is terrible. I would imagine your fate would be as terrible if you do not do what is foretold.”

Crazy Horse stared at Bouyer for several seconds and then surprisingly sat down, with his back to the fire, facing the burial scaffold. “I have nothing left but my people, and I am told they are doomed, too.” He glanced over his shoulder at Bouyer. “You are going somewhere?”

“I have had a vision,” Bouyer acknowledged.

Then go. Leave me to my mourning in peace.”

THE WASHITA RIVER, INDIAN TERRITORY: 1868

“General, what if we find more Indians than we can handle?”

The object of the question spit into the snow. “All I’m afraid of is we won’t find half enough. By God, there aren’t enough Indians in the entire country to defeat the Seventh Cavalry.”

Mitch Bouyer’s expression of disbelief was masked by the scarf wrapped around his face, leaving only his dark eyes visible. He stared hard at George Armstrong Custer, the commander of the newly formed Seventh Cavalry. One of Custer’s officers had asked the question. And Bouyer thought it a valid one.

The cluster of officers, scouts and Bouyer were standing on the near side of a bluff overlooking the Washita River in the Indian Territory. It was night, but there was good visibility due to star and moonlight reflecting off the foot of newly fallen snow. They were here because a day ago one of the scouts bad discovered the trail of a war party running across the Canadian River and beading southeast toward the Washita. They were in the Indian Territory, south of Kansas and north of Texas. It was a bleak land. Scoured by wind, with few trees, usually only along the riverbeds, which were few and far between.

Custer had pounced on the report and ordered his command in pursuit. A winter campaign was something new for the Army in the west, but it was a sign of the pressure being put on the War Department by outraged civilians throughout the western territories. Particularly Kansas. Which had been hard hit by Indian raids the past couple years. There was also l report that one of the tribes in the area had white captives—women and children--which added to the urgency.

Bouyer had arrived just two days ago, after a week of hard riding from Colorado. On the second day he’d sensed Crazy Horse’s presence behind him like a trailing storm, never closing, but not falling very far behind, either. Where before the sense of his “brother’s” aura bad always been red, of anger, there was a blackness now about Crazy Horse that worried Bouyer.

He’d booked up with Custer and the Seventh at Camp Supply, an outpost on the Canadian River. He’d hired on in his usual position as hunter, something the outfit had desperately needed as it moved through the bare wintry terrain. His time with Bridger, who bad often scouted for the Army, held him in good stead with the few Army people who had some time on the frontier and remembered the old mountain man and knew anyone that bad ridden with him was an asset.

As soon as he had seen Custer, Bouyer had known not only that he was the man in his vision. But that he was also part of Bouyer’s future. It worried Bouyer greatly that such an apparently ignorant person was wrapped up in his fate, even though the exact nature of that fate still eluded him. Worse, the timing was also uncertain. Could it be today? Bouyer sensed Crazy Horse was not far away, but not close by, either. He definitely was not in the village that was Custer’s target. Bouyer knew his ‘’brother’’ was an integral part of whatever would Ultimately happen.

The crystal skull he’d been given by Earhart was in a bag tied off to his saddle, hidden by his bedroll. Despite knowing Crazy Horse wasn’t in the immediate area, Bouyer didn’t have a good feeling about what was going to happen.

The village that slept on the other side of the bluff, along the banks of the Washita, was Cheyenne, led by Chief Black Kettle. Bouyer’s brief look at it in the dark during the reconnaissance made him tend to agree with the officer who had questioned Custer--there were many lodges in the village, indicating at least a hundred warriors, along with perhaps three times that number of women and children. Also, he’d listened on the way here, to both whites and Indians he met, and Black Kettle had just gone to Fort Kearny on a peace mission. Why Was Custer so anxious to attack his camp then?

*****

Custer was issuing orders, dividing his command into four columns, directing his subordinate officers to maneuver in such a way as to surround the village and attack at dawn. Having no official position in this matter, Bouyer decided to shadow Custer. He didn’t think much of the Colonel’s tactical plan. It presumed there would be no coordinated resistance. Also, it ignored the fact that there were several other Indian camps farther upriver. Custer seemed more concerned with the Cheyenne running than fighting.

Then Custer did something that struck Bouyer as coldhearted. He had all the dogs--a common thing for a cavalry unit was to have an assortment of strays follow along on the march--killed. They were muzzled with ropes and strangled. He knew Custer was afraid the dogs might bark and give away the advance, but he could have easily leashed them out of earshot. Custer even had his own two prized dogs killed, indicating how anxious he was for a victory.

Bouyer had heard stories of the yellow-haired regimental commander. How he had his own men who deserted shot down, much like he was killing the dogs. How he’d been court-martialed for leaving his command to go to his wife two years ago at Fort Hays. How he’d shot his own horse in the head while hunting buffalo.

However, Bouyer did have to give Custer credit for one thing-leading the blue-coat cavalry out in this weather. He knew the Cheyenne would not suspect the white soldiers of doing that. Balancing that advantage was that Bouyer had seen the trails for several different tribes in the area--not just Cheyenne, but Kiowas, Comanche’s, Apaches, and Arapaho. Winter was a time when tribes had to put aside animosities and share the best places for camps. In this desolate country, the riverbed was the only option.

*****

Crazy Horse stood, throwing off the snow-covered blanket. He walked over to his pony and untethered it. Shaking the snow off the blanket, he threw it over the pony’s back and then slid on top. He headed east along the top of the bluff.

As he rode he thought of his daughter, nursing the black feeling it brought. Dead because of the white man. Not by bullet or knife, but the bad air the whites brought with them. In just one generation, the Lakota had been halved in numbers due to the bad air. The same was true everywhere he traveled. The medicine men were powerless against the diseases the white men brought with them.

Crazy Horse did not understand why the white men weren’t satisfied with the land they already had. Why did they always want more? And was there no end to their numbers?

How could his mother have talked of glory and a greater good in the midst of the destruction of her people? A greater good for whom? It could only be for the whites if his people were destroyed.

The only good Crazy Horse could see was to kill as many of them as possible.

*****

Bouyer watched as the columns separated to surround the village. Bouyer followed Custer’s column, moving on foot, leading their horses along the river bluff, keeping their, horses between them and the village, hands over their muzzles to keep them quiet.

A first sergeant next to Bouyer leaned close. “Stay by the general. You’ll see how he did in the Rebs during the war.”

Bouyer knew the first sergeant was a Custer man. The “general” reference for Custer indicated that Custer had been a brevet major general during the Civil War. By the time of the surrender at Appomattox, Custer had been leading the Third Cavalry Division at only twenty-five years of age. But Bouyer had listened to others in the past couple days enough to know things that the first sergeant didn’t or chose not to believe. That Custer’s division had had the highest casualty numbers of all Union divisions during the war. That despite a dozen horses shot out from underneath him, Custer had never been scratched. That Custer had risen so fast in rank and had so much success that perhaps he had lost touch with soldiers he commanded and with whose blood he had won his glory.

Then the peace had come and the great demobilization. Custer, although still a major general in brevet--a basically honorary title--was reduced in rank to captain in the regular Army. He managed to crawl back up from that, and when the Army was reorganized in 1866, he was appointed lieutenant colonel of the Seventh Cavalry. There was a colonel who by letter commanded the Seventh; Bouyer had actually met Colonel Sturgis when he had visited St. Louis with Bridger the previous winter.

General Sherman, who commanded the Western Department, had lashed Sturgis to a desk in Mounted Recruiting Command in St. Louis and turned the Seventh over to Custer. Bouyer knew that Sturgis, at fifty-four, would not have been able to push the regiment like Custer had the last several days in this harsh weather. The bottom line was that everyone felt Custer was the great Indian fighter, at least by reputation. Half the regiment thought Custer walked on water, the first sergeant one of them. The other half despised him, which wasn’t good for morale.

They reached the top of the bluff overlooking the village. The men deployed, many still wrapped in rough wool blankets, trying to stay warm in the bone-chilling air. No alarm had been given. Bouyer was surprised there were no guards about, even just to watch the pony herd from thievery.

Custer climbed onto his horse, the other cavalrymen doing the same. Bouyer was surprised when Custer turned to his hand and deployed them, instruments ready, along the top of the bluff. Custer nudged his horse forward and began to descend toward the village, the line of troops to his left and right following suit.

*****

Crazy Horse was as still as the stunted tree he stood next to. Black Kettle’s village lay to the east and below. He could see the line of blue coats descending the bluff across from his location. No guards-Black Kettle deserved what was coming. Crazy Horse glanced to the east. Dawn was close, as he could make out a red glow on the horizon.

*****

Bouyer followed the wave of troopers down the bluff, sweeping toward the village. As the troopers increased speed to a gallop, the band broke into music, playing “Garry Owen,” the Seventh Cavalry’s song. A shot rang out as a brave burst out of his lodge, firing wildly. A ragged volley came from the charging troopers in response, several bullets striking the warrior and knocking him back against the lodge.

Bouyer pulled back on his horse’s reins, halting at the edge of the village. The scene was surreal as cavalrymen charged through the village, firing at point-blank range at anything that moved while the sound of the band playing floated overhead.

To his right one of Custer’s officers was hit, a bullet ripping through his heart and out his back. The man stayed in his stirrups for several more strides of the horse before toppling off, landing in the snow with a puff of white powder. It was pandemonium in the village as soldiers raced to and fro, firing at anything that moved, including dogs. There was no coordinated defense, just warriors using whatever weapon was handy to fight back. There was no distinction between those who fought and those who tried to run, between men and women or even children.

A bullet whizzed by Bouyer’s face, and he realized he also was being shown no distinction by the warriors. He swung off his horse, drawing his rifle. Two years ago he’d reluctantly traded in his muzzle-loading Hawkins for a Henry repeating rifle, giving up bullet caliber for speed of firing.

Bouyer rested the barrel of the rifle over his saddle but didn’t shoot. The camp was bedlam, with no hope for the braves to mount an effective defense as they were tom between fighting and saving their families. Bouyer saw Black kettle mount a horse, grab one of his wives, placing her in front of him on the horse, and gallop toward the river. Several soldiers also saw the chief. Bullets peppered the old man’s back, passing through him and killing his wife also. Both boodles toppled into the water.

A young Cheyenne girl ran out of a lodge that had been set on fire. A mounted soldier rode by and slashed at her with his saber, opening a bloody wound along the top of her skull. But the girl kept running. The soldier wheeled his mount and came back for a second try. Bouyer fixed the soldier in his sights and his finger caressed the trigger.

He didn’t fire.

The saber hit the girl’s left shoulder and sliced through her clavicle into her chest so deeply it was ripped out of the soldier’s hands as she fell to the ground mortally wounded. He halted his horse and dismounted. Putting a boot to the dead girl’s chest, he pulled the saber out, wiped the blood off on her clothes and reheated it. Then he drew a skinning knife and Proceeded to scalp the girl.

Scenes like this were playing out all over the camp. Bouyer pulled back his rifle, leaving it dangling at his side as he stood, as if in the eye of an insane hurricane, surrounded y death and barbarism. He saw two soldiers firing at a running boy, taking turns until finally one dropped the child, a round blowing off the top of his head. Lodges were being set ablaze, and the smoke added to the confusion. Still the band played on.

There was little resistance left, the survivors running or trying to hide in gullies or behind bushes. The top of the sun was showing on the horizon. Spelling doom for those who were hiding as soldiers tracked them down and executed them.

Bouyer tied off his horse to a sapling and slowly walked through the camp. He saw women and children being killed, some being used as sport by mounted soldiers with sabers. And where was Custer? Bouyer wondered. He spotted the regimental commander by the pony herd with a few of his officers. Bouyer walked over, eager to be away from the slaughter.

“I Want a count,” Custer was ordering. “Of everything. Ponies. Bodies. Weapons. Robes. Food. A written report. Then burn it all. Every single thing.” Custer had turned and was surveying the village. He pointed at a fine white lodge, not yet on fire, which Black Kettle had run out of. “I want that taken down and packed. · Mrs. Custer would appreciate it.”

He turned back to the large pony herd, about four hundred head, Bouyer estimated. “Officers and scouts may choose whatever they want. Kill the rest.”

One of the officers protested. “Sir, that’s a lot of horses to be--”

Custer spun on the man. “Damn it, do as I say.”

“Yes, sir.”

The general mounted his horse and rode off. leaving the officers debating how they should go about the gruesome task. Bouyer watched as they detailed soldiers to try to slit the ponies’ throats, but that proved difficult because as soon as a white man approached the tethered animals, they’d go wild, bucking and lashing out with their hooves.

Finally they settled on shooting them. Bouyer turned away as the slaughter began. The sound of wounded animals added to the insanity. As he made his way back through the village, he halted and slowly turned to the west. A warrior was standing a half-mile away on the bluff.

In his excitement and subsequent disgust at what he was witnessing, Bouyer had not listened to his inner voice.

*****

Crazy Horse saw Bouyer amidst the death below him. He had yet to see his “brother” take part in the battle, but it did not matter--he was with the blue coats. Crazy Horse saw two soldiers run down a squaw, throwing her to the ground near the western edge of the village. He mounted his horse and rode, keeping to the cover of the brush.

He heard them before he saw them--one of the soldiers was grunting with pleasure. Crazy Horse came around a thick bush and fired, the round catching the standing soldier in the face and knocking him backward. The one on top of the woman looked up, pleasure mixed with shock on his face. Crazy Horse dismounted in one smooth movement, drawing his hatchet. As the soldier fumbled with his pants, Crazy Horse threw the hatchet, the edge burying itself in the man’s chest.

The woman scrambled to get away and Crazy Horse ignored her as he retrieved his hatchet. She was soiled by the white men and of no use any more. He pulled the hatchet out of the man’s chest just as a nearby soldier spotted him and raised a cry of alarm. Crazy Horse ran to his horse and bounded on top of it.

*****

Bouyer had had Crazy Horse in his sights almost the entire time he rode down the bluff. He’d lost him as he entered the trees along the bottom; but he spotted the warrior as he came around the tree and fired at the soldier. As Crazy Horse jumped off his horse, Bouyer started to pull the trigger, but he forced himself to stop. This was not the time. Bouyer had seen what the soldiers were doing.

As the alarm was raised. A detail of about twenty men on the western end, led by a major, charged after Crazy Horse. The soldiers disappeared around a bend, hot in pursuit. Bouyer felt Crazy Horse’s essence moving away, and he felt a brief moment of pity for the soldiers chasing him.

The pity was gone as Bouyer turned and walked through the camp. Every Cheyenne body Bouyer passed had been scalped. Many were mutilated. A,s he came around the edge of a lodge, Bouyer, who didn’t think he could be any more disgusted, was shocked to see u. soldier laying on top of the body of a squaw, violating her even though she was dead and scalped. Bouyer rushed up and kicked the man. The soldier scrambled to get his pants up, cursing at Bouyer.

“She don’t care none,” the man protested.

Bouyer drew his hatchet and laid the fine edge against the soldier’s neck. The man’s eyes went wide. “You won’t either m a second, if you don’t get the hell away from here.”

The soldier scuffled away, yelling “Indian lover” over his shoulder. Bouyer looked down at the violated body. She was in her teens, blood covering her face, indicating she’d still been alive when she was scalped. He grabbed a nearby blanket and covered her, knowing the gesture was futile.

Bodies were being stacked like cordwood along the edge of the river as officers tried to get a count. Bouyer saw few warriors among the dead, mostly women and children. He glanced at the sun. It had not taken long. Perhaps thirty minutes. Having spent years on the frontier, Bouyer was used to death and violence, but he’d never experienced anything quite like what he had just seen. The band was playing a waltz now, of all things.

Bouyer reached his horse. He tentatively reached out and touched the bag holding the crystal skull, but there was no heat being projected by it. He pulled himself up into the saddle. Custer was organizing the regiment to withdraw to the east.

As Bouyer rode up, one of the officers was protesting the quick retreat. “Sir, Major Elliot and a patrol is still out chasing down some warriors.”

“Elliot can catch up with us on the march,” Custer said.

Another officer, the one named Benteen, held his ground. “Sir, Elliot is upriver. There are other villages up there, and he might be in trouble.”

Custer stared hard at Benteen. “Captain, I command this regiment, and as long as I do, you will do as I say. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Custer put the spurs to his horse and rode off, the rest of the regiment falling into line behind him.

Bouyer followed. Pausing as he reached the crest of the bluff. He looked back at the village. Bodies were stacked like logs, and acrid smoke blew across the black and red stained snow.

Crazy Horse was upriver, leading the soldiers on. Of that, Bouyer had no doubt.

He also had no doubt that this was just the prelude. He would meet his brother again, and Custer would be a part of it. And the battle would be very different than what had happened today. Bouyer turned and headed after the cavalry.

*****

Crazy Horse waved at the first warriors coming down river, indicating for them to turn and head back the way they had come. They hesitated, then followed his orders, which surprised him as he was not of their tribe. It was a curious situation as Crazy Horse negotiated the turns of the Washita. He could hear the soldiers behind, and in front of him was a growing cluster of warriors, most looking over their shoulders, wondering why he was directing them away from where they had heard the gunfire.

Two miles from Black Kettle’s village Crazy Horse signaled to the warriors in front of him, spreading his hands to both sides and then pointing up. Like water into sand, the warriors dispersed and disappeared into the brush on either bluff. Crazy Horse passed through the kill zone and halted his horse. He turned, facing downstream.

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 was 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, the 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.”

On the screen a cross-section of the planet appeared, complementing what Ahana was saying.

“The inner core is solid, while the outer core and mantle Ire still molten, with the crust forming a surface on which life has evolved. Despite a radius of only thirty-five hundred kilometers, the inner core contains a large percentage of the planet’s mass. And despite the high temperature, it is solid. There is only one material that could be solid under such tremendous pressure and heat: diamond. Unlike the small diamonds closer to the surface that you are familiar with, this inner diamond field has to exist on an unimaginable scale; a massive crystalline structure of diamonds that could not only absorb the energy but also deal with the electrical field around it.

“What is important to note is that diamond is an excellent conductor of heat but not of electricity. Because a slowly circulating molten outer core that produces electricity and heat surrounds the inner diamond core, a tremendous amount of energy is generated inside the planet with the heat conducted but the electricity circulating, forming a powerful magnetic field.

“While life went from single to multicellular organisms, the single continent of Pangea, surrounded by a worldwide ocean, did the opposite, slowly breaking apart due to the tectonic stresses from below.”

The image of one mass splitting into forms that roughly approximated the current seven continents appeared on the screen.

“The Earth’s crust is only a thin skin that constitutes less than point two percent of the planet’s mass. The crust under water averages about five times less thickness than that beneath the land, which is why I believe most of the large gates have occurred over water.

“Several million years ago, between several of the continents in the center of what we know as the Atlantic Ocean, a long line of magma boiled up from the inner Earth, met the cool water and, in that fiery intersection, built a ridge higher and higher. The mid-Atlantic Ridge grew because the tectonic plates that intersected beneath it were pulling away from each other. More and more molten rock boiled forth, the wider the split between the North/South American plates and the Eurasian/African plates grew.

“In the center of the Atlantic, about twenty degrees north latitude, the split was even more pronounced because there was an intersection of four plates pulling away from each other, both east/west and north/south. This widening process--no more than a couple inches a year but multiplied over millennia--pushed so much magma through that the hardening lava actually rose above the surface of the water, producing islands, which over more time rose high enough to possibly connect to each other and produce a land mass worthy of being a continent itself-a continent we call Atlantis. It might not have been a continent, but rather a collection of islands, but either way. there was definitely land in the middle of the Atlantic.

“Remember, though, that it was a land built over a crack in the Earth’s crust with no firm attachment to the planet other than the line of magma that still boiled though many miles under the surface. This made it very different from the other continents, which were anchored on top of one hundred kilometers of cold rock that made up the tectonic plates and the thickest part of the crust.

“We have to assume that because of the extremely fertile volcanic soil that covered Atlantis and the bountiful ocean that surrounded it, the pieces were in place for humans who could reap the food supplied by both sources to develop quickly. It also benefited from the warming effect of the Gulf Stream, making it temperate year round. I believe the first civilization of mankind arose on Atlantis.

“It did not last long before the Shadow appeared. I think the Shadow attacked Atlantis because it sat on top of this crack, almost a direct pathway to the power inside the planet. The thing that made the land so bountiful also doomed it.”

Dane thought about that. He thought the explanation was off in some way he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

‘’The Ones Before helped the Atlanteans in their battle against the Shadow. We’ve seen how the minds of special people, people like you, can re-direct power, although the cost is high, resulting in transformation ill a pure crystalline skull.

“The ancient ones of mankind fought a war that spread around the globe until the very existence of life was threatened. And in the climactic battle, the ancient ones, with the aid of the Ones Before, stopped the Shadow--but at a high price. Their home of Atlantis was destroyed in a cataclysm of fire and earthquake. The resulting tsunamis touched every shore on the planet with such devastation that the legend of the Great Flood was written of both in the Tibetan Book of the Dead and the Old Testament of the Jewish people on the other side of the world.

“The survivors, in a handful of ships, scattered to the four winds and planted the seeds for future civilizations to arise thousands of years later, what we call the modem world. The Atlanteans stopped the Shadow but lost their civilization and their home in the process. This is something we would like to avoid.

“Since the destruction of Atlantis, the Shadow has kept a presence on our planet via gates. Sometimes these gates expanded, such as in A.D. 800 when the capital city of the Khmer Empire in Cambodia was swallowed up by such a gate--the one at Kol Ker which you entered. But always the gates shrunk back in size or even disappeared for years on end. So infrequent were the Shadow’s actions that man knew so little of it, that places where gates sometimes opened were viewed more as mystical places, such as the Devil’s Sea off the coast of Japan or the Bermuda Triangle. Even Atlantis faded into the fog of myth.”

There was a pause in the recording. Dane glanced out of the cockpit. They were still over the Pacific, heading to the West at supersonic speed.

“A major problem is that we are not sure exactly who the Shadow is or where they—or it-come from. We know you found human bodies inside the Valkyrie suits, but that could simply mean the Shadow has recruited humans to do their dirty work. If the Shadow is human, another Earth time line attacking our time line, the issue is how did they attain such a mastery of nature? It is obvious that the Shadow is an enemy that has a grasp of the true nature of physics that is far ahead of ours.”

Dane rubbed his forehead as he scrolled down the screen, looking at formulas and data Ahana had placed in the computer. He knew he needed to understand as much as possible, but he was finding some of this hard to absorb. Especially as Ahana now tried to give him a primer on the cutting edge of physics.

“Muons are part of the second family of fundamental particles which we know little about. Most of what we deal with in our world is in the first family, consisting of electrons, up-quarks and down-quarks. The second family consists of muons, charm quarks and strange quarks. And all these things are not single dots, according to string theory, but there a tiny, one-dimensional loop that is vibrating, which gives it several characteristics, which allows us to merge relativity and quantum mechanics.”

There was another short pause, then Ahana’s voice came through again.

“Let me explain this to you more simply. We have a problem with our theories of physics. Relativity explains things ell for large matter but doesn’t work at the smallest levels. Quantum physics works well at the smallest levels, but not at Quantum physics works well at the smallest levels. But not at what we call a unified-field theory that explains everything. We think string theory is it.

“Power is the key to all of this. We know the Shadow likes to draw power from this side, whether it is in the form of radioactivity as they did at Chernobyl, or from the planet itself along the tectonic plates, one of the greatest, if slowest, powers on the planet, as they recently tried to do through the Nazca Plain.

“There are four base forces in nature: gravity, electromagnetic power, strong, and weak. For electromagnetic power the force particle is the photon. For gravity it’s postulated that ere is a particle called the graviton, but ,again, only because of effect, not that we’ve ever seen one. For strong the particle is the gluon. And for weak we have weak gauge bosons.

“Professor Nagoya believed the Shadow could manipulate the strong and weak forces. We can do so, too, but only crudely. A nuclear weapon explodes when we split atoms and the strong forces are released. When uranium decays in a reactor we are using weak forces. Professor Nagoya believed the Shadow could manipulate strong and weak forces like we use electricity and that is how they were able to a certain extent extend portals across parallel worlds and times.”

If the Shadow could control such forces, Dane wondered, why did it need to attack other time lines for power, water, and people?

“There have been scientists who’ve theorized that there are an infinite number of parallel universes, existing side by side, to speak, in what is called the multiverse.” Dane heard Ahana sigh before she continued. “The fundamental problem with trying to understand the universe is that we don’t really I know how it started. If you view time as a line, and we are currently at the right-hand end of it, the universe began at the left-hand end, and that formation might rely on cosmological evolution that is outside the scope of even the deepest theory we can come up with.”

In other words, Dane thought, we don’t know much of anything about what was going on. That brought up the issue Ahana had mentioned earlier--if the Shadow was human, how had it gained this knowledge? Or was the Shadow some alien life force far advanced of mankind?

Did it matter, though? Dane wondered. Nagoya and Ahana’s theories and research had so far yielded little practical information.

Dane took the headphones off and closed the laptop. Science didn’t have the answers. He was going to have to trust the visions and the words he heard. So far they had steered him correctly.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Taki felt a spasm of pain pass down the middle of his skull. It was so intense that at first he thought he’d been struck in the head and he brought his hand up, expecting to see it covered in blood. But his skin was intact. The pain was inside.

He blinked. Trying to clear his head. and the pain abated, but he couldn’t see clearly. This had happened before. He sank to his knees and closed his eyes. He cleared his mind using the discipline of the samurai training.

He saw what he needed to do. His heart swelled with pride. It was a great honor to be entrusted with such a thing. He glanced over at Earhart, who was sleeping not far away. He knew if he woke her, she would argue with him. She would want to take his place or have him use one of the two suits they had. But he knew she could not take his place, and he knew she needed the extra suit. They had waited a long time at the Inner Sea for someone to come through, then reluctantly returned to camp. One of the problems with the visions they had from the Ones Before was that the timing of events was rarely locked down. Someone would come, of that Taki had no doubt. But when was more of the question.

He quietly walked over and picked up the metal case holding the skulls. Then he left the camp, making his way to the Inner Sea. When he arrived, he was not surprised to see Rachel leap out of the water and land with a splash. Taki couldn’t miss her, and he turned to the right, walking down to the shoreline. Following her as she led him. Until she halted.

He held the case holding the rest of the crystal skulls in both hands as he walked into the slimy water of the Inner Sea. When the water reached his chest, he paused as Rachel raced about him, cutting a tight circle in the water. He held the case above the water. His lips were moving as he repeated the prayer his mother had taught him, the one that helped a small child be brave when it was dark and the wind howled outside.

His skin tingled and his hair stood upright. The air in front of him flickered, and then suddenly, a black column four feet wide appeared. Taki didn’t hesitate. He moved forward into the portal.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BOULDER, COLORADO TERRITORY: 10 MAY 1876

He was known as the Mountain Madman in town. In a mining town full of many strange characters, such a distinguishing moniker meant one was indeed far from the norm.

Bouyer didn’t care what the people in Boulder called him. He only went down there every three or four months for ammunition and other essential supplies. So far he’d made seven trips. It was closing on two years since he’d left Denver after his vision. He’d found the spot he’d “seen” relatively easily: a small cave at the base of the middle Flatiron in rough terrain.

At first he’d camped there, expecting something to happen at any moment. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, he’d realized that the vision hadn’t guaranteed a time. He went to work and built a small cabin outside the cave. He hunted for food and did some trapping so he could trade m town. And most of all, he waited. Through two brutal winters, the searing heat of summer, lightning storms and flooding creeks, he waited.

Whenever he went into town he also checked on the latest news. 1875 had been a year of turmoil. Another Army expedition had confirmed the finding of gold in the Black Hills. The government tried to buy the land outright from the Sioux, an offer that was soundly rejected. Then the government did the inevitable, opening the land to whites, breaking their own treaty. To make the area safe, a proclamation was issued ordering all Sioux to report to reservations by 31 January, 1876. Any who did not would be considered hostile.

General Crook, a renowned Indian fighter, had attempted a campaign in the winter of 1875 to 1876, but the Army found these northern plains more brutal than those in the south and managed only to scatter one village before the cold sent them back to the warmth of their forts.

Now with spring, there were rumors of military movement against the Sioux. Bouyer knew the storm clouds were gathering, yet he also knew he had to stay in this place until whatever he was waiting for occurred.

Bouyer walked back and forth along the base of the massive rock face of the second Flatiron. Sheer rock angled up for more than three hundred feet. Before pointing a jagged edge into the sky. Boulder was several miles to the east, on the edge into the sky. Boulder was several miles to the east, on the edge spot.

Bouyer paused in his pacing as storm clouds appeared over the top of the Flatirons. Afternoon thunderstorms were common in the spring, and he paid it little mind. That is until a lightning bolt hit the middle of the Flatiron. Spraying chips of rock down on him.

Bouyer staggered back into the shelter of a pine tree as another bolt struck the rock face. He felt it, the power, the nearness of something. Finally, was all he could think.

In front of him. At the very bottom of the Flatiron, a black circle appeared on the rock about six feet around and pitch black, a darkness that Bouyer didn’t want to go near. He waited as lightning crackled all about. Thunder reverberating off the Flatirons and echoing all around.

A man stepped out of the circle, a man who had been through a gate of fire, his body burned, blistered and savaged by the gate. In his hands was a singed metal case. Bouyer felt his stomach heave as he saw that the man’s eyes were blinded, partially melted from whatever he had experienced. He couldn’t imagine the pain the man must be in. Bouyer had seen captives burned at the stake in Indian camps, but this was far beyond that.

The man held up the case in his hands. Bouyer reached out and took it. The man went to his knees, lifted his head up to the rain that was just beginning to fall, as if the drops were soothing to his burned flesh, then collapsed, dead.

Bouyer knelt next to the body, putting down the still warm and smoking case. Bouyer noted that the man’s eyes were narrow. Was he a Chinaman, like one of those working on the railroad in the east? Where had he come from?

Bouyer turned from the body to the case. Whatever the metal was, it had been partially melted and warped. The latch to open it didn’t work. Bouyer pulled out his hatchet and went to work, cutting through. As he worked, the storm passed and the sun broke through the clouds. After many strokes, the blade bounced off something hard. He saw the glint of crystal. He uncovered a skull, then another. Eventually he extracted eight from the case.

Bouyer stood, looking at the eight crystal skulls reflecting the sunlight. He turned to the body and picked up the smaller man. He carried the body to his cabin and placed it inside. Then he started a fire in the Center of the small room. Bouyer went back out and watched as flames engulfed the structure. Then he loaded the skulls, adding in the one he’d already had, into a pack and tied it off on his horse. He mounted the saddle, turned the horse toward the north and set off.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

LAKE BAIKAL, RUSSIA: THE PRESENT

Dane looked down as the F-14 banked and began descending. He could see a lake below so long that the north and south ends extended over the horizon. Lake Baikal, where the Shadow was still drawing fresh water. As they got lower, Dane could see that the water level had dropped significantly, at least two hundred feet.

A small city was to the left, and the pilot headed them toward a runway at an airfield on the edge of it. As the wheels touched down. Dane could see a Land Rover racing down the runway. When the plane came to a halt. The pilot opened the canopy. The Land Rover pulled up and a door opened. An old man with a long white beard climbed out and waited as Dane climbed out of the plane.

“Mister Dane, welcome to Russia. I am Professor Kolkov.”

“Foreman sends his greetings,” Dane said as he shook the professor’s hand.

Kolkov laughed. “Foreman. Quite a character. We’ve chatted many times but never met face to face. We averted many a disaster for our countries working together.”

“Now we have another one,” Dane said.

“The latest reports from our people monitoring the radioactivity from Chernobyl are not encouraging,” Kolkov said. “Moscow will be covered within four days.”

“Is the equipment ready?” Dane asked.

Kolkov turned to the east, in the direction of the lake. “It Was brought from the salvage people who worked on the Kursk.” He paused. “You do know that sinking was not an accident.”

“A gate?”

Kolkov nodded. “Over the years we’ve lost five nuclear submarines to the Shadow. The reactor is taken, the ship sinks, and many brave sailors die.”

They got in the Land Rover and Kolkov began driving. Dane asked the question that had bothered him on the flight while reviewing Ahana’s data. “Why does the Shadow need our nuclear reactors? According to Nagoya, the Shadow can manipulate forces we can only theorize about.”

In response, Kolkov pointed toward the front of the Land Rover. “One day we will run out of petroleum. We will still have the technology, but without the fuel, it will be worthless. I suspect the Shadow exhausted its natural resources and is using its technology to come to our world to replenish them.”

“Who do you think the Ones Before are?” Dane asked.

Kolkov shrugged. “Perhaps rebels among the Shadow?”

“Why don’t they help us more directly? This vision-and-voices thing is not the best mode.”

“Perhaps they don’t have access to the same technology as the Shadow. There is much we don’t know.”

Too much. Dane thought. “Do you think the Shadow is alien or human? We did find humans inside the Valkyrie suits.”

Kolkov brought the Land Rover to a halt at a pier extending out over dry lakebed. The water was almost a quarter-mile away. He looked at Dane. “I hope it is not human. That would mean one time line is destroying many others just to keep itself going. But I also saw the Nazis invade my country many years ago, so I do not doubt the evil man is capable of.

“On the more positive side, if it is human, that means it is as vulnerable as we are so perhaps we can eventually defeat it. First, however,” he opened his door, “we must save ourselves.”

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Amelia Earhart knelt at the edge of the Inner Sea. She saw Rachel’s dorsal fm cutting the black water not far off shore. Behind her was Asper, who had been the ship’s assistant surgeon onboard the Cyclops, a naval coal freighter that had disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle in 1918. Although he had been saved by the Ones Before, the rest of his crew had gone into the Valkyrie cave-an example of the strange apparent fickleness of their unseen benefactors. Earhart. Asper, and the samurai had conducted a raid once into the cave, killing as many of the hapless victims as possible, and Asper had recognized several of his crewmates. They had stopped doing such things because the scope of the task was overwhelming, with thousands of humans strapped to tables being worked on. Also, they were afraid if they were too active, the Valkyries would mount an expedition against their camp and wipe them out. Asper currently had the two Valkyrie suits in tow, a line tied to each, each suit bobbing behind in the air like an oversize white balloon.

Earhart closed her eyes as Rachel came to a halt, lifting her gray body a third of the way out of the water. Earhart felt the connection with the dolphin, a soothing presence flowing into her mind.

“Taki is gone,” she whispered.

“He knew he had a duty,” Asper said.

“Duty.” Earhart slowly got to her feet.

“When are they coming?” Asper was looking out over the Inner Sea at the dozen portals that were visible.

“Soon. Very soon.”

LAKE BAIKAL: THE PRESENT

There were dozens of boats grounded on the dry lakebed. A zodiac had picked up Dane and Kolkov from a hastily rigged wooden dock and brought them to a large fishing boat that held a submersible steady with one of its booms. They transferred directly from the zodiac to the submersible.

A man in a wet suit and sporting a thick gray beard was seated on top of the submersible, directly behind the hatch. He had a small cup in his hand, and while Dane climbed onboard, he tossed it into the water muttering something in Russian.

“This is Captain Gregor Kalansky,” Kolkov said.

Kalansky grunted an acknowledgment.

Kolkov indicated for Dane to precede him into the craft. He slapped the metal hatch as Dane slid by him. “Mir I, just like the space station. Not very imaginative. It is the same submersible that went down to the Titanic for the filming of that movie by the same name.”

Kalansky came in next, pushing past Dane and taking his place at the controls and ignoring his two passengers.

“How deep is the gate?” Dane asked as Kolkov pulled down the hatch with a resounding thud.

“At the very bottom,” Kolkov said. He nudged Dane to · take one of the small jump seats directly behind the pilot.

Kolkov handed Dane a piece of paper. “A map of the lake bottom. Baikal is the deepest lake in the world. The oldest, too. It holds--held--one fifth of the world’s fresh water. More than all your Great Lakes in America combined.” He pointed back and forth. “Seven hundred kilometers long.” Then he pointed down. ‘’Three tectonic plates join right below us. Plates that are spreading away from each other and have been doing so for about thirty millions years. That is why the fault below us is so deep.”

“How deep is the fissure?” Dane asked.

“Forty kilometers. It’s the deepest depression on the face of the planet.”

“We’re going down forty kilometers?” Dane had never heard of a submersible capable of going that deep.

“No,” Kolkov said. “The water only goes down a kilometer and a half. The rest of it has filled with sediment over the years. There are more than three hundred rivers and streams feeding the lake.” He indicated the imagery. “The gate is just above the sediment layer--after all, they want water, not dirt.”

The submersible rocked as the captain released it from the crane that had been holding it. The engines whined as they moved out into the lake.

“This gate has been active a long time,” Kolkov said. “We think the Shadow has been draining it for a long time, although not at the rate we see now. Just enough to keep the water level steady. Years ago scientists knew there was something strange here because although there are more than three hundred fillers to Baikal, there is only one visible outlet, the Angara River.”

Dane was looking at the muonic imagery. The circle indicating the gate was large, very large, but he had no idea of the scale. “How big is this portal?”

“Just under a kilometer and a half in width.”

Dane wondered if they could bring the sphere back through this gate-it was large enough. He knew his plan, as outlined to Foreman, was weak:, but he had to trust that if he had been “given” one piece of it, others had parts also, and everyone was working to make it happen. His experiences so far in fighting the Shadow had brought him many strange allies, from a Roman gladiator, to a Viking warrior, to a Greek Oracle.

“Another reason I think this gate has been open a long time,” Kolkov continued, “is that there are life forms here that have never been found anywhere.”

“Kraken?” Dane asked, remembering the strange squid like creatures with jaws at the end of their tentacles.

“There are legends of such.” Kolkov said. “although no one has seen any recently. The people who live around the lake, the Buryat, believe that gods dwell in the lake. They have ones they call the Doshkin-novon who steal ships and men during times of storm and fog.”

Kalansky spoke for the first time. “I made a toast to the water gods. I asked some of the locals, and they said it is what they do before venturing out onto the lake. Very good vodka.”

Dane didn’t think the Shadow cared much about the quality of vodka tossed its way. “How long until we’re at the gate?”

“Forty minutes,” Kalansky said. “We pass the point of no return in twenty minutes.”

“’Point of no return’?” Dane repeated.

“Where the flow of water into this hole will be stronger than my engines,” Kalansky said. “Once we reach that, we’re going in no matter what we do. So you have--” he glanced at a chronometer--“slightly over nineteen minutes to make sure you want to do this.”

“We’re going in,” Dane said.

“That is what I was afraid of,” Kalansky said. “You really do not need me. The current will be piloting this ship soon.” “You don’t want to go?” Dane asked.

“Oh, I’m going,” Kalansky said. “I have heard there is a place through here where there are many lost ships. Old ships. Ones of legend. I would very much like to see that.”

Dane remembered the graveyards he’d seen--one through the Bermuda Triangle gate and one through the Devil’s Sea gate--the former holding many craft lost in the Atlantic, the latter those lost in the Pacific. It was an eerie sight, seeing hundreds of craft ranging from ancient rafts to modem jet fighters drawn up on the circular shoreline surrounding the Inner Sea. Many of the craft had been scavenged, parts and material taken by the Shadow. All the people had most definitely been taken.

“1 don’t know if we’ll see one of those places,” he told Kalansky.

“But you do not know for sure where we will end up, according to the professor,” Kalansky pointed out.

“That’s true.”

“Then we shall see what we shall see,” Kalansky said, expressing the Russian sense of fatalism that had guided them through czars, Stalin, and communism.

“I have a question for you:’ Kolkov said to Dane.

“Yes?”

Kolkov tapped the side of his head. “You have the sight? You hear the words of the Ones Before?”

Dane nodded.

“And you’ve met others like you?”

“Yes. Some here, some when I pass through the portals.”

“What do you think: it is? Why do you think you, and only a few others, can do this?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Kalansky interjected.

When Dane had been recruited by Foreman to go into Cambodia to back into the Angkor Gate, he had been accompanied by a woman named Sin Fen who had explained as much as she could about the voices and visions. Ever since he was able to remember, he’d been different from those around him. He’d always be able to sense things others weren’t aware of. At first it had surprised him that he was different, then he’d learned to hide it.

“There was a woman who worked for Foreman,” Dane finally said. “Her name was Sin Fen. She was the first person I met who was like me. Foreman recruited her out of Cambodia. She was the descendant of the priestesses of Kol Ker.”

“Twelve minutes,” Kalansky announced, but both Dane and Kolkov ignored him.

“I could speak to her with my mind. She told me what she knew of our ability. She said it was a genetic aberration.” Dane shook his head as he remembered. “No, not an aberration, but a throwback to early man. Do you know of the bicameral mind, that our brain is separated into two hemispheres ?”

Kolkov nodded.

Dane held up his left hand. ‘’This is my dominant hand, which means I’m right-brain dominant, as all our nerves switch sides just before –the brain stem. They say the right side of the brain is the creative part while the left is the logical. The majority of the population is left-side dominant. Only three percent of the population is right dominant.

“But Sin Fen said--” Dane paused as the submersible rocked.

“We’re close to the current,” Kalansky announced. He had his hands on the controls. “I’m just trying to keep us steady.”

“Sin Fen said,” Dane continued, “that she and 1 weren’t right dominant, but both--side dominant. Both hemispheres of our brains worked together much more efficiently than most people’s. And she said that was the way the minds of man’s ancestors worked.”

Kolkov frowned, not following. He was a physicist, definitely left-brain dominant, and this was outside his field. “Our ancestors? What do you mean?”

“When did we part ways from the other animals?” Dane asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Most people say it’s our ability to think, but that’s an abstract. As a scientist you study what you can measure, what you can see. The manifest examples of thinking are present in many creatures--the ability to learn, to conceptualize. Dogs can learn,” Dane said, thinking of Chelsea and the rescue missions he’d been on with her.

“But can they conceptualize?” Kolkov argued.

“When hunting in packs, lions can conceptualize what the prey will do. Some might say that’s a genetic trait, but each hunting situation is somewhat different, so there is some degree of conceptualizing going on. It’s an arbitrary line so we don’t know where to draw it.”

“Language then? The ability to communicate? That is what makes us different, is it not?”

Dane thought of Rachel. “Dolphins can communicate. Monkeys can respond to signals. Those are forms of communicating. What no other species can apparently do, though, is communicate as extensively as we can with a verbal language. Many scientists believe that is when we parted ways with the rest of the species on this planet, when we began to act as individuals, rather than as part of a group. And that was not necessarily a good thing,” Dane added.

“Why?”

“We’re the only species that wars amongst itself at the level we do. We’ve lost a lot of our intra-species empathy. In the beginning, humans didn’t have a verbal language. Sin Fen thought that early man communicated telepathically. Not-” Dane held up his hand to keep Kolkov from interrupting--”in the way that we could read each other’s thoughts, but rather we could sense each other’s emotions. If one member of the tribe saw a lion, the fear that person felt was transmitted to the others in the tribe.

“This made for effective tribal interaction but retarded overall progress because the tribe had to stay together. Developing a verbal language allowed man to explore more, to act as individuals and have more initiative. This change occurred inside our brains and was a major trade-off.

“We have two hemispheres that, to a large extent, are redundant. There are people who have had an entire hemisphere removed and can still function relatively normally in the world. But there’s one part of the brain that is similar but not redundant. We have speech centers on both sides, yet in the vast majority of people, it is only active in the left hemisphere.”

“What does their right speech center do?” Kolkov asked. The ride was getting bumpier, and Kalansky was muttering to himself in Russian.

“It’s there, but it doesn’t seem to do anything in most people.” :Except you,” Kolkov said.

Dane nodded. “Mine is active. Sin Fen said that is where our primal telepathic ability, or more appropriately, you might call it our empathetic ability, resides. There are three parts in the brain that produce speech: the supplementary motor area, which is the least important; Broca’s area, in the rear of the frontal lobe; and Wernicke’s area, in the posterior part of the temporal lobe, which if you remove it, produces a permanent loss of meaningful speech.

“All three work in the left hemisphere to produce speech, but they are also present on the opposite side, but apparently nonfunctioning in most people. Initially, man’s brain was more connected between the two sides and the speech centers worked in harmony so all humans could ‘talk’ to each other in a telepathic way. In fact, the strange thing is that early man might have been able to ‘read’ each other’s minds, except they didn’t have a language to read.”

Seeing Kolkov’s frown, Dane tried to explain. “Do you think in words, or do you think in pictures?”

“I’ve never really considered it,” Kolkov said. “I suppose in words.”

Dane nodded. “Most people do, although some think in images. But if you had no words. No language. You would have to think in pictures. Also, what do you think is stronger--thoughts or emotions?”

“Are they necessarily different” Kolkov asked.

Dane found it strange to be having this conversation as they were being sucked into a portal that would take them from the planet they knew. Despite their fronts, Dane could sense both men’s fear. He was the only one of the three who had been into a portal before. He’d been to the Space Between and beyond. He knew that Kolkov wanted the discussion to keep going as” much to keep his mind off where they were going as to learn.

“Maybe not so different,” Dane admitted, “but isn’t emotion more powerful? Doesn’t all art revolve around emotion rather than intellect? Sometimes I think artists are trying to bring us back to our roots. The development of a verbal language allowed us to advance as a species, but when we lost our telepathic abilities we also lost something important.

“Sin Fen believed that people like her and me have come full circle. We have both--the verbal language and the telepathic ability. I could speak to her and hear her without saying a word.” Dane tapped his head. “My speech centers are equally developed, functional, and more developed than a normal person’s. Sin Fen had MRIs done of her brain and they verified this.

“Physiological psychologists have” long theorized that Wernicke’s area on the nonspeech side of the brain--the right side--is the center for man’s imagination. It is also where I get my visions from and where I hear what Sin Fen called the voices of the gods, which I think is some sort of transmission by the Ones Before. Psychologists have long theorized there is indeed a God center in the brain.”

“Five minutes until we cannot go back,” Kalansky said.

“In ancient days, Greeks and Romans called people like me Oracles. They were the seers of their tribes.”

“And what do you see for us?” Kolkov asked as the” submersible rocked in the strong current. “If the Shadow is draining this water because it needs it, won’t we go through this portal directly to the Shadow’s world?”

Dane shook his head. “I don’t think any portals to our world lead directly to the Shadow’s world. The Space Between is a buffer between parallel worlds. There are portals that go to other places on the same world, but not to other worlds.” At least, Dane thought to himself. That’s my best guess based on my experiences.

‘’There is something ahead,” Kalansky said.

The ride was getting rougher as the submersible was being tossed about in the torrent of water being sucked into the portal.

“We cannot go back now,” Kalansky announced.

Dane leaned forward and looked at the radar display. It indicated what appeared to be a solid wall directly ahead. “That’s the portal. Radar can’t penetrate it.”

“Are you sure we can?” Kalansky asked.

“Yes.”

“And then’?” Kalansky pressed.

“We should be in the Inner Sea of the Space Between,” Dane said.

“And then?” Kalansky looked over his shoulder. “If you have a plan it might be good to share it with me, as we will reach this portal in less than two minutes.”

“We land on the shore and link up with Amelia Earhart.” Dane said.

“And where is all this water going?” Kalansky asked.

‘’Most likely to another portal and then on to the Shadow’s world.”

Kalansky’s hands were fighting the controls, trying to keep the craft relatively stable. “If this volume goes from one place to another in this Inner Sea, the current in this Inner Sea will be tremendous. How do you suggest we get out of the current to the shore?”

Dane hadn’t thought of that. He had simply known they had to go through a portal and the Devil’s Sea one was too dangerous.

Kalansky looked over his shoulder. “You don’t have a plan, do you?”

“Not yet.”

“‘Not yet’? Kalansky turned his attention back to the Controls. “You’ve got one minute before we’re into this thing to come up with a plan.”

Dane leaned back in the crash seat and closed his eyes. He felt the dread that close proximity to a portal always produced. But beyond that there was nothing. No voice. No vision, just darkness and--he was slammed against the shoulder straps and everything inside the submersible went dark.

He heard Kalansky yelling something in Russian. Then Dane’s head slammed back against the seat as the front of the submersible rapidly dipped down. Within seconds it was upside down.

“English,” Kolkov yelled at the pilot, who was still speaking rapidly in his native tongue.

A dull red glow lit the interior as a battery-powered emergency light went on. “We’ve lost main power,” Kalansky said, his hands flying over the controls, flipping switches. “I’ve got no thrust, no steering, and if you haven’t noticed, we are inverted.”

“Get us to the surface,” Dane said. He closed his eyes once more, reaching outward with his mind.

“Surface of what?” Kalansky yelled back. “1 don’t even know where we are.”

Dane pointed down, which was actually up. “That way. Drop ballast.”

“If I drop ballast--” Kalansky began, but Dane cut him off.

“Do it now. We’re still moving. We’re in the Inner Sea being drawn to the Shadow portal.”

Cursing in Russian, Kalansky hit a lever. There was a ding sound and the submersible rotated halfway, so that they were now hanging on their left sides.

“Some of the ballast won’t empty,” Kalansky said as he hit another lever. “It wasn’t designed to work upside down.”

Dane looked to the portal to his right. There was the faintest sign of light. “We’re not too far from the surface.”

“Got it,” Kalansky yelled as there was another grinding sound and the submersible rotated once more, this time to the upright position. ‘’We should be going up.”

Dane unbuckled from the seat and moved to the ladder, clambering up. He began undoing the hatch. He flung it open, letting in a rush of foul black water--the Inner Sea. It slid over his exposed skin with a greasy feeling. He pushed up through it onto the top of the submersible. The first thing he noted was that they were moving--quickly--away from a massive portal behind them. Turning, Dane could see another portal about a quarter-mile ahead, equally large. The water from Baikal was forming a mile-wide stream in the middle of the Inner Sea, pouring from one to the other and taking the submersible with it. And hovering directly above the stream, about a hundred yards away, were two Valkyries.

“Come on,” Dane yelled down into the submersible.

In the time it took Kolkov to join him, the distance to the Valkyries had been cut in half.

“Kalansky,” Dane called. He looked down and saw the Russian pilot looking up at him.

“I cannot leave my ship,” Kalansky shouted.

“How will we get back?” Kolkov argued.

Dane had no time to argue with either of them. The Valkyies were moving apart, stretching something between them a rope. Dane dove down into the submersible, one hand on the ladder, the other gripping the collar of Kalansky’s wetsuit. He literally dragged the old man up the ladder.

“Grab the rope,” Dane yelled at Kolkov.

The Russian scientist looked doubtful, but there was no ne to question the order. Dane reached up with his free hand and grabbed hold of the rope. He was tom from the top of the submersible as it was pulled by underneath him. His other arm jerked hard as Kalansky dangled from it. The submersible continued its inexorable movement toward the portal.

The two Valkyries began moving, heading toward shore, when Dane’s arm was jerked sideways. He looked down to see a red tentacle wrapped around Kalansky, holding the Russian even with Dane’s own altitude. The tip of the tentacle reared back, and opened, revealing razor-sharp teeth, then punched into the Russian’s back, exploding out of his chest in a gush of viscera and blood.

Still Dane didn’t let go. The strain on his arms, particularly his hands, was unbearable. One of the Valkyries circled, coming close, and swept a free hand down, claws extended, slicing through Kalansky’s forearm, severing the hand Dane held from his body.

Dane swung back to the vertical as the tentacle disappeared under the water with Kalansky in tow. The Valkyries gained altitude as several more tentacles popped out of the water, mouths agape, searching for targets. Dane felt one brush the bottom of his boot.

As the Valkyries reached the shore, they descended until Dane’s feet touched the ground. He stumbled and then fell to his knees. Kolkov seemed to be in a state of shock. The front halves of the two suits split open and Earhart and Asper stepped out.

“You can let go of that,” Earhart said to Dane, indicating the severed hand, which he still had a firm grip on.

“Damn it.” Dane got to his feet, letting Kalansky’s hand fall to the ground. He looked back at the Inner Sea, half expecting to see the arms of a kraken reaching toward them, but the surface was flat black, belying the danger underneath.

“I’m sorry;’ Earhart said. “ We haven’t seen a kraken in the Inner Sea in a while.”

Dane blinked, reorienting himself from the loss of the Russian pilot. He briefly wondered if the man had family, then forced himself to face the reality of how many had already died in this war and how many were going to die if he didn’t succeed. “1 think the Shadow is guarding the portals more vigilantly. Rachel indicated there was an ambush at the Devil’s Sea portal.”

“I know,” Earhart said. “She was here not long ago. The kraken must have just come through, because I picked up nothing from her about it.”

“This is Professor Kolkov,” Dane said, indicating the Russian. “Professor, Amelia Earhart.”

Kolkov was trying to get over the shock of Kalansky’s brutal death and taking in the vastness of the Space Between, and it was with great difficulty that he turned to Earhart and took her offered hand. “This is unbelievable. I read the reports from Mister Dane, but seeing it is so different.”

Earhart glanced at the Inner Sea, then nodded toward the wall in the distance. “I say we put some space between us and the water.”

Asper used the rope to take both suits in tow and they moved out, heading toward the small encampment of those stranded in the Space Between. As they crossed a low, black dune, Dane paused and looked back. He couldn’t see the Shadow sphere that had crashed here. But portals blocked much of the view of the Inner Sea. The black columns pulsed with power. He felt a moment of despair-was the vision he had a true one? And even if it was, could he accomplish it?

And given that the only active portals in his time line were Baikal and the Devil’s Sea, where did all these other portals go to? And how many worlds were suffering under the assault of the Shadow?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE ROSEBUD CREEK, MONTANA TERRITORY: 17 JUNE, 1968

Crazy Horse listened to Sitting Bull invoke the protection of the great buffalo as he fought to suppress a yawn. The elder chief was walking in front of the half-circle of select chiefs, holding up a buffalo skull, speaking in his famous loud voice of the Great Spirit and honor and glory in battle. Crazy Horse was standing near the rear, on the gentle slope leading to the small open space next the creek, looking down on Sitting Bull.

Sitting Bull was chief of the Hunkpapa, one of the seven tribes of the Lakota Sioux. Those listening to him were chiefs representing not only the other six tribes, but several other tribes--Oglalas, Miniconjous, Sans Are, and Northern Cheyenne. They were here because the white men had sent out an edict that all the people who had not reported the previous winter to the reservations were the enemy. That proclamation had been followed by a winter assault along the Powder River, where Wooden Leg’s village was routed, the survivors showing up at Crazy Horse’s encampment. The white men had retreated quickly after destroying the village, but now the Word Was that several columns of blue coats were on the move from the north and south.

Although Crazy Horse was not impressed with Sitting Hull’s extensive oratory, exhorting the various leaders to unite together to fight the white man, he did have to admit he respected both Sitting Bull’s bravery and his strategic sense. Sitting Bull was one of the few chiefs who spoke frankly of the fact that the penchant for warriors to put acts of individual bravery above that of fighting cohesion would doom them in battle against the blue coats and their massed fire-power.

Sitting Bull had been one of the first chiefs to espouse using the white man’s rifles over the bow. To focus on ambushing parties of surveyors and miners, recognizing them as the tip of the white man’s intrusion into their country. He had been preaching for years that the tribes needed to put aside their differences and unite to face the whites or they were doomed.

Now there were three columns of soldiers approaching. Three Stars—General Crook--was the closest, coming from the south, from the place the whites had named after the officer Crazy Horse had helped ambush, Fort Fetterman. Others were to the east and north, but not close enough to have been spotted by the far-ranging scouts Sitting Bull had sent out.

Behind Sitting Bull was a tall pole, stripped of bark, on which a buffalo skull had been set. Leather lariats with bone awls hung limply from the top, ready to be used. Crazy Horse saw no need for a sun dance. They knew the whites were coming, and they knew the only choices were to go to the reservation, run to the west--which wasn’t practical given the harshness of the mountains--or fight. But he knew Sit· ting Bull was trying to do something unprecedented—unite all these disparate tribe to fight as one. Such an act required great shows of power and symbolism.

Sitting Bull pulled off his tunic. His chest was covered with scars from previous sun dances. Medicine men came up to him, painting his hands and feet red and drawing blue stripes across his broad chest. Then his brother, Jumping Bull, performed the “scarlet blanket,” using an awl and knife. Starting at Sitting Bull’s right wrist, his brother inserted the awl, lifted up a section of flesh, then sliced it off with the knife, all while Sitting Bull’s face remained calm and he murmured prayers to the Great Spirit. Working quickly, Jumping Bull sliced his way up the arm, inflicting fifty cuts. Then he went to work on the left arm.

Crazy Horse looked about at the warriors watching the ceremony. He could tell they were impressed at Sitting Bull’s lack of reaction to the pain. When his brother was done, the Hunkpapa chief held up both bloody arms as his offering to the Great Spirit. Crazy Horse thought the fact that Sitting Bull had to draw his own blood to impress the other leaders had an intrinsic flaw in it, although he couldn’t exactly put his finger on it.

Sitting Bull then ordered all except a handful of senior leaders to leave. His brother and the others mounted their ponies and rode off. Once they were gone, the sun dance began.

Crazy Horse did not participate. He stood still as a stone, looking down the creek, waiting. He knew who was coming, but he didn’t know why.

Just as dusk was falling, a lone figure appeared, riding up the creek from the south. Crazy Horse was the first to see him, as the others were engrossed in their pain-filled dance. A white man on a tall horse, with a loaded pack mule behind him, approached.

As the dancers became aware of his presence, there was a minute of confusion as they tried to separate in their dance fever whether the man was real or a vision. Crazy Horse walked past the dancers to the water, his rifle resting in the crook of his arm.

“Brother,” Mitch Bouyer called out in Lakota.

Crazy Horse ignored the greeting as he always had. “You have power with you. I can feel it.”

Bouyer dismounted. The others, tethered to the center pole, were still, watching, waiting and listening. Crazy Horse felt like he was on the edge of a knife, balanced between the power of the sun dance behind him and the aura of whatever it was Bouyer was bringing in front of him.

Bouyer held up both hands, empty palms out. “I come in peace.”

“For now,” Crazy Horse said.

“War comes.”

Bouyer glanced over his shoulder. ‘’Three Stars is a day’s ride away. With many soldiers and Crow Indians.”

Crazy Horse spit into the water running between his feet. “The Crow will die with the whites.”

Bouyer looked past him at the dancers. “Many tribes.”

“Yes.”

“But the Crow ride with the whites.”

Crazy Horse felt some of his anger drain, as if drawn out by the passing cool water that ran against his legs. What Bouyer said was true. Even though many had gathered here on the Rosebud, there were still those who would rather fight against all of the other tribes rather than the whites. He’d always known this, but like the scar on his face from Black Buffalo Woman’s husband, it was something he had always chosen to ignore, not wanting to face the reality of what it meant--that what he wanted the present and future to be did not matter. It would be what it would be, regardless of his feelings, hopes or desires.

Bouyer led the two animals out of the water and tied off both to a sapling. He then took a large cloth-bound case off the mule. He carried it to the center pole of the sun dance, walking around Sitting Bull. He placed the case at the base of the pole, then opened it. He pulled out a leather satchel. Then eight more. He untied the cord at the top of the first satchel and pulled down the leather, revealing a crystal skull. He put it on the ground next to one of the buffalo skulls Sitting Bull had arranged. He continued until there were nine skulls aligned. Each one was lit from within with a pale blue glow.

“What is this?” Crazy Horse walked up to Bouyer.

Bouyer ignored his “brother” and looked at the older chieftain who was still tied to the center pole, arms encrusted with dried blood from one hundred wounds. Sitting Bull reached with both hands and ripped the awls holding the lariats out of his chest. He knelt next to the closest skull and ran his hands over the smooth surface.

“Powerful medicine,” Sifting Bull said. He looked at Crazy Horse. “Why did he call you brother?”

“Nahimana was our mother,” Bouyer said.

“She bore you,” Crazy Horse said, “but she was not your mother.”

Sitting Bull glanced between the two. “I have heard strange stories of Nahimana--” he held up his hand as Crazy Horse stepped toward him—“no dishonor intended upon you or your family. It is said the Great Spirit visited her when she carried you,” he continued, looking at Crazy Horse. “That there was powerful magic at your birth.”

Crazy Horse turned to Bouyer. “Why are you here? Why do you bring those?” He indicated the crystal skulls.

“They are part of our destiny,” Bouyer said.

“How?” Crazy Horse demanded.

Bouyer pulled out a metal tube, which Crazy Horse recognized. Bouyer unscrewed the top and removed a piece of paper. He pointed at a skull and then the person whose name he read: “Sitting Bull. Crazy Horse. Gall.” He paused, as the last person wasn’t present. “And Walks Alone.”

“Walks Alone is a boy,” Crazy Horse protested.

Sitting Bull raised a hand, silencing the protest. “What do you want?”

“Four skulls for the four people.”

“Why?”

Bouyer shrugged. “I don’t know exactly, but I know it is our destiny. There will be a great battle soon, not here but on the Greasy Grass. The Son of the Morning Star leads his blue coats there.” Bouyer paused, then he said the words. “Many soldiers falling into camps.”

“How do you know that?” Sitting Bull demanded. “I had that vision years ago and have told no one of it.”

“I have visions also,” Bouyer said.

“Why should we trust you?” Sitting Bull asked.

“Three Stars is camped on this creek, near the old willow felled by lightning two springs ago,” Bouyer said.

“1 know the place,” Sitting Bull said.

“He has no pickets out and no guards. His troops are unprepared. The Crow hunt buffalo between here and there.”

“Why do you tell us this?” Sifting Bull demanded. ‘They are your people.”

“All people are one,” Bouyer said.

Crazy Horse stepped between the two. ‘’There are five other skulls.”

Bouyer nodded. “Yes. I know where they go also.”

Sitting Bull picked up the skull that Bouyer had indicated was his, hefting it in his blood-covered hand. “I sense great power.”

Bouyer waited. He could feel the difference in Crazy Horse. The warrior’s anger was muted, blanketed by despair. Bouyer put the other skulls away and closed the case. He carried it back to the mule and tied it off. He was exhausted having pressed the ride north from Colorado. Knowing time was short. Bouyer climbed up on his horse, aware all were staring at him. Sitting Bull was peering into the crystal skull as if he could see the future there.

Gall was the most dangerous one, Bouyer knew. The chief was an impressive physical specimen, over six feet tall and built like a beer barrel, with a thick chest and muscular arms. He was known for bravery in battle as much as Crazy Horse. .was edging around to Bouyer’s flank, a hatchet in his hand.

“Where do you go?” Crazy Horse demanded.

“To find Son of the Morning Star,” Bouyer said.

“What of Three Stars?”

“He is not important,” Bouyer said. ‘’1 will see you on the banks of the Greasy Grass.”

Gall was moving closer, hatchet rising.

“Let him go,” Sitting Bull ordered.

Gall stopped but didn’t lower the hatchet. “You talk to us of uniting and killing whites. But you want me to let him go?”

“This is not his time to die,” Sitting Bull said.

Bouyer didn’t wait. He nudged the horse’s head to the north and kicked in his spur.

*****

It was as Bouyer had said. There were a dozen Crow, stalking a herd of buffalo on the north side of the Rosebud. There were no pickets around the blue-coat encampment. The soldiers were lounging about, seemingly unconcerned. The cavalry had unsaddled their horses. Crazy Horse could even see Three Stars through the telescope--the commander of the blue coats was playing cards with his officers.

Shots rang out as Sioux charged toward the Crow hunters. Still the soldiers seemed unconcerned; most likely thinking the firing was coming from the hunters. Crazy Horse watched the unfolding battle from a knoll a half-mile from the Rosebud. The skull Bouyer had left for him was in a bag tied off to his horse.

The first response by the blue coats to what was really happening only came when a couple of retreating Crow galloped into the camp, screaming that they were being attacked. Soldiers scrambled to saddle their horses while the infantry hurriedly grabbed their rifles.

The charging Sioux and Cheyenne would have overrun the camp, but two hundred Crow warriors who had joined Three Stars rallied and formed a skirmish line that broke the first charge. This gave the blue coats a chance to get somewhat organized.

Crazy Horse watched as the battle raged back and forth. He could see both Sitting Bull and Gall leading charges. Crazy Horse was tempted to join the fray, but he remained where he was, simply observing. If Bouyer was night--and he had been right about this-then there would be time shortly for much fighting.

The superior massed firepower of the whites was negating the expertise of the Indians at using both their horses and terrain to charge close. Back and forth across the creek came the assaults, each one beaten back.

Time was critical, Crazy Horse realized as he watched the battle. If it had not been for the Crow defensive line, the first charge would have made it into the white man’s camp and the battle might have been over very quickly with the white man routed. But given time to organize a defense, their line produced too much firepower to break no matter how bravely the Indians charged. Attacking straight into the power of the Whites was a poor tactic, he realized.

After a few hours, with no decisive move on either side, Sitting Bull came riding up to Crazy Horse’s position. “Why do you just sit there?”

Crazy Horse lowered the telescope. “This battle is already over. The next one will be much different.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE SPACE BETWEEN

When they reached the camp site, Earhart quickly introduced Dane and Kolkov to the other refugees, then the three huddled together near the wall to formulate the next step. Dane quickly updated her on what was happening in his time line.

“I picked up some of that from Rachel,” Earhart said when he was done. “She let me know you were coming so Asper and I could be ready to get you. I didn’t know how many of you there would be and we only had the two suits. We did the best we could. I am sorry about your comrade,” she said to Kolkov.

“Is the sphere still out there?” Dane asked, indicating the Inner Sea.

Earhart nodded. “On the far side of the portal you were headed toward. Just floating there dead in the water. Only about ten feet of it is above the surface. I assume the crew is dead. The Shadow doesn’t seem to miss it. I’ve been out to it but didn’t go inside.”

“What else has happened?”

“Taki took the crystal skulls into a portal,” Earhart said.

“He what?” Dane felt a moment of panic. “We need the skulls to power the sphere.”

“You need the skulls to be energized first,” Earhart said. “I’d already taken one back.”

“Back to when? Who did you give it to?”

“To Crazy Horse’s brother--well, not actually his brother.”

“’Crazy Horse’s brother’? You’d better start at the beginning,” Dane said. “For me it’s only been a day since I was here. I assume it’s been longer than that for you.”

Earhart shrugged. “I don’t know how long it’s been, but, yes definitely longer than a day. After you left to go back to your time, things quieted down for a little bit. Then I heard the voices of the Ones Before. They wanted me to go to the Valkyrie chamber.”

Dane suppressed a wave of dread as he remembered the cavern filled with thousands of operating tables on which the Valkyries were working on human captives--skinning them, removing limbs and organs, performing experiments. It was torture on a grand scale.

“Taki and I went there in the suits,” she said, indicating the two empty white suits floating nearby. “I had ‘seen’ what I was to get and exactly where it was.” She turned and pulled .n object out of a pack. It looked like a strange gun with a short barrel about three inches long but very wide, almost two inches in diameter. The chamber was a red bulb about four inches in diameter. There was a red and green button on top of the bulb.

“What is it?” Dane asked.

Earhart laid it across her lap. “It’s a way of implanting a child-a fetus--inside a woman. When I found it, the red button was glowing. It was on a table next to a woman. A woman I recognized.”

“Who?” Dane asked.

“Me.”

EARTH LINE IV

“Leave me alone!” Robert Frost screamed the words at the metal walls of the cabin as he pressed both palms tight against his temples, trying to drive away the voice inside his head. “Haven’t I paid enough?”

Frost banged his forehead against the edge of the bunk bolted to the wall. He didn’t even notice as he cut his skin and blood trickled down his face. Someone knocked on the hatch, and a muffled voice asked if he was all right.

“Yes. Yes. YES!” Frost yelled. He just wanted to be left alone. He pulled his hands away from his head and looked about, as if uncertain where he was. He slumped down onto the thin mattress. He felt something wet on his face and wiped a shaking hand across his forehead. He stared at the blood smeared on his fingers with a frown.

He reached with bloody fingers for a slim, leather-bound volume on the little shelf that served as a desk in the cramped cabin. He slid his finger to a page that was easily found, flipping the book open. The writing was in long hand, a flowing script. The poem was titled “In a Disused Graveyard.” He’d written it after a terrible night of visions of mankind’s doom.

If it was God’s voice I heard. Then it was a very cruel God. Frost thought. The litany of pain and misfortune he had experienced over the years would have broken a lesser man. He’d lost his son Elliot at age three; he himself had almost died in the world flu pandemic of 1918; he’d had to commit a sister and daughter to sanatoriums--yes. He knew they heard the voices, but it overwhelmed their minds and both died there; another of his sons had also heard the voices and Frost had tried to talk to him about it, but the boy had killed himself with a hunting rifle in 1940.

God? What kind of God brought such pain and misery? Frost wondered. And now death to all on the planet? The voices and visions had directed him here onboard this metal can, but he didn’t know exactly why. What could be saved?

Frost reached under the bunk and pulled out a wooden box. He lifted the lid. A crystal skull was inside. It had a faint blue glow. The time was still not here, but it was getting closer.

He closed the cover and lay back on the bed, pulling a pillow over his head, vainly hoping it would stop any message sent his way by the “gods.”

THE SPACE BETWEEN

“I do not understand,” Kolkov said, breaking the long silence.

“It was me from another time line,” Earhart said. “One who was taken by the Shadow and not helped by the Ones Before. She was strapped to one of the vertical tables. They’d opened up her skull and put implants into her brain.” She turned to Dane. “You’ve seen what I’m talking about.”

Dane nodded. He wondered how he would feel seeing himself--a parallel self--in such a situation. He’d been in the Valkyrie cavern and seen the people strapped down. Some bad their brains exposed with wired leads placed in them, connected to monitoring machines.

“They’d taken a baby from her with the machine. I knew it--” here she glanced at Dane once more, and he understood how she knew it. “I also had been shown what I needed to do with it.

“I brought it back with me. Then I went into a portal. I went to Earth, but back in time, I’m not sure exactly when, probably around the middle of the nineteenth century as I probably around the middle of the nineteenth century as I used the machine on an Indian woman in a lodge. I then went back later. When she gave birth. To two children. One hers, one mine. I told her what I’d been told to tell her--that these would meet again in battle and in the course of doing that help save a world.”

“My world?” Dane asked.

Earhart shrugged. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

‘’The question is, was the world you traveled to my world’s past or another parallel world’s past?” Dane asked.

“Does it matter?” Earhart asked in turn.

“What great battle would these two meet in?” Kolkov asked. “And how would a battle help?”

“Her son’s name was Crazy Horse.”

“Little Big Horn,” Dane said.

Earhart nodded. “That’s my guess.”

“And your son’s name?” Dane asked.

“He’s not really my son. He’s my parallel son. Sort of.” Earhart said, “I don’t know what the hell to call him. His lame is Mitch Bouyer. I gave him one of the crystal skulls. I’m assuming Taki took the others to him.”

Dane let out a deep breath as he considered the information he had. “So we’ve got the Battle of Little Big Horn and two men—one’s Crazy Horse, the other Bouyer. Connected via birth, although not genetically. And at least one crystal skull--and hopefully all of them--which means there’s going to be power involved. And we’re going to need power for the sphere, because it seems dead in the water. And we’ve got Robert Frost and the Nautilus waiting at the North Pole in a dying time line. For what?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I think there’s a portal at the North Pole.”

Kolkov leaned forward. “So perhaps you will have both power for the sphere and a portal to send it through?”

“It’s not that easy,” Dane said: ·’We still have to get ozone from some time line to bring back.”

“Maybe the Frost portal is the one to do that?”

“Then how do we get back?” Dane asked. He shook his head. “We’re being used by the Ones Before. They send us these messages telling us the next step to take, but not much beyond that.”

“It’s worked so far,” Earhart pointed out.

“Has it?” Dane asked in turn. “Earth is dying. My Earth. Which,” he added, looking at Earhart, “might not even be your Earth time line. We just assumed that the first time we met. The Earhart in the Valkyrie cavern could be the Earhart from my time line. God knows how many time lines--how many of each of us—there are.”

Earhart shook her head. “You’re giving me a headache. What choice do we have? Do nothing? And then what will happen? Your time line is dying, right? It looks like we have a chance to help it. We could sit here all day and argue about the motives of the Ones Before, but maybe they’re just doing the best they can, too.”

Dane knew she was right, but he still had his misgivings about everything. Just a month ago{) he’d been living a simple life, working search-and-rescue with Chelsea. Now he was here, in a place he couldn’t have dreamed existed, talking about parallel worlds and parallel people. His old reality was gone, and he didn’t have much grasp on this new reality.

Earhart drew him out of his reverie as she addressed Kolkov. “You’re a scientist?”

Kolkov nodded. “Yes. I’ve been studying the portals for all of my adult life.”

“These crystal skulls. We know where they come from—priestesses who fight the Shadow. But how do they work?”

Kolkov rubbed his chin. “I think they do two things. One is redirect energy. Massive amounts of energy. I also think, though, that they can store energy.” Kolkov turned to Dane. “On the way here you explained to me what Sin Fen told you about the power of your mind. I think the skulls are a higher level of that. They connect in some way with the crystalline Structure of the planet. I studied the ones we had in Russia.

Quartz is posed primarily of silicon dioxide. It can also form huge crystals that weigh several tons. It is extremely rare in nature to find pure quartz like that in the skulls, which is colorless. Even the slightest influence of other material can greatly color quartz. Do you know there are those who try to manufacture quartz?”

“Why?” Dane asked.

“Because of what we are talking about--the power potential. Theoretical work up to now, but apparently a good theory. The problem is that quartz is very difficult to manufacture and work with. If one goes against the grain the crystal shatters. Do you know what is used to carve quartz? Diamond, which has a rating of ten out of ten on the hardness scale. Quartz is rated at seven. This was the dilemma when people found some of these buried at ancient sites. Those who studied them wondered how ancient people could have carved such perfect specimens given they didn’t have diamond tools.”

“Because they weren’t carved,” Dane said.

“Yes. We know that now. Also, the grain cut on the skulls I saw in Russia goes against the natural axis of the stone, which is impossible to achieve even with diamond tools. Quartz in crystal form has a rhombohedra structure. One of the reasons scientists have tried to manufacture pure quartz structures is because of the piezoelectric effect.”

“What’s that?” Earhart asked.

Kolkov put his hands on either side of his head and pressed inward. “When quartz is subjected to pressure along certain lines of axis it will produce electric voltage, which in turn can help control the frequency of radio waves. It also rotates the plane of Polarized light.”

“Aren’t radio waves a form of power?” Dane asked.

Kolkov nodded. “Yes. Do you want to know my theory on what the skulls are part of?”

“Any information would help,” Dane said.

“I believe the skulls not only can store energy, but they are also part of a directed energy weapon.”

Dane remembered watching Sin Fen on top of the pyramid in the Bermuda Triangle as she transformed, channeling the power of the pyramid below her, pulsing out beams of blue into the blackness of the approaching portal. “How does it work?”

“There are three principal forms of directed-energy weapons: the directed microwave-energy weapon, the high-energy laser and the particle-beam. I believe what we might be dealing with is the last one. Although your government and mine have done a lot of publicized work on lasers and microwave-energy weapons, the particle beam research has always been shrouded in the utmost secrecy.”

“Why?” Dane asked.

“Because it has the most potential for lethality.”

“That figures,” Dane said.

“My government’s interest in the portals hasn’t been for purely scientific reasons,” Kolkov said. “We always believed there was a great threat from the Shadow, given what is suspected to have happened to Atlantis and the losses in various gates. Over the years we lost several submarines, ships and planes trying to investigate the gates.

“The initial event at Chernobyl validated that fear when the gate opened inside of tower three. Beyond the Shadow threat, there was, of course, also the Cold War. While both our countries signed the ABM treaty, neither country stopped doing research for weapons to destroy ICBMs, and particle-beam weapons held the most potential for targeting, speed, and effect.

“The characteristic that distinguishes the particle-beam weapon from other directed-energy weapons is the form of energy it propagates. While we have several operating concepts for particle-beam weapons, all devices generate their destructive power by accelerating sufficient quantities of subatomic particles or atoms to velocities near the speed of light and focusing these particles into a very high-energy beam. The total energy within the beam is the aggregate energy of the rapidly moving particles, each particle having kinetic energy due to its own mass and motion,”

Dane followed· only part of what Kolkov was saying. There was a part of him that felt the scientists were trying hard to understand the bits and pieces of the current situation but in doing so were missing the big picture. He had a feeling that they had many of the pieces that would allow them to understand both the Shadow and the Ones Before before them, but they just weren’t putting them together the right way.

Kolkov continued. “Currently, the particles we are using to form the beam are electrons, protons or hydrogen atoms. However, as Doctor Nagoya had been researching, it appears that muons might be the particle used by the skulls.

“The best way to visualize a particle-beam weapon is to think of a lightning bolt. The analogy is so close that particle-beam pulses are referred to as ‘bolts.’ The particles in a lightning bolt flow from a negatively charged cloud to a positively charged cloud or section of the planet. Although the electric field in lightning that accelerates the electrons is typically around five hundred thousand volts per meter, these electron velocities are still less than that in a particle-beam weapon. But the number of electrons in the lightning bolt is usually much greater. In any case, the phenomenon and its destructive results are very much the same.”

Dane stirred. “What I saw in the Bermuda Triangle gate when Sin Fen destroyed the mist was very much like lightning bolts. But they were blue.”

“The blue coloring might be a result of muons being used,” Kolkov said. “Because it is neutrally charged, the muon is a good particle to be used in a beam weapon. Neutral muons would not be susceptible to bending by the Earth’s magnetic field as would a charged-particle beam. Neither would the beam tend to spread due to the mutually repulsive force between particles of like-charge, such as electrons or protons, in the beam. In the atmosphere, a charged-particle beam will neutralize itself by colliding with air molecules, effectively creating enough ions of the opposite charge to neutralize the beam. And as you say, the beam used through the skulls doesn’t appear to be neutralized in the atmosphere.”

“So it just hits a target with a lot of power?” Dane asked.

“The way a particle beam destroys a target is by depositing energy into the material of the target. As the particles of the beam collide with the atoms, protons and electrons of the material composing the target, the energy of the particles in the beam is passed on to the atoms of the target much like a cue ball breaks apart a racked group of billiard balls. The result is that the target is heated rapidly to very high temperatures--which is exactly the effect that one observes in an explosion; although most people aren’t aware of this. Thus, a particle beam of sufficient energy can destroy a target by exploding it, although that is not the only means of destruction.

“The power of a particle-beam is the rate at which it transports its energy, which is also an indication of the rate at which it can deposit energy into a target. The technological problems associated with particle-beam weapons have been considerable. The greatest challenge is in the area of directing the beam: The weapon must be able to focus its energy to strike a target that might be many kilometers away. There are two aspects to this challenge. First, the weapon must create a high-intensity, neutral beam with negligible divergence as it leaves the accelerator. Second, the weapon must have a system for aiming its beam at the target. I believe the skulls accomplish both of these things in some way.

“Wait a second,” Dane said. “If they’re a weapon, how can they also store energy?”

“What’s the difference between a nuclear bomb and a nuclear power plant?” Kolkov didn’t wait for an answer. “Rate of action. It seems the skulls can vary the rate of action of the energy that they either store or redirect.

“Back to the beam--the subatomic particles that constitute a beam have great penetrating power. Thus, interaction with the target is not restricted to surface effects, as it is with a laser. When impinging upon a target, a laser creates a blow off of target material that tends to enshroud the target and, in effect, shield it from the laser beam. Such beam/target interaction problems would not exist for the particle beam with its penetrating nature. Particle beams would be quite effective in damaging internal components or might even explode a target by transferring a massive amount of energy into it--called the catastrophic kill mechanism. Furthermore, there would be no realistic means of defending a target against the beam; target hardening through shielding or materials selection would be Impractical or ineffective.”

“So this beam can penetrate the gate or a sphere?”

“It should. From what I’ve read of the report Foreman forwarded to me about what happened to Sin Fen and the Bermuda Triangle gate, I think the power from the pyramid was redirected by her mind and penetrated into the portal and to the other side. It is a most effective weapon against the Shadow, as it attacks it at the source, not the propagation end.

“In addition to the direct kill mechanism of the beam, ancillary kill mechanisms would be available. Within the atmosphere, a secondary cone of radiation symmetrical about the beam would be created by the beam particles as they collided with the atoms of the air. This cone would be composed of practically every type of ionizing radiation known, such as X rays, neutrons, alpha and beta particles, and so on. A tertiary effect from the beam would be the generation of an electromagnetic pulse by the electric current pulse of the beam. This EMP would be very disruptive to any electronic components of a target. Thus, even if the main beam missed, the radiation cone and accompanying EMP could kill a target or at least affect electronic components inside the target.”

Dane remembered what happened in Cambodia as they approached the Angkor Gate. “Would such a beam be attracted to a radio source?”

Kolkov nodded. “Yes. The successful development of a PBW depends on the ability of the beam to propagate directly and accurately to the target. Think about a lightning bolt. It does not travel in a straight line, but rather a jagged, irregular path as it darts unpredictably through the sky. Such indeterminacy would never do for the particle beam of a weapon, which must have an extremely precise path of propagation as it traverses the distance to the target.

“Since muons don’t repel each other, divergence would come strictly from any imparted by the accelerator.

“It has been theoretically calculated that specific threshold values of the beam parameters—beam current, particle energy, beam pulse length-are required for a beam to propagate through air with reliability. ·Although, the values of these parameters have been classified by both our governments, no particle-beam accelerator made by 1l1an is currently capable of creating a beam with the required parameters.

“Currently,” Dane emphasized.

“True, but the theory has been around for a while,” Kolkov said. “The first subatomic particle accelerators were constructed in the 1930s for scientific investigations in the field of elementary-particle physics. The accelerators used for the first-generation PBW system are variations of the present-day, linear accelerators such ‘as the two-mile-long Stanford Linear Accelerator Center, a state-of-the-art-device capable of producing electrons with an energy of 30 GeV Seeing the blank looks, Kolkov added – “Suffice it to say, a lot of power.”

Getting back to the line between being a battery and a weapon. Possibly the most difficult technical problem in developing a particle-beam weapon is the development of its electrical power supply. To operate a PBW requires that a tremendous amount of electrical energy be supplied over very short periods of time. Because power is energy divided by time, large amounts of energy over short spans of time translate into extremely high power levels. Building a power supply to produce high power in short bursts involves a very advanced field of technology know as pulsed-powered technology.

“Basically, a pulsed-power device can be divided into three component areas: the primary power source that pros electrical energy over the full operating time of the weapon, the intermediate storage of the electrical energy as it is generated, and the ‘conditioning’ of the electrical power bursts or pulses of suitable intensity and duration to fire the weapon. Each of these three areas has represented a technological challenge for our best scientists, but I think the skulls accomplish all three.

“Any electricity-producing device, such as a battery or generator, is a primary power source. The requirement of the particle-beam weapon, however, is for a prime power source that can produce millions to billions of watts of electrical power, yet be as lightweight and compact as possible.”

“Sounds like a crystal skull fits those criteria.”

“Yes, but there’s one thing that I don’t understand,” Kolkov said.

“What’s that?”

“Where does the power come from in the first place?”

Dane had been thinking about that. “ think it can come from a variety of sources. First, I believe the mind itself generates much more energy than we realize, particularly special minds. So in effect, a person transforming from a normal human mind into a crystal skull is punching out a lot of energy.

“Also,” Dane said, “I think a crystal skull can draw power from other minds, but only when they are generating at peek--” he searched for the correct word--“capacity. Particularly during a peak emotional event.”

“Such as a massacre,” Earhart said.

“Yes,” Dane confirmed. ‘’Third, I think the pyramid Sin Fen used to destroy the Bermuda Triangle gate drew power up from the core of the planet somehow. So ultimately what we’re saying is that these skulls are both a source of power and a transmitter for other power sources, specifically the core of the planet.”

Kolkov nodded. “It appears so.”

“This is all very nice and well, but what do we do next?” Earhart asked.

“Because we don’t have the technology to tap the planet’s core like the Shadow has,” Dane said, “we have to find something else to charge the skulls.”

“And that is?” Kolkov asked.

“Desperation.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Kolkov said.

“From what l understand from the Ones Before,” Dane said. “there is tremendous power generated by humans when they are facing annihilation. Maybe it’s the time when the brain works at peak efficiency; maybe it’s a reversion to our earlier telepathic minds generating emotion that flows from person to person; I don’t really know.”

Earhart was nodding. “It makes sense. And Little Big Horn certainly was a desperate battle. I’d already given one of the skulls to Bouyer. I’m hoping Tab went through and got the rest to him.”

“He went through a portal without a suit?” Dane asked.

Earhart nodded. “Yes. But remember, he was a samurai. If anyone could have gotten the skulls through unprotected, it was Taki.”

Dane stood. “Then we have to trust he did. And we have to do our part now.”

MCMURDO STATION, ANTARETICA: THE PRESENT

The scientists had stayed inside, living off of stockpiled supplies, which was nothing really different for them. They only went outside when absolutely necessary and then completely suited to protect from the sun’s radiation that bathed the area.

The dogs had no such protection and had not been brought inside due to cramped living conditions. A normally mild viral infection that one of the dogs had was bathed in radiation, Ill1lt3red within six hours, coughed by the dog out into the air and caught in the intake for one of the heating plants for a building. Within six hours everyone inside that building was dead. Just a side effect.

The others quickly rigged filters as best they could over · their air intakes and huddled even farther inside their buildings. A callout for recovery was ignored. They had sealed their fate with their previous noble decision to stay. Besides, this, and more, would be happening everywhere shortly, and there was no point in using the resources to rescue those who were already doomed.

RUSSIA: THE PRESENT

Air raid sirens echoed down the empty streets of Moscow, letting any who had not already fled know that danger was coming, borne on the winds. Some of the soldiers who had been “volunteered” to stay and man critical defense systems simply went AWOL, smashing shop windows, breaking into bars. and carousing the empty streets drunk around the clock. The last time Moscow had been threatened like this had been in the dark years of World War n when German tanks had come within sight of the outskirts of the city. Then it had been Russian willpower and blood along with the brutal winter that had beaten back the invaders, just as had been done to Napoleon the previous century.

In this new century, though, blood, willpower and winter would matter little to the radiation coming from Chernobyl. So while soldiers drank themselves into a stupor, those who still remained on duty impotently stared at their displays and watching the inevitable approach.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE WOLF MOUNTAIN, MONTANA TERRITORY: 24 JUNE, 1876

Mitch Bouyer sat cross-legged in the darkness, staring straight ahead, listening to the noise of the camp settling in, horses shifting. Men sleeping. Sentries making their rounds. The column of blue coats had halted here a half-hour ago after trying to cross the divide between the Rosebud and the Little Bighorn River and not being able to make it. The regiment had been riding all the previous day and into the night. They had slowly blundered forward in the dark for six hours before Custer had been forced to call a halt, still short of the crest of the divide.

It was late June, but it was still cool at night here in the northern territory of Montana. Bouyer had reached the Seventh Cavalry two days ago much farther up the Rosebud, not far from where it ran into the Yellowstone. He found it interesting that no word of what had happened to Crook had yet made it to this column.

Remembering Bouyer from Washita, Custer had been eager to sign him up, not as a hunter this time, but as a scout. Custer had pressed Bouyer for word of what was happening to the south. Bouyer had answered honestly--the last he had seen of Crook’s column was that it was camped along the Rosebud.

The silhouette of a man wearing a cavalry forage cap walked by him, standing out against the stars. Bouyer recognized the C Company first sergeant.

“What’s going on?” Bouyer asked, getting to his feet. He estimated it to be about three in the morning. He had spent the previous day and into the evening scouting ahead and had reed back, made his report to Custer, then tried to get some sleep while other scouts moved forward to take his place.

He noted that there were some fires, which was a change. They were traveling hard and they were traveling fast. Custer wanted to catch the Indians before the other columns, everyone in the regiment knew that. It affected each man differently according to his own wants. For many it brought thoughts of medals and glowing newspaper reports. For most of the enlisted men it meant an end to the hard riding through empty grasslands and a return to post.

“Lieutenant Varnum and some of the scouts are going to some place called the Crow’s Nest to take a look-see,” the first sergeant said. “The general’s been riding about camp.

“Other scouts just came in,” the first sergeant continued. The man spit a wad of tobacco juice. ‘’Not good. Then red-faced fellows--” the sergeant paused as he remembered who he was talking to—“meaning no disrespect, say there’s Sioux, all around and we might have been spotted.”

It never ceased to amaze Bouyer how word of every little thing could spread so quickly through the regiment. Often the thing could spread so quickly through the regiment. Often the word.

Bouyer looked up at the hills where Varnum would be going to take a look. He could just make out their dark masses against the night sky. The Crow’s Nest. He’d been there be. When hunting with Bridger. It was a good place to look far.

Bouyer knew Custer wasn’t going to be happy about perhaps being spotted. The plan Custer had sketched out for the officers the previous evening had called for a day of rest for he tired men and horses after crossing the divide before the regiment thrust down into the Little Big Horn valley where the scouts said the Sioux were camped.

“Where’s the captain?” Bouyer asked. Tom Custer, the younger brother of the regimental commander and winner of two Medals of Honor during the Civil War, was the C Troop commander.

“He’s with the general.”

Bouyer had learned much about the Seventh Cavalry in the past two days. There were twelve troops or companies in the Seventh Cavalry, lettered A through M. Under strength, with just fifty to sixty men in each. The regiment’s current role call was about 675 men, and most of those men were spread out over the rocky ground trying to get some much-needed sleep.

Bouyer was used to being in the saddle. But even his body felt the ache of the last several days’ ride. God help the poor recruits, he thought. He knew that wasn’t exactly one of Custer’s concerns, but it was for some of the junior officers who spent more time among the men. The Seventh was made up of almost forty percent recruits who had received only minimal training in the basic skills of the cavalry, particularly riding and shooting. There had been no time during the forced march they’d endured the last several weeks for any additional training to be conducted. If trouble came--and Bouyer knew it would from the signs he had been seeing, not to mention his visions—the new men were going to have to learn in the heat of battle.

The first sergeant spit out some chew. “Guess r d best get the boys ready to move. The general won’t let us sleep if there are some Indians about.”

Bouyer regretted having gone to sleep. He should have stayed with Varnum. As one of the few who spoke several Indian languages present, Bouyer was now one of the interpreters between the Indian scouts and the Anny officers.

Bouyer went to his horse and saddled it. He pointed the animal’s nose toward the hills and moved out into the darkness, allowing the horse to pick the way. It took a good forty-five minutes to get near the top. He found a cluster of horses tied to some scrub and added his to them. He went the rest of the way on foot, his worn moccasins making no noise as he went uphill.

Lie found Varnum and the rest of the scouts on top of a large boulder, black silhouettes against the dark. sky.

“God damn, God damn,” Lieutenant Varnum was muttering, trying to look through his binoculars.

The Crow scout Bloody Knife acknowledged Bouyer’s arrival with a nod. Streaks of black paint covered the Indian’s face-his death mask. Bouyer had talked with Bloody Knife briefly the previous day and was not surprised to hear the Crow’s belief that he would be dead soon. Bouyer had given him one of the crystal skulls, with the admonition to keep it hidden, but close by. Bloody Knife had taken it without protest or question, accepting it as he accepted that he would die in battle shortly.

Bouyer still had four skulls left, and he wasn’t sure how he Was going to be able to get them to who he knew was supposed to have them. He looked about the mountaintop. He’d heard two different stories from Bridger about how the location had received its name. One was that crows did indeed nest there. The second was that the mountaintop had been used by Crow Indians as an observation point when conducting horse-raiding parties into Sioux territory.

The Seventh Cavalry was not alone out here, Bouyer knew. Besides Crook’s column, Colonel Gibbon had left Fort Ellis to the west on April 1 and linked up with General Terry at the mouth of the Rosebud on the Yellowstone. The Seventh had been with General Terry until three days ago, when they had been sent south to scout along the northern part of the Rosebud, then swing over into the Little Big Horn and come downstream.

Gibbon and Terry were to slide farther down the Yellowstone, then come upstream on the Little Big Horn and link up with Custer along that river, catching the hostiles in between them. The date for the link-up was the twenty-sixth, and it looked like it was all coming together as planned, Bouyer thought as he peered out into the darkness. Terry’s column would be a sight for the scared eyes of some of the men, but Bouyer knew Custer would prefer to strike before the higher-ranking Terry and his troops met them. The more senior officers involved in any action, the more diluted the glory and honor. It always amazed Bouyer that men who claimed to be far-sighted were usually those who saw so little of reality. There were rumors that Custer wanted to run for president in the next election and that he wanted a great victory quickly so he could telegraph the news back to Philadelphia where a grand centennial celebration was to be staged the next month. Custer was looking to the White House when he couldn’t even see what was waiting for him in the next valley.

Still, Bouyer knew, the Seventh Cavalry, twelve companies strong, was a potent fighting force despite the high percentage of recruits and low force level. Bouyer had heard that Custer had even turned down some additional companies from the Second Cavalry and a battery of Gatling guns that Terry had offered before they split off at the Yellowstone.

Dawn was breaking to the east, and Bouyer could begin to make out shapes around him. Curly and Hairy Moccasin, two Arikara scouts, were peering off to the northwest. Bouyer wiped his brow. The sky was clear and it would be a warm day. He looked to the east and saw smoke rising into the air from the regiment’s hasty bivouac site. That surprised him. Custer had or4ered no fires and no bugle calls the last several days of the march since they’d split from General Terry. Why had that order been changed now?

Suddenly the Arikara began chanting.

‘’Damn,’’ Varnum cursed. “Enough! Stop it! Bouyer stop them.”

“They’re singing their death songs, sir,” Bouyer said, making no attempt to stop the chanting. He could now see what had prompted them, and he didn’t blame them in the least. “look, sir,” Bouyer pointed.

Varnum put the field glasses to his eyes, but early morning mist blanketed the long dark line to the northeast that was the course of the little Big Horn River. To the right of the Little Big Horn were bluffs that also obscured looking down into the valley in places. Far to the west, the ground rose in steps, leading to the Rocky Mountains. Closer in that direction were the Wolf Mountains, of which the Crow’s Nest was on the eastern edge.

“Don’t you see it?” Bouyer asked. “On the west side of the Little Big Horn.”

Varnum squinted, but all he could see was haze. “What?”

“Biggest pony herd I’ve ever seen,” Bouyer said.

“I don’t see a thing,” Varnum complained.

‘There,” Bouyer said, pointing once more. Looks like a bunch of worms squirming about.”

Varnum tried, but he couldn’t make it out. “You’re sure the Sioux are there?”

“Sioux,” Bouyer said affirmatively. “And more. Many, many more. They’re all there. The Sioux, Hunkpapa, Blackfoot, Oglala, Two Kettle’s people, Sans Arc. Old Sitting Bull, he’s out there. Gall. Crazy Horse, too. There will probably be .some Cheyenne there from the signs I’ve been seeing.” Crazy Horse was most definitely there, Bouyer knew. He could feel his “brother’s” presence. And the others needed I1im to be there. He hoped Sitting Bull was able to keep his coalition together from the Rosebud.

Varnum rubbed his eyes and put the glasses back to his eyes. “Why don’t I see any smoke from their fires?”

“Smoke’s there,” Bouyer said. “Most of it caught in the alley, but you can see it.” He looked about. ‘’They’ve got to have hunting parties out. You’re sure to be spotted soon.”

Varnum looked back the way they had come. He could see the smoke from the regiment’s cooking fires, which was for sure. Rising up against the bright morning horizon.

“You,” Varnum said, pointing at Bloody Knife. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled a note onto to it with the stub of a pencil. “Take this to the general. Tell him we’ve found the village.”

Varnum cursed as Bloody Knife took the time to tie up his horse’s tail prior to leaving. Bouyer knew it was a signal that Bloody Knife believed a battle was about to commence. Once he was gone, Varnum looked through the binoculars again, trying with all his might to see the village or the pony herd.

Bouyer felt light-headed. Things were moving, corning together. He had never heard of such a large gathering of his mother’s people. There was powerful medicine at work—very powerful medicine. Just as he knew there would be.

GALL

His back ached. That was what had woken him up. Gall, not for the first time or the last, cursed the blue coat who had driven a bayonet through him, back to front, ten years ago.

A party of soldiers had come to his lodge to arrest him in the middle of winter when they’d known he’d be stuck in one place. He’d spotted them and walked out to meet them, try109 to talk peace. He was hit in the face with the stock of a gun and fell to the ground. While he was lying there, one of the soldiers pinned him to the ground with his long bayonet like a fish pinned by a bear’s claw.

They had left him there, cold steel holding him to cold ground, while they went to get their commander. Gall had pulled the bayonet out and then run, blood pouring from his wound, until he was in the cover of some trees. He stayed there until the soldiers finally gave up searching for him in the icy cold. He returned to his lodge, where his wives nursed him back to health.

Gall turned his head. Some of these women had been there. Others had come after. He had several wives, as befitted a war chief of the Hunkpapa Sioux. After that incident he vowed never again to meet the white man with anything but a weapon in his hand.

Gall reached toward where his head had rested. The crystal skull he’d been given by the strange white man was in a sack. He took the sack in his hands. The object was unnaturally warm. Gall didn’t need Sitting Bull’s confirmation to know this was powerful magic.

Gall rose, took the sack and slipped out of his lodge. The door, as was the custom, faced to the east. The Greasy Grass River, the river the white man called the Little Big Horn, was a hundred yards away. Gall stretched his heavily muscled arms up to the sky, trying to relieve some of the ache in his back. He was built like a wide tree stump. He had dark black eyes that had been the last thing many an enemy had seen. His name among his tribe was Man Who Goes in the Middle, referring to his bravery in battle, where he could always be found in the middle of the fray. His weapon of choice was a steel hatchet, something that required close combat, as he disdained using both bow and rifle.

Gall turned and surveyed the camp. His lodge and his people, the Hunkpapa of the Lakota Sioux, were the southernmost tribe in the camp. The other Sioux tribes were camped along the valley floor, stretching to the north, with the northernmost encampment being that of the Northern the northernmost encampment being that of the Northern or heard of.

The pony herd, cared for by young boys, was to the east and north among the green spring grass. Gall knew there Were warrior sentries out there among the boys. Only a fool would leave ponies without guards, but there were fools among the various tribes, as recent events had shown. Some still felt that no one would be stupid enough to attack such a large encampment. The same fools called the battle against Three Stars, which was now called the Battle Where the Girl Saved Her Brother, a victory. Gall knew better, even though Three Stars and his soldiers were retreating to the south. They called the battle that because a Cheyenne warrior named Comes in Sight had had his mount shot out from under him and faced certain death, from the Crows when his sister, Buffalo Calf Road Woman, rode in, grabbed his arm, swung him up on her horse and rode off with him to safety.

Looking at the vast number of lodges, Gall could almost I’ve that they were too numerous to be attacked. Except for one problem--he had never found the white man to be particularly sensible. The red man fought only when necessary and then in the most economical way possible. The white man, well, Gall shook his head. The white man made no sense. Their warriors were paid to fight. How can one pay for bravery and courage? Their homes might be many, many rides away, even on the far side of the great river, yet they came out here because they were told to. And they fought because someone told them to and paid them pieces of paper to put their lives in peril. And they followed a leader because he was appointed, not because he had necessarily proven himself on the field of battle to be worthy of being followed.

The first requirement of a leader among the Sioux was bravery. In fact, there were times that displaying bravery was more important than winning the fight. Gall had displayed bravery on more than enough occasions to rise to the position he held in his tribe.

Despite his position as war chief, though, to get a tribe of his own people to fight, Gall had to get a consensus and give them a valid reason to put their lives in jeopardy. He could see. The lodge signs representing the different tribes. Some had even been enemies in the past, but they had run out of options as they had run out of land. The Indians gathered here at the Greasy Grass were from two major tribal groups: he Lakota, or western, Sioux and the Northern Cheyenne.

The Lakota Sioux, of which Gall was a proud member, consisted of seven different tribes: Hunkpapa, Blackfoot, Oglala, Brule, Two Kettle, Sans Are and the Miniconjous. They had originally, before Gall’s time, come from the headwaters of the Great River, but they were pushed out of that land by the Chippewa in the late eighteenth century. It wasn’t that the Chippewa were necessarily better fighters, but more a logistical event. The Chippewa were to the east of the Sioux and came into contact with the white man first. Thus, they were armed with muskets while the Sioux were still relying on the bow and arrow and the spear. So the Sioux moved west. First to the Missouri River area. Where the Dakota, or Eastern Sioux had been overwhelmed, then past it to the land of the Yellowstone River and its four main tributaries: the Powder, Tongue. Rosebud. And Bighorn. Gall knew that if they went any farther west they would be in the inhospitable terrain of the Rocky Mountains. This was as far as they could go.

The Cheyenne were also pressed west by better-armed tribes and the white man. They settled around the Platte River and split into two major groups. The Southern Cheyenne lived between the Platte and Arkansas Rivers. The Northern, as the name implied, drifted above the Platte, which brought them into conflict with the Sioux.

Of course, when the Sioux and Cheyenne moved west, the land wasn’t empty. The Crow, some of whom Gall knew rode with Custer, were displaced. And it was against the Crow, and their allies the blue coats, that the Sioux and Cheyenne, former enemies, were now joining forces to fight, not because of any great love for each other, but because there was no more land to displace to.

The other option was to accept the white man’s edict and move onto the reservation. Gall would rather die than do that. Many of those who had heeded Sitting Bull’s call to come here had slipped off the reservation. The stories they told were not pleasant ones. Poverty, disease, lying agents and above all the lack of freedom to go where one wanted to and live off the bounty of the land--these were the curse of the reservation.

Gall leaned against a tree. It wasn’t just about food. It was about living, about freedom. About a way of life.

Gall knew-the Crow wouldn’t attack this camp. But the blue coats, the blue coats didn’t make any sense, and that is what scared him the most, because how could he fight an enemy whom he couldn’t predict?

Gall’s youngest daughter came out of the lodge, laughing at something. Gall felt his heart relax. They might be surrounded by enemies, but in this great encampment surely they would be allowed some days of peace and happiness. Gall gathered up his daughter and easily lifted her over his head and swung her about. After a few minutes of play, he · put her back down so she could help her mother.

The sun was up now, casting long shadows from the cottonwoods lining the Greasy Grass. At least today would be a quiet day, Gall thought as he smelled breakfast cooking. If the blue coats didn’t attack at dawn, then they wouldn’t attack. That was the way it had always been. Tomorrow, well, tomorrow he would worry about tomorrow.

BLOODY KNIFE

“We’ll get through them in one day,” Custer said.

Bloody Knife kept his face still. He understood what Long Hair said. He had just handed Custer the note Varnum had written. He also knew that the new scout, Bouyer, had advised Custer about the extensive signs that all had been seeing for the past several days, particularly the massive trail they’d come across the previous day coming out of the Rosebud pointed straight toward the Little Big Horn River twenty miles away. The trail was more than a mile wide. The entire width looked like it had been plowed like the white man’s fields, so tom up was the ground by horses’ hooves and the ends of travois. Even Custer had to have seen that.

After seeing the trail, Bloody Knife had not even tried to sleep during this halt. There would be plenty of time for sleep later. There was also the added concern of the strange object he had been given by Bouyer. It was obviously a powerful talisman, the likes of which Bloody Knife had never seen, even when he had traveled east to the white man’s cities.

In this country, trees only grew in the low ground where there was water to feed the roots. There were some pines on the higher hills, but mostly the terrain was grassland with high ridges and some mountains interspersed here and there. Bloody Knife knew the open spaces were deadly in their deceptiveness. A man could think he saw everything for miles when there was so much hidden in the folds of the land that he couldn’t see until he rode right on top of it.

The trail they had come across bothered Bloody Knife. He’d tried explaining why to Lieutenant Varnum the previous day using sign language, but the officer was more concerned about what Custer thought than about what really lay ahead. The main Indian trail out of the Rosebud was indeed large; that in itself should have been enough to cause concern. It was also fresh, so fresh that Bloody Knife tried to convey his concerns to Varnum again this morning.

The original trail had been made about four days ago. Laid on top of that first trail were the signs of more pony herds, travois being dragged, and moccasined feet. Those were the marks of the others joining Sitting Bull from the reservations. None of the white men seemed to understand what Bloody Knife and the other scouts were coming to appreciate. This just wasn’t a few rogue tribes camped together. Yes, there were those Indians the soldiers were sent to corral-the ones who had ignored the government’s order to come onto the reservations. But there were also large numbers of reservation Indians whom the agents had told Custer were still sitting on the reservation, eating agency meat. It was one trail leading into the Little Big Horn, but actually one trail that many were following, and they couldn’t impress that idea on the white men.

Bloody Knife didn’t know the exact number of Indians that were camped ahead. He didn’t have to. He knew the number was sufficient to handle the Seventh Cavalry, no matter what Long Hair believed.

He could tell Custer was agitated and trying to hide it with his boastful words. Scouts had already reported several band of Sioux in the area, feeding the general’s fears that the Indians would run before he had a chance for a fight.

Custer sat taller in the saddle and addressed the officers gathered around. “Well, men, we’ve found them. As I suspected, they’re on the Little Big Horn.”

That wasn’t a surprise to Bloody Knife. If they weren’t on the Rosebud; and they weren’t on the Yellowstone, that left only the Little Big Horn. The only question had been where exactly on the river the Sioux were camped. Someplace with a lot of grass, that was for sure. Bloody Knife estimated that there must be at least ten thousand ponies, probably more, with this camp. That meant the herd would go through grass at a ferocious rate. No camp that size could last. Maybe a week at most. Then it would have to break up so the ponies could get grass and the hunters could find game. Bloody Knife had also tried to tell Custer this the other day, but Long Hair’s response had been the opposite of what Bloody Knife had hoped for: “By God, then we’ll get them all at once. Save us quite a bit of time campaigning, won’t it?”

It was all bad omens to Bloody Knife. Too many chance happenings converging. Custer splitting from Terry. Reno disobeying his orders dung reconnaissance and crossing the disobeying his orders during reconnaissance and crossing the Rosebud on the seventeenth and finding the main trail when he should have still been looking in the Tongue and Powder {alleys. It was strange how the same thing meant two radically differently things, depending on one’s perspective. To Bloody Knife, Reno’s discovery was disastrous, while to Custer it was one of the most fortunate breaks of his military career.

The bad omens hadn’t ended there, as Custer pushed the column hard to follow the trail. The other night Custer’s personal flag, two crossed sabers on a red and blue field, had been blown over by the wind. It had been picked up and stuck in the ground again, only to blow over once more. A bad wind. Bloody Knife knew. A wind of ill spirits was blowing across the entire command. The white men pretended to worship a god, a god the priest at the post had tried to get him to believe in, but Bloody Knife thought they lied. If they couldn’t appreciate the power of an evil spirit blowing down their flag, how could they worship a good spirit?

The Son of the Morning Star had dismounted and begun talking back and forth, when suddenly he stopped. “Let’s move forward and get to this Crow’s Nest I’ll see for my· self.” Bloody Knife fell in behind the commander.

Bloody Knife caught the glances several of the staff officers gave him. For all they knew. There were Sioux all around, perhaps even waiting in ambush. Never bad any of me scouts seen so many signs. Bloody Knife kept his face impassive. There was no safety riding with the regiment or riding ahead.

Bloody Knife remembered the time Custer had left the command by himself to hunt buffalo. The general, chasing down a bull, had shot his own horse in the head accidentally d been on foot, all alone, out in the middle of the plains. Fortunately, the regiment’s course of march had come upon the dismounted general. From that point on, Bloody Knife had ceased to respect a man who could be so foolish.

Bloody Knife looked at the regimental camp as they left it. The noise made Bloody Knife grimace. Many of the bluecoat soldiers were inexperienced. Some could hardly ride their horses, and the blistering pace Custer had set the last several days since parting from General Terry’s column on the twenty-second had made matters worse. Horses and men were tired. That made for poor thinking and poorer action, Bloody Knife knew.

The Sioux up ahead would not be tired, that he also knew. He could clearly picture the camp in his mind. Bloody Knife’s father had been a Sioux; his mother an Arikara. He’d spent his childhood among the Sioux, living as one of them, but it was not a happy childhood, as the Sioux despised the Arikara.

Bloody Knife was a handsome man, standing five feet, seven inches tall with black hair and brown eyes. His features were finely formed with a broad forehead and sharp cheekbones and nose. His complexion was that of dull copper. A surly twist to his mouth marred his good looks. Bloody Knife Was not above talking down to white men, a custom that Custer treated with amusement at times in a camp full of sycophants.

Given the childhood he’d had, Bloody Knife had sworn to himself to never again look up to another man. He had earned his place here in the Seventh Cavalry, much more so than most of the soldiers now blundering their way around in the dark. If no one else would tell Custer the truth, he would.

Bloody Knife leaned back on his horse and stretched his neck. He looked to the northwest, into the growing light. Out there were many Sioux, among them people he had known as a child. If the Sioux were preparing for war, Bloody Knife was sure Gall was out there. Gall had killed Bloody Knife’s two brothers’ years before and dismembered their bodies, leaving them for the animals to feed on. Bloody Knife’s hand slipped down to the razor-sharp blade strapped to his belt. If nothing else, he hoped he ran into Gall. There was blood to be paid.

BOUYER

“I don’t see it,” Custer said. Mitch Bouyer could see relief flood Lieutenant Varnum’s face. The fool would rather be right about not seeing anything than bothered that his scouts were telling him there was something out there and he see it.

“Well, they’re there, general,” Bouyer said. “At least you can see the smoke,” he added.

“I can see that,” Custer said testily.

Bouyer knew that even Lieutenant Varnum could now see the smoky haze that hung above the dark line that was the Little Big Horn. But whatever was below that smoke they couldn’t make out.

“Obviously there are some Indians there,” Custer said. his voice less harsh.

‘’There aren’t just some Indians there, general.” Bouyer felt like he had one time in the mountains when his horse had slipped on a steep slope covered with snow and both of them had been carried down, not able to stop until they got to the valley floor. Whatever was going to happen was already set in motion, and nothing anyone said was going to make a difference today. He could feel the powers in the air.

Bouyer knew this terrain well from his time with Bridger. Besides the obvious trail, he had spotted numerous campsites bordering the trail. In one he had counted the spaces where more than four hundred lodges had been set up. That alone indicated eight hundred warriors. And that was only one of five abandoned campsites he’d scouted.

“There are more Indians out there than 1 have ever seen in one place,” Bouyer said.

Custer’s face flushed red. The general’s famous long locks had been cut short prior to leaving Fort Lincoln. And he was wearing a fringed buckskin jacket and trousers. Under the jacket was a broad-collared blue shirt, and around his :k was a scarlet cravat. He wore a wide-brimmed white hat that Bouyer thought., along with cravat, made him an easy target.

When Custer didn’t respond Bloody Knife spoke. “Turn around, general. Ride away as fast as the tired horses will carry you. If I am not speaking the truth, you can hang me.”

That brought a slight smile to Custer’s wind and sun-beaten face. “I don’t think I’ll be hanging you.” He had field glasses and was looking to the northeast. “I still don’t see it.” he muttered. Custer stood. ‘’Lieutenant Varnum, remain on watch here until you see the regiment enter the valley, then join the command.”

Bouyer followed as Custer walked back down to the horses and remounted. They rode down in silence, each man lost in his thoughts. A horseman was coming up slope toward them and Bouyer recognized him: Tom Custer.

As Tom drew near, Custer spurred forward, Bouyer following. “We got them, Tom!” Custer called out.

“Bad news.” Tom doused his brother’s enthusiasm. “Last night some breadboxes fell off a mule and we sent back a detail to police it up. They came across some Indians at the boxes. Fired a couple shots and drove them off, but we’ve been detected.”

Custer drove one fist into the other. ‘’They could be breaking camp right now if they know we’re here.”

“I do not think--” Bouyer began, but Custer had put the spurs to his horse and was heading to the camp, leaving Bouyer and Tom Custer to follow as well as they could.

CHAPTER TWENTY

EARTH IV TIME LINE

“I have been one acquainted with the night.” The words were barely a whisper, spoken from memory. Frost tried to remember which book of his poetry that line had been published in, · but the recollection failed him. Nor could he remember the title of the poem. There was too much else pressing in on his consciousness. He rose, picked up the box containing the crystal skull and with one step was across the small wardroom and in the corridor.

The ship was never silent. There was always the sound of air moving through ventilators and the noise associated with the nuclear power plant. One of the crew, on the trip north, had told Frost that the only time this ship would go silent is if it went down in deep water. Other than the mechanical noises though, there was scarcely another sound.

Frost reluctantly left his stateroom and went down the corridor toward the cramped control room of the Nautilus. He paused as he noted a framed picture wired to the wall: the Cover of a first edition book of Jules Verne: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. The giant squid was attacking the submarine, and one of the men on the cover was fighting back with a harpoon. Frost stared at it for several moments, feeling the tug of association, but again not able to pinpoint it.

Frost passed through the attack center. Barely manned by two crewmen. Most men seemed to spend their time in their bunks. Even Frost had heard that Someone in the torpedo room crew had put together a still and illicit spirits were readily available. Captain Anderson did nothing to stop this--why should he? What else was there to do aboard this ship of war? Prepare for battles that would never come?

Frost spotted Anderson in the control room, seated in one of the three chairs that were occupied--when underway--by e petty officers who “drove” the boat. The captain was staring ahead at the gauges as if expecting to see their readings change, something that had not happened in the twenty-six lays they’d been in this spot.

“Sir.” Frost waited, then repeated himself “Sir.”

Anderson slowly turned. His eyes focusing. “Yes?”

“Your engine produces power all the time, doesn’t it’?”

Anderson blinked. “We get all our power from the reactor. Lights, water pressure, heat, air. All of it. It always runs.”

“But we aren’t moving,” Frost said. “So it could produce more power than we use, correct?”

“Yes.”

Frost opened the box and pulled out the crystal skull. “Good. I will be needing some of that power.”

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Just before Dane stepped into the Valkyrie suit. He turned to Earhart. “What did you do with her?”

“With who?”

“The parallel you,” Dane said.

“I put her out of her misery,” Earhart said. She turned her back to Dane and stepped into the suit. Dane stared at her disappearing into the suit for a few seconds and then did the same. As soon as he pressed his back against the rear half, the front swung shut.

Moving the suit was strange, as it required the wearer to make the effort, with the suit following through with the actual movement. Dane pressed his left leg forward and the entire suit moved ahead. He twisted the waist and the suit rotated in place so he was facing Earhart.

“I’m ready,” he announced.

“All right.” Earhart’s voice echoed inside his suit.

Dane followed as Earhart moved out, heading away from the camp and toward the Inner Sea. She had a Naga staff in her right hand, white fingers wrapped around it, claws retracted. They floated six inches above the black sand. When they reached the water, Earhart didn’t hesitate, heading out over the flat surface. Dane followed without hesitation. He had no sense of immediate danger, an instinct that had kept him alive in Vietnam, and he hoped it meant there were no kraken nearby.

They passed around a forty-meter-wide portal and Dane had his first sight of the sphere. As Earhart had said, just the very top of the massive sphere was above the water, a curving surface about five meters high, disappearing under the water in all directions.

As they reached the black metal, the suit adjusted, lifting them up. There was a thin line on the surface, and Earhart followed it until they were at the top.

“The keyhole is there.” Earhart pointed with the sharp tip of the Naga staff. The indentation she pointed to was the opposite of the seven snake heads on the other end of the Naga staff. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Earhart pressed the Naga end into the hole. A golden glow suffused the hole and staff and finally covered Earhart. The crack began widening.

“It’s going to flood,” Dane said as the crack spread down the surface of the sphere toward the water.

“Nothing we can do about that right now,” Earhart replied.

The crack in front of them widened to two meters, narrowing in both directions. Water began to pour in where the crack met the surface of the Inner Sea.

“Go,” Earhart ordered.

Dane moved the suit over the opening and then descended to the sphere. Earhart removed the Naga staff and followed. The moment she removed the staff, the crack began to close. The skin of the sphere was more than three feet thick, and as both cleared it, they found themselves over a massive area, dimly lit from numerous unseen sources and full of massive panels folded together--what the sphere had used to strain the ozone out of Earth’s atmosphere.

The top half of the interior had a floor that bisected the diameter in the exact middle of the sphere. Two waterfalls Sprayed water from either side of the open crack. They continued to slowly descend as the crack shut, cutting off the water.

“Are you sure we can get out?” Dane said.

“Did you ever see a one-way door,” Earhart asked in turn. She pointed with the staff above her. “There appears to be a keyhole right there, on the opposite side of the outer one.”

That didn’t give Dane the greatest confidence. They began :o float down next to the panels. It was a long way to the floor. As he descended, Dane reached out with his mind. Trying to get a feel for the place, an ability he’d always had. All that he could pick up was a sense of sterile coldness.

Dane and Earhart landed gently in the exact center of the floor,

“If it has light, it still has some power,” Dane said.

“The other one we saw had the same light,” Earhart said.

“Where’s the crew?” Dane asked.

“In the control room, I would assume.” Earhart leaned and placed her armored hand on the floor. She backed up as a hatch irised open. It was five feet in diameter. A long tube beckoned. They went into it. moving for almost a minute before they entered an open space, fifty feet in diameter. More than a dozen holes indicated other tubes leading out of the space. In the center was a golden pod ten feet in diameter, its surface shimmering.

“That’s the control center for this thing,” Earhart said.

In reply Earhart moved forward. Dane followed. As she reached the golden surface, Earhart didn’t pause. The gold enveloped her suit and she disappeared. Dane did pause just before the pod. He waited a few seconds, half-hoping Earhart would come back out but when she didn’t, he pressed forward.

He felt a shock course over his skin as the gold wrapped around his suit and drew him in. He bumped into Earhart’s back, slid to the side and came to a halt. There were two other Valkyrie suits in the small space, back to back in the center. A circular console went around both at waist height, with no apparent means of support.

Earhart poked at one of them with the Naga staff, getting no response. Dane moved forward and reached for the right arm of the one she poked. He pressed the code in the small indentations and the suit swung open, revealing a human body, the front half bouncing against the console. The body was missing the skin from the bottom half of its body, a clear material wrapped around from toe to waist covering muscles and sinew. There were no genitalia, but the person was flat-chested so Dane assumed it was a man. His left arm was withered and almost bone thin. A trickle of dried blood was on both sides of his mouth and below his nose.

“They aren’t exactly the healthiest people,” he noted.

“Tile question is,” Earhart said, “whether these are the Shadow or just people being used by the Shadow.”

“I hope they aren’t the Shadow,” Dane said.

“Why is that?”

“Because it means humans are destroying other humans.”

Earhart gave a bitter laugh. “Humans have been doing that ever since we walked upright.”

“Yes, but--” Dane didn’t finish.

“But what?” Earhart asked.

“We don’t have this technology,” Dane said. “So if the Shadow is a parallel Earth, it’s one from the future, where people look like this and they’re willing to destroy other · worlds to keep their own going. It means mankind isn’t getting better--it’s getting worse.”

“Worse in that time line,” Earhart corrected.

Dane didn’t want to argue the point. He looked at the console. It was completely dark. “This isn’t much help. It must need power to be used.”

“If they could fly this thing, we can,” Earhart said.

“What makes you so sure?”

“I’m a pilot.”

“This isn’t an airplane,” Dane said.

“Is there a reason you’re being so negative?”

Dane reached forward and poked the dead body. “If an Earth time line developed into the Shadow, then people like us must have been wiped out.”

“Has it occurred to you that people like us might be the Ones Before?” Earhart asked.

That gave Dane pause, because he hadn’t considered it. ‘Then why aren’t they more direct with their messages?”

“Maybe they’re doing the best they can, just like we’re doing the best we can.” Earhart turned away from the bodies and console. “Let’s take a look at the engine room.” She pressed forward against the outer surface and popped out of sight. Dane followed and almost ran into the back of her, as he had stopped on the outside of the control pod.

“What’s wrong?” He could feel the raw emotion of trouble and danger coming off of her.

“Don’t you feel it?”

Dane sent his mind out once more, probing. “It feels like a storm is coming.”

“A very powerful one,” Earhart said.

Dane didn’t say anything further, and they went to the bottom of the chamber where a shaft went straight down. They descended it for several minutes before emerging into another circular open area. This one was a hundred feet across and very dimly lit. From the route they had taken, Dane knew they were at the very bottom of the huge sphere.

In the center was a thick black rod with a golden globe on top. The walls were lined with couches into which bodies were strapped. Dane floated over to one side and checked one of the bodies. It was human with the head half solidified into dullish gray material with small specks of crystal mixed in--exactly like the crashed sphere he and Earhart had gone in on a parallel world.

Dane remembered what Kolkov had said about the crystal skulls. “Maybe these people aren’t pure.”

“What do you mean?” Earhart asked as she joined him.

Dane reached out and touched the nearest skull. The gray material crumbled under his fingers. ‘These people. Their brains were used for energy, but they didn’t turn into pure crystal.” He was thinking, trying to connect the disparate pieces of this quest they were on. “You said that the crystal skulls can pick up power from being around people in desperate situations. That means normal people, people without our gift--or curse-have some power that can be tapped.”

Dane pointed at the golden globe on top of the black rod. “I bet that’s something very similar to a crystal skull. I think it takes the power from all these people--” he indicated the bodies circling the room. Dane looked more closely at the closest body. “Here.” He pointed at several leads that ran from the enclosure into the body. “I think. those were designed to kill these people. Slowly. And they knew it. A hell of a way to produce power.”

“Don’t knock it,” Earhart said.

“What?”

“It’s what we plan on doing.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CUSTER

“Sound officers’ call,” Custer ordered Trumpeter Martin. “The twenty-fifth of June,” Custer said to himself as he counted days, in his head. The centennial of the United States of America was to be celebrated in less than two weeks. As the bugle call brought his officers to his tent, Custer calculated whether the telegraph wires would be working going east. If the regiment engaged the Sioux today, he could send a messenger to Fort Lincoln and then, if the wires were up, the word of the Victory would most certainly make it to the celebration that would be taking place in Philadelphia in early July.

Custer frowned. But if the wires were down, the news might not get there in time. “Hurry up!” Custer snapped as his officers slowly gathered around.

He rubbed his forehead to push away a growing pain there. He was responsible for every damn thing in this regiment. His Indian scouts were chanting their death songs, and his own officers were moving like molasses. Damn fools, all of them. Custer looked over the sunburned faces of his twelve troop commanders. “Each company commander will immediately detail one NCO and six troopers to the pack train.”

He could see the surprise on the faces of some of the officers as the Import of the message sunk in. They’d been planning on resting today. Ten years of Indian fighting had lll1pressea one tact upon Custer: If the regiment delayed, there Would be nothing in the valley of the Little Big Horn. In all those years he had managed to come to blows with his red foe Only once decisively, at the Washita, and then only by surprising the village at dawn. Here dawn was already come and gone and the Sioux knew he was here. They would have to hurry.

Because the regiment was moving quickly, they had no Wagon train for logistical support. Extra ammunition, grain and food were laden on mules, and the detail Custer had just designated would have the duty of controlling the mules that held each company’s resupply of ammunition.

There was so much more to this than the damn fools back east imagined, Custer fumed as he waited for his subordinates to relay that order and return. He had 175 mules in his supply train and only six skinners to work them, thus the detail. The supply train was like a leash around his throat, but it was one that he could only cast off for several hours before the regiment needed the supplies that were carried.

“There’s a village on the Little Big Horn, northeast of here,” Custer briefed his men. “But my brother informs me that we’ve been spotted.” Custer glared at his subordinates. There would be plenty of time after they took care of the Sioux to get to the bottom of the breadbox incident. He would find out which troop it came from and deal with the commander appropriately.

“Any sign the Sioux might attack us?” Major Reno asked.

Custer stared at his second-ranking officer in amazement. How Reno ever survived the Civil War, he didn’t know. “Major, they would not dare attack the regiment. The issue is, can we catch them before they break camp and run? If we delay there will be no Indians to fight.”

“Sir, if they are on the Little Big Horn,” Reno said, “we must wait until tomorrow for General Crook and General Terry to complete the encirclement. They will be on the river shortly. We will catch the hostiles between us in a classic pincer maneuver.”

“Are you not listening?” Custer said. “There will be nothing to encircle on the twenty-sixth. Besides, we are not certain that General Terry will have made it that far by then, and of General Crook there has been no sign.”

Custer’s fingers bore down on his riding gloves as another officer spoke up. “Sir, our orders are to move in coordination with--” Captain Benteen began, but Custer had no time for this.

“I know what my orders are, gentlemen.” His tone of voice indicated there would be no further discussion of the subject. “Commanders will inspect their troops and prepare them to move out. We will march in the order that the commanders report back to me that they are ready to move. The last commander to report in will guard the pack train.” Custer waved a hand, dismissing them and ending any further discussion. He missed the days when he had a divisional staff waiting to carry his orders to his subordinates and he didn’t have listen to the whining and complaints of mere company commanders.

Of course, Custer had to remind himself, he was grateful to be here at all and in command. Custer had literally had to get on his knees to beg to be in this place. And he wasn’t going to let the fears of lesser men destroy the opportunity that he now saw in the valley of the Little Big Horn. Remembering kneeling in front of General Terry and pleading to be allowed to participate in the campaign against the Sioux still rankled Custer. Damn Grant and those meddlesome fools in Washington! Wait until they hear about what happens today. Custer thought. Which brought his mind full circle to the centennial celebration in Philadelphia. For a few moments he toyed with the possibility of even making it there in person if all went well today and the campaign was ended in one fell swoop. With luck and catching the right trains, it might just be possible. It would be wonderful to look Grant in the eye with a great victory over the Sioux under his belt. Custer remembered the adulation that had come his way, particularly from be press, from his victory at the Washita. Today could make that look like a minor engagement if he broke the back of the Lakota Sioux nation.

Custer’s ill mood with his unit became even blacker when the first company commander to report ready for march was Captain Benteen of Company H. The captain was the senior company commander and as such the third in command of the regiment in the field. Benteen had been a colonel in the Civil War and his record. As Custer reluctantly knew, had been exemplary.

Despite that, Custer did not wish to cede the lead in the march to Company H. “Does your company comply with the standing orders that were issued at the Yellowstone, captain?” he asked Benteen.

The captain, whose most striking feature was white hair above a sharp and tanned face, kept his face impassive. “I’ve lent an NCO and six men back to the pack train to take care of the mules for my troop, sir. Each man has one hundred rounds of carbine ammunition and twenty-four rounds of ball for their pistols.”

The regiment, and Custer, had left their sabers back at Fort Lincoln. The unwieldy swords were next to worthless in the field. If there was fighting to be done, it would be done with rifle and pistol.

“Then Colonel Benteen, you have the advance,” Custer reluctantly said. He then ignored Benteen as the rest of the commanders trickled in. Captain Weir of D; Lieutenant Godfrey of K; Captain French of M; Custer’s brother Tom, of C; young Lieutenant McIntosh of G; Captain Moylan of A; Lieutenant Calhoun of L; Captain Miles Keogh of I; Lieutenant Smith of ; Captain Yates of F; and last, and to be designated in the least favored spot, Captain McDougall of B, which Custer accordingly assigned to guard the pack train.

“Move your troop to the right and proceed in column of fours,” Custer ordered Benteen. Custer then pulled his horse to the side and watched as Benteen led the way, heading around the bulk of the mountains toward the valley of the Little Big Horn.

“Magnificent, sir, magnificent,” a voice piped up to · Custer’s right. He turned in the saddle and saw Mark Kellogg, the correspondent from the Bismarck Tribune. Some of Luster’s black mood fell away from him.

“You are most fortunate, Mister Kellogg,” Custer said… You are going to be witness to one of the greatest victories the frontier has ever known and see the end of the power of the mighty Sioux nation.”

“We will have a fight then. Sir?” Kellogg asked.

“If they do not run, we will have a fight,” Custer replied.

The third company in column was now passing by. A splendid sight to Custer in the morning sun. Custer knew Kellogg’s presence violated Shennan’s order to General Terry for no reporters to accompany the Seventh Cavalry. But Custer saw the long reach of President Grant in that order and had decided to ignore it. Custer had actually invited the publisher of the Tribune. Clement Lounsberry, to come along, but Lounsberry’s wife had taken ill just before they left Fort Lincoln and Kellogg had been chosen to take his place.

“Do you think they will run?” Kellogg asked anxiously.

Custer liked the man. The reporter wanted to see a fight. Unlike some of his own men, he thought bitterly. “The red man always runs,” he answered. “I have been out here a decade, and not once have they settled down and fought like · men. You have to threaten their women and their children to get them to fight at all.”

“I thought you had great respect for the red man, general. In your book Life on the Plains you wrote about--”

“I do respect them as foes once they take weapon in hand.” Custer quickly cut the reporter off. “They fight fiercely. The problem is getting them to fight. In the Civil War we knew our foe, and we could meet them bravely, face to face on the field of honor. Here we have to track them down like dogs.”

Custer knew he always had to be careful around newspapermen. He never knew how they might take something he said and twist it to their own end. He’d been criticized by newspapers before. But he also knew that Kellogg’s own career was tied to the success of the Seventh Cavalry. This was Kellogg’s big chance, because his stories were not only being printed by the Bismarck paper but were also being picked up by the New York Herald.

‘’Make sure you spell my uncle’s name correctly,” a boyish voice joked from behind the two men. Custer smiled as he pulled back on his reins and turned his horse. His nephew, eighteen-year-old Harry Armstrong “Autie” Reed was grinding. Having Autie along was another violation of Army policy, Custer knew, but it was good for the lad. He had been sickly back east, and the fresh air of the High Plains had done wonders for him.

“We’ll be seeing some action today,” Custer told Autie. “I want you to stay close to me.” Custer glanced over at the other man with his nephew. “You, too, Boston,” he directed toward his younger brother, Boston Custer. At least Boston was authorized on this trip. Although Custer had had to pull some strings to get his younger brother hired as a civilian guide. There were those, Benteen’s voice among them, who had wondered at the usefulness of a guide who had never been in this part of the country before. Boston was a comfort to Custer, and for that reason the general felt he was more than worth having along.

“You guard Autie now,” Custer said. “It wouldn’t do to have him get hurt. Elizabeth would never let me hear the end of it.”

Custer noted the new scout standing silently behind the officers and his family members. Bouyer bothered him although he couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason. The man rarely spoke. He’d shown up two days ago, which had been convenient considering one of the scout/interpreters for the regiment had simply disappeared the previous evening. Custer remembered Bouyer from the Washita, and the man’s reputation for working with Bridger was well known along the frontier. But there was an air about him, a darkness that disturbed Custer. While Bouyer had dutifully reported all the signs the scouts picked up regarding the savages, he had not had the same edge of fear the others displayed. It was as if he were resigned to whatever was going to occur.

Custer turned his attention back to the column. The fifth troop was now going by. He looked to his left. He could see the front of the column crossing over the high ground between the Rosebud and Little Big Horn Valleys. By the sun, Custer estimated it would be noon shortly. Not good, he thought. The damn Indians had all morning to break: down their lodges and leave if they had spotted his troops.

The regiment, in columns of fours, was strung out for quite a long distance, another disadvantage of moving in this terrain. Because of the unevenness of the landscape, the column y.ras bunching up and spreading out in a most unmilitary fashion.

This will not do at all, thought Custer. He galloped forward, along the column, passing the troops. Catching up with Benteen, he waved at him to stop his troop.

“Cooke, come with me,” Custer said to his adjutant, Lieutenant William Cooke. Custer liked having the Canadian-born officer as his right-hand man. Cooke was a deadly shot with both carbine and pistol. He also presented a fierce appearance, with bushy sideburns adorning his cheeks that were so long they flapped about in the breeze.

The two men rode forward about fifty yards. They halted on a slight rile, but there was nothing to be seen to the front except rolling grass-covered hills and a small gap between them.

Custer used the tail of his red cravat to wipe sweat from his face. It was hot already, the temperature somewhere in the mid-90s and likely to get higher. Two Crow scouts raced up and reported in sign language that they had spotted some Sioux nearby. The Sioux had ridden off quickly to the north. Custer dismissed the scouts with a wave of his hand. There was no doubt the seventh had been spotted. The problem was, despite his time on the Crow’s Nest, Custer still had no real idea where exactly the Indian camp was.

He knew the Little Big Horn ran in a roughly northeasterly direction and that the Sioux were most likely on the west side of the river; at least that’s what all the scouts agreed on. If the hostiles were going to run, they would run either north or south along the river, Custer decided. West was high ground leading to the Rocky Mountains; it was possible they might go that way, but if they did, Custer wasn’t exactly in position to stop them, being to the east. To loop around to the west would take much too long.

Eight years earlier, in November 1868, Custer had been in t similar situation on the Washita. In the dead of night he’d divided the Seventh into four groups and surrounded the village. It had been over in fifteen minutes. One hundred three Indians lay dead, their blood seeping into the snow. It had been glorious. Custer remembered. Riding forward at the head of his troopers, the strains of “Garry Owen” in the air, he had rushed through the village, firing his pistol at any red target that presented itself. It had been hailed as a great victory, perhaps the greatest of the western Indian Wars to date. By God, Custer remembered, General Phil Sheridan himself had ridden down from Fort Hays in the middle of the winter to congratulate Custer personally. Custer hoped to top that now.

Today, though, Custer knew he had a time problem. At Washita he’d been able to deploy the regiment at night to surround the village. He’d also known exactly where the village as. Right now he was still more than twelve miles away from the little Big Horn River, and he didn’t know exactly where along the water the village was. It was likely the regiment had been spotted, so the element of surprise might well have been lost. And if he didn’t burry, he might even lose what daylight he had left. To wait for next morning. He knew there would be no village.

Custer turned to look at the head of the regiment. Waiting like a deadly snake, the body stretching out to the east. His mind wrestled with the tactical situation. Then he spotted Benteen. His shock of white hair making him easily visible. Benteen had been with him at the Washita victory, but ever since then the man had become an irritating presence in the regiment Farther back in the column, Custer knew Reno was riding. Another burr.

If those were rebels down there, Custer had no doubt about what he’d do. Swing the regiment on line along the valley floor. Making sure they were south of the village. And weep up it, taking the enemy head-on. But if he tried that against the Sioux, he knew they wouldn’t stand and fight. They’d run, especially if the entire might of the Seventh was brought to bear.

No. Custer thought, this was going to be difficult to pull off. “How far do you make it, Cooke’?” he asked, pointing through the gap in the bills ahead to a dark line that marked the river.

‘’Ten miles or so, sir,” Cooke replied.

There was a creek a quarter-mile ahead. Ash Creek, the scouts had told him. It divided farther down, but eventually led into the Little Big Horn. To the right were rolling ridges, the same to the left with the Wolf Mountains behind them.

Custer noticed a group of riders coming in from the left. He waited impatiently, feeling success tick away with each minute. It was Varnum with his scouts, come from Crow’s Nest.

“General, we spotted some Sioux moving north along Ash Creek ahead of you,” Varnum reported.

Bloody Knife’s hands moved in the hand symbols typical of the Indian. They are too many!

Bouyer had come up to meet Varnum and the other scouts. He echoed Bloody Knife’s hands. “There are many in the village. It fills the valley.”

“How many is many?” Custer demanded.

Bouyer shrugged. “Two thousand warriors. Maybe more.”

Custer blinked. “They’ve never had that many in one place before. They couldn’t feed their ponies or their people.”

Bouyer didn’t answer.

“Even if they did,” Custer continued, “they can’t coordinate a force like that.”

“If you go in there,” Bouyer said, pointing ahead, “you will never come out.”

“Are you afraid?” Custer demanded, his patience with the temperamental scouts snapping.

A slight smile crept across Bouyer’s face, which irritated Custer, but the man said nothing.

Bloody Knife’s hands moved, gesturing toward the sun. Custer knew the sign language well enough to read it: I will not see the sun go down behind the hills tonight.

Custer ordered the scouts to move back to the column. He needed a moment to think. He stared straight ahead as if he could see through the blocking hills to the Indian camp.

He turned to Cooke. “Relay my orders to Captain Benteen. He is to take Companies D, H and K and move to the southwest along those hills there.” Custer pointed in the desired direction. “He is to explore that terrain for hostiles and also make sure that no Indians make their escape in that direction.”

Lieutenant Cooke was startled by the command, but he nodded and rode off toward Benteen.

BENTEEN

Benteen and Custer were like two wolves prowling the same territory. Custer had the rank, but Benteen had something else, a look in his eyes, that belied his gentle appearance. And the one time the two had come head to head, it had been Custer who had backed off.

Benteen was used to conflict, having grown up in a southern family that had owned slaves in Virginia and prior to the Civil War had moved to St. Louis in the border state of Missouri. When war came, Benteen accepted a commission in the Tenth Missouri, a move that stunned and angered his father, who promptly disinherited him. The father went to work for the Confederacy aboard a supply steamboat that plowed the Mississippi. As fate would have it, the Tenth Missouri captured that same steamboat, so the younger Benteen, disinherited though he might have been, held sway over his father.

While his father was held in custody the rest of the war, · Frederick Benteen served with bravery throughout numerous campaigns. He had been recommended for brevet brigadier general on June 6, 1865, but the brevet’ wasn’t approved due to the influence of politicians and the West Point network. Like many of the other officers now in the Seventh Cavalry, · at the end of the war his rank was reduced back to his regular Army commission as a captain.

Benteen came to the Seventh Cavalry in January 1867. From the very first meeting he didn’t hit it off with Custer. Benteen was older and he’d served more time with troops than Custer. But Custer was West Point and Benteen wasn’t. Still, Benteen had tried to be professional. Then came Washita and the issue of Major Elliott that put acid in the moat between the two men.

The “great victory,” as Benteen would caption the event, had almost gotten Benteen killed. It was something he wasn’t likely ever to forget. He’d charged into the village and spotted a young brave escaping, running from a lodge. Benteen gave chase, signaling for the brave to surrender. The man had turned and fired at Benteen, the bullet whistling by his ear. The brave fired again, and the bullet hit Benteen’s horse, knocking him to the ground. Benteen had rolled to his feet and finally shot back, killing the brave.

But it wasn’t that incident that soured and sickened Benteen at the Washita. It began after that, when Custer ordered the Indian ponies captured by the regiment to be killed. Almost a thousand of the animals were slaughtered. Even here, under the harsh summer sun, Benteen still shivered when he thought of that cold December morning just before Christmas. He could clearly recollect the screams of wounded horses and Custer riding about. Shooting the Indians’ dogs with his pistol as if it were the greatest sport in the world. Benteen shook his head as he watched Custer and Cooke talk.

Benteen jerked back on his horse’s bit as he remembered. And then there was the counting in the village. Everything had to be counted. Bodies, saddles, rifles, spears, shields, everything. Benteen had seen the official report and almost burst a vein in his forehead from anger. Custer reported 103 dead warriors. More like two dozen, Benteen had estimated from his Own ride through the camp. The rest of the bodies · were women, children, and old men who couldn’t even lift a spear any more.

And then there was Major Elliott and his eighteen men. Elliott had taken a platoon of men, charged after Indians fleeing down the river and simply disappeared. The rest of the command finished butchering the animals and burning the lodges and then Custer ordered them to form to return to post. It would be dark soon, he explained to astonished junior officers who wanted to search for Elliott’s party, and they had no idea if there might not be more large bands of hostiles in the area.

So they left without even looking for Elliott.

Benteen had been with the force that returned to the Washita two weeks later. They went downstream from the scorched site of the battle and found what remained of Elliott’s command. Nineteen mutilated bodies lay frozen in the snow inside a small hollow next to the river. Piles of spent cartridges next to the bodies pointed to a desperate last stand.

Maybe we could have saved Elliott, Benteen wondered not for the first time. If Custer had acted like any decent commander and--Benteen spit. He’d played it out in his head a · thousand different ways, but the fact of the matter was that his friend Joel Elliott and eighteen troopers had been killed and tom apart while Custer and the rest of the regiment, Benteen among them, rode for the safety of their fort.

Benteen could still see Elliott’s body, preserved by the cold weather. His arms had been ripped out of the sockets and placed alongside his head. Deep gashes ran down each thigh, cut through the muscle to expose white bone. His genitals had been severed and shoved into his mouth. His torso had been riddled with more than fifty arrows, so many arrows that Benteen couldn’t pull all of them out. He’d had to break them off to get the body into the burial wagon. Naturally, Elliott was scalped, the top of the head a mixture of white bone and red flesh.

Benteen wrote about the entire episode in a letter that he mailed to a colleague with whom he had served in the Tenth Missouri. The letter found its way into the hands of a man working for the St. Louis Dispatch, where it was published without the identity of the writer being revealed. It was a blemish on what Custer had claimed was a flawless victory and helped unleash a backlash of negative press, especially among the more liberal papers back east that decried the massacre of women and children.

Custer knew he wrote it. He threatened Benteen inside his command tent, a copy of the paper in his hand, and Benteen had asked him to step outside and take it up with weapons. Benteen had waited outside for more than a sufficient amount of time and then walked away as Custer continued to rant and rave inside the tent but dared not show his head outside.

Benteen grimaced as Cooke and the new scout came up. The adjutant had his head so far up Custer’s rear, Benteen often wondered if those damn whiskers tickled Custer’s bottom. The scout was a strange creature, one of those who’d spent so much time on the frontier and alone they didn’t seem to fit in around other people.

Cooke relayed the orders for the march without meeting Benteen’s eyes. Benteen didn’t acknowledge the orders directly.

“Do I get a surgeon?” he asked.

“One has not been detailed to you, sir,” Cooke replied.

“And if I make contact with the hostiles?”

“You are to pitch into them, sir,” Cooke replied vaguely.

“’Pitch into?’” Benteen repeated. “Is that a military term that is taught at the Academy? I am afraid I do not have the benefit of such an excellent education.”

“You are to engage the enemy, sir.”

“Engage with a hundred and twenty men?” Benteen asked rhetorically.

The adjutant rode back to Custer, whose back was turned to the column. The scout, Bouyer, dawdled. Benteen rode up to him. “What is it?”

“There’s no one to the southwest.” Bouyer said.

“I know that. But 1 have orders. You heard them.”

Bouyer nodded. “1 heard, major. But you don’t have to ride hard to the southwest.”

“Custer wants all the glory,” Benteen said. “Why should I worry about--”

“It ain’t about Custer,” Bouyer interrupted. “It’s bigger than him.”

“What’s bigger than him?”

“What’s going to happen today.”

“And that is?”

“I think you have an idea.”

Benteen stared hard at the scout but didn’t say anything. Bouyer reached into a large sack tied off to his horse’s pommel and pulled out something wrapped in a leather pouch. “Here.”

Benteen took the pouch, surprised both at the weight and the warmth being propagated by whatever was inside. “What is this?” he asked as he reached to loosen the drawstring.

‘’Don’t.’’ Bouyer held up his hand, indicating Benteen should stop. “Not now. Just carry it for today.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

Benteen was tempted to open the satchel and look, but there was something about Bouyer’s demeanor, a seriousness that drew him in. Benteen not only had a strong feeling that · something was going to happen today, his military sense told him a battle would be engaged today. There was too much evidence to ignore. And the battle would not be to the southwest, · but somewhere along the Little Big Horn.

“All right,” Benteen said.

Bouyer nodded. ‘’Ride slow, sir.” With that he turned and headed back to the column. Benteen watched him for a few moments, then twisted in the saddle and barked orders, getting the three companies that were to form his battalion in line. He dispatched Lieutenant Gibson and ten men to form a forward screen in the difficult terrain to guard against ambush.

“Left oblique, march!” Benteen cried out With a hundred and ten men he marched to the southwest.

“Where are you going?” Major Reno shouted from Benteen’s left as the newly formed battalion began moving.

Benteen pointed. “To those hills.”

“For what purpose?” Reno asked in a lower voice, coming closer so Custer couldn’t hear, although Benteen doubted the general could hear anything above the noise the column made moving.

“To drive everything before me,” Benteen said sarcastically.

Reno turned and looked at the Wolf Mountains toward which Benteen’s battalion was moving, and his face reflected what Benteen felt. There was nothing more to be said. Benteen didn’t particularly care for Reno either, and, if the truth be known, he’d rather have Custer in command than the major.

Almost immediately upon leaving Ash Creek the column hit rough going. That struck Benteen immediately in the tactical sense, telling him that no reasonable group of Indians would be camped here. They were down on the Little Big Horn as every sign and every scout in the regiment had indicated.

Benteen smiled grimly to himself. The boy general wanted the valley for himself. Well, so be it. Custer and Reno could take on the Sioux. Benteen would do as he was ordered.

Then he looked at the satchel Bouyer had given him and the smile slipped away. Today was shaping up to be a most strange day.

RENO

Reno and Custer had much in common and that fact darkly amused the major whenever he happened to reflect on it, which wasn’t often. Custer graduated last in his class at West Point, and Reno had failed to graduate with the class he entered with, the class of 1855. Then he failed to make it with the class of ’56 for the same reason: excess demerits. In fact, Reno had so many he set an Academy record of 1,031 demerits; of course he had six years to achieve that somewhat dubious honor, whereas most cadets only had four. Custer had once pointed out what an achievement that high number was, when there were actually some cadets who graduated without a single demerit, a notable example being Robert E. Lee, who had achieved some fame during the War Between the States, Custer had been sure to add. Reno had finally made it out of the Point in 1857, the year Custer entered the Academy.

When Custer had laughed about his demerits, Reno had been forced to bite his tongue. While Reno was punished for excess dements at West Point, Custer was court-martialed. Reno had heard the story from one of Custer’s classmates. Just before graduation, in 1861, Custer was officer of the guard at West Point when two cadets became involved in an altercation. Custer, instead of doing his duty and stopping the fight. Ordered the bystanders back and directed the belligerents to conduct a fair fight. Unfortunately for Custer, the officer of the day, a commissioned, regular Army officer, happened to hear these words and Custer was brought up on charges. Only the onset of the Civil War kept his Army career going.

However, unlike Custer, Reno’s war record was not notable in either direction. He served and he did his duty without particular distinction or disgrace. After the war, Reno did not have a good go of it. He managed to antagonize about !very possible person he could while trying to wrangle a good assignment and was banished to Fort Vancouver, Washington, as far away from the mainstream a soldier could be sent and still be in the Army.

Reno thought of it as the bad luck time of his career. Everyone had one. Even Custer had been court-martialed in Kansas and forced to take an unpaid leave of absence for a year not too long ago.

But Reno’s luck had changed in 1869 when he was assigned to the Seventh Cavalry at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Or so he had thought at the time, Reno reflected as he watched the dust cloud from Benteen’s battalion.

So far his tour in the Seventh had not turned out well. Besides having to serve under Custer, of course. Two years ago Reno’s wife had died while he was afield with the Seventh. He’d requested a leave of absence to attend her funeral and take care of family business. Headquarters turned down his request, the cold letters of the reply telegram still vivid in Reno’s mind: ‘’The Department Commander feels it is imperative to decline to grant you leave. You must return to your command.”

My command, Reno thought as he glanced over at Custer still talking to Cooke. This regiment should have been mine, he fumed. Damn Custer and damn those who believed in him! The colonel had gone AWOL, absent without leave, in 1867, an offense Custer himself had punished with summary executions in the field. Reno hadn’t been with the Seventh then, but · he’d heard all about it from others who’d been there.

During General Hancock’s ’67 campaign in Kansas, Custer took it upon himself to leave the regiment while it was in the field and ride to visit his wife. The board had drummed him out and suspended him for one year. But then, because of his connections and his reputation, he was back. And here he was, still in command despite all he had done to flout the rules and regulations of the Army.

Reno watched as Cooke rode toward him. My turn, Reno thought.

“Your orders, sir, are to take your three troops along the south side of this creek. Cross the Little Big Horn, and attack the Indian camp from the south.”

Reno swallowed and looked over Cooke’s shoulder where Custer was. The general was peering to the northwest and signing with some of his scouts.

“Just my battalion?” Reno asked.

The general says that he will support your attack if you make contact.”

‘’Where will the general be?” Reno asked.

“We will be on the other side of the creek … on your right flank … within supporting distance,” Cooke replied with a bit of hesitancy in his voice.

Reno peered in the direction Custer was looking. “It’s quite a way to the river.”

“Ten or twelve miles,” Cooke replied. ‘”The general fears · that the Indians are already striking camp and are on the run.”

“On the run?” Reno repeated dully. He could not believe his orders. Benteen was chasing ghosts to the south, and Custer Was splitting what was left of the regiment once again. Hell, they’d already split from Terry. If this kept up Reno envisioned leading a platoon of men eventually.

Cooke’s voice finned up. ‘’The scouts will go with your command, sir.”

“The scouts?” He could see the half-breed who had just been assigned as a scout coming up behind the adjutant.

“Yes, sir,” Cooke affined.

Reno reached up a hand and touched his forehead. It was blazing hot under the sun and his fingers were drenched with · Sweat. He ran his tongue across his lips. “But what is the · plan?”

Cooke was startled by the question. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t understand the plan,” Reno replied.

“You are to move up the valley and attack the hostiles,” Cooke said. “The general will support you as needed.”

“As needed?”

Custer was waving his hand. Indicating for Cooke to come · back. Custer’s five companies were already moving. Reno shook his head, trying to clear the fog he felt descending through it, slowing his thoughts and muddying them. Cooke turned and started to ride away.

“Just make sure I get the support!” Reno called out. Cooke raised a hand, indicating he heard. At least that’s what Reno thought.

Bouyer rode and half touched his right hand to his forehead in a form of salute. “Major:”

“What exactly does the general want me to do?” Reno demanded.

Bouyer dropped the hand. “He didn’t tell me his orders. Sir, other than to link up with you.”

Reno shook his head. “It makes no sense. The hostiles will be in the valley along the river. Why is Custer riding in the hills?”

In response, Bouyer reached into a large sack tied off to his pommel and pulled out a leather satchel. He extended it toward Reno. “Here you go, sir.”

Reno didn’t take it “What the hell is this?”

“A talisman.”

“A what?”

“Strong medicine.” Bouyer still had his arms outstretched.

Custer was gesturing toward Reno, mouthing something. The major had no doubt that whatever the general was saying, it wasn’t pleasant He grabbed the satchel and looped the leather tie over the hook holding his map case near the left rear of the saddle. There was no time for this nonsense.

Reno shouted orders, getting his three companies, A, G and M, in line and moving. He had eleven officers and about a hundred and twenty-five troopers. He also had the scouts, which he found out of the ordinary. Even Bloody Knife was with his column. Strange of the general to part with his favorite scout, Reno thought He also had a surgeon, Henry Porter, an assistant surgeon, James DeWolf; Fred Gerard, the colonel’s personal interpreter, which was also strange; and Isaiah Dorman, the only black man in the entire outfit, a scout with much experience on the plains. And he had Bouyer, the half-breed and his medicine in a bag. The only scouts staying with Custer were Lonesome Charlie Reynolds and four Crows. That fact made Reno wonder that he might indeed be the main thrust and Custer would support him. But years of working with the general told Reno that that simply couldn’t be. Custer would never delegate himself to a supporting role m an event as big as what this was looking to be. Maybe Custer was simply tired of the death chants of the Arikara scouts.

Reno galloped to the front of his column. He could look to his right across the small creek and see Custer’s command riding in parallel. That gave him some hope. They were just a stone’s throw away from each, well within mutual supporting position. Reno glanced to the rear. The only sign that the pack train was following was a distant patch of dust.

Bouyer was riding to the left front of the column, ranging toward the bluffs that were about a mile away in that direction. The columns rode for several miles like that, occasionally breaking into a trot, then Reno noticed Custer gesturing. There was no mistaking it. Custer was directing him over to the north side. Reno felt a tremendous rush of relief. They were rejoining the regiment, at least what they had here.

Reno splashed across the creek. He could see that Custer was standing at a lone teepee. Reno rode up as both columns came to a halt. Custer was inspecting the structure. Reno dismounted and followed his commander into the teepee. A dead Indian lay within. Reno glanced at him--he’d been shot and Ute wound had soured.

Who shot him? Was Reno’s first thought. Had the Indians made contact with some other column of soldiers, or was this the result of infighting between the Indians themselves? Custer still hadn’t said a word. He was simply staring at the dead man, surprisingly subdued for some reason. Then the general turned and stalked from the tent, Reno following.

Reno noticed that Bouyer had ridden up while they were in the tent. The scout was talking to Bloody Knife, motioning at the tent, but Reno couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“Burn it,” Custer snapped. The Crows set to that task quickly.

Custer walked up to Bouyer and Bloody Knife. ‘’Who killed that Indian?”

“Hard to say, major,” Bouyer replied.

Custer was fidgeting with his red bandana. His eyes were darting about. He pulled out his watch and checked the time, shaking his head. “We’re wasting daylight.”

Bouyer chuckled. “General, I wouldn’t be worrying about nightfall if I was you.”

“You aren’t me.”

The Ankara scouts were painting themselves for battle. The two columns were milling about when yelling and several shots were heard to the east.

“There go your Indians, brother!” Tom Custer was pointing.

One of the Crow Scouts was on a knoll to the east and he was gesturing back.

“After them!” Custer ordered the Ankara scouts.

Reno watched with amazement as the scouts ignored the general and continued putting on their paint. Custer’s arms flew as he signed at the Arikara, and there was no doubt in Reno’s mind about the threats inherent in those gestures even though he didn’t understand the exact meaning of what Custer was conveying. The scouts began moving.

Custer wheeled about and grabbed his adjutant, Cooke, by the collar and talked rapidly. He then swiftly walked to his horse and mounted.

Reno stood there, still among the action swirling about him.

“It’s begun.”

Reno turned to Bouyer. “Who exactly are you, and why are you here?”

“You ever get caught in a strong stream while trying to cross it?” Bouyer asked, instead of answering.

“What?”

“A strong current that just grabs you and pulls you along. You can’t get out on either side. You fight and fight, but finally the water wins and you just let it take you where it takes you.”

Reno wanted to ask the scout what the hell he was talking about, but Custer’s column began to move as Cooke came over for the second time with more orders.

“You are to move forward as rapidly as possible across the river, and once you are in position, you are to charge the Indian camp from the south. You will be supported by the whole outfit”

“Where is Custer going?” Reno demanded as he watched the other column move to the north.

“We will be on your right We will support you.” Cooke · yelled as he turned to burry after the Seventh’s commander.

CRAZY HORSE

It was a good day to be alive, Crazy Horse thought as he sat under a tree and watched the ponies eat grass. Never had he seen so many horses in one place. There were almost as many in number as the great buffalo herds he had hunted in his younger days. But the big herds were gone now, another legacy of the white man’s encroachment on the land.

Crazy Horse was not technically a chief, nor did he wish to be one. He was a “shirt-wearer,” a renowned warrior. Among his people, bravery was the number-one requirement of a warrior, and Crazy Horse had that in plenty.

Crazy Horse could sense his “brother” approaching from me southeast, which was strange because that was the direction of the Rosebud, and they knew Three Stars had run away, back toward Fort Fetterman.

Crazy Horse could not believe that the white man was still coming. But the reservation Indians who had arrived in the last several days had given conflicting reports of columns of soldiers. Some said they were to the east in the valley of the Rosebud. Others said they were to the north, near the Yellowstone.

Despite the defeat suffered by Three Stars, there were others still coming, and Crazy Horse knew that was the curse for his people. They would always keep coming. And he was on the banks of the Greasy Grass. Where his mother had foretold he would meet his “brother.”

For the last time, Crazy Horse vowed to himself.

There had to be hope, though. There had to be. Crazy Horse was a warrior, but he also knew that if there was no hope, then warriors would not fight well. The fight on the Rosebud had shown them all something. It had been most difficult for Sitting Bull to cajole all the various tribes and war leaders into accepting a common plan, coordinating the activities of all the warriors. Finally, after many hours of pleading, and with the weight of Sitting Bull’s visions and Gall’s rank as war chief, they had managed to get all the warriors to the Rosebud in the middle of the night and positioned.

Crazy Horse had to wonder though, how much his ‘’brother’s’’ arrival with the strange clear skulls had influenced things. Even Crazy Horse knew they were powerful medicine.

Still, for the first time in history, the entire Sioux nation had fought as one and the result had been a victory, sending Three Stars reeling south. But there were still white men coming, and there was still his mother’s vision, which had not been fulfilled.

Soldiers were falling into camp. Crazy Horse stood up and looked about. There was only one direction from which soldiers could fall into camp. That was to the east, on the other side of the Greasy Grass, where high bluffs overlooked the camp.

Crazy Horse shook his head. He knew this land intimately. A force coming from that direction would be channeled into one of several cuts coming down to the river. It would not be wise tactically, although a foe could approach unseen from the land beyond in that direction.

But the white man was not known for his tactics. Maybe tomorrow, Crazy Horse thought. Maybe they will come out of the hills in the morning. If that were the case, then he had better be prepared. Crazy Horse went in search of one of his ponies. He wanted to make a quick scout of the east side of the Greasy Grass to get a feel for the lay of the land.

But first, there was something he must do. Crazy Horse rode through the large encampment until he found the Miniconjous lodges. He saw several boys gathered near one, and he nudged his pony in that direction. The boys all stopped their play as he rode up.

Crazy Horse dismounted. The boys watched him without saying a word. He looked at them one by one. He felt a charge of power when his eyes touched upon a slight boy near the r:ear. The child held an old rifle in his hands. The stock had splintered and was wrapped with buffalo sinew to hold it together.

Crazy Horse crooked a finger and the boy came forward. The warrior held out his hand and the boy gave him the old rifle. Crazy Horse inspected it. Although old, it was well maintained.

“Have you counted coup?” Crazy Horse asked.

The boy shook his head.

“You are Walks Alone?”

The boy nodded.

“Can you speak?”

The boy began to nod, but caught himself. “Yes.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.”

Crazy Horse took the leather satchel off his pony and held It out to the boy. “This is for you.”

Walks Alone took the satchel but didn’t open it, which Crazy Horse liked. “Where is your father?”

“He was killed by the Snakes while hunting.”

Indians versus Indian again. Crazy Horse thought. “Your mother?”

“She died giving birth two summers ago.”

“And the child?”

“Dead also.”

“Who takes care of you?” Crazy Horse asked.

“I take care of myself,” Walks Alone said. He paused. “But e old warriors who stay in the camp when the young warriors go to count coup—they let me enter their fire circle.”

“You listen to them?”

Walks Alone nodded. “I have learned much from listening.”

“And keeping quiet?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Crazy Horse pointed at the satchel. “Do riot open it. But keep it with you no matter what happens.”

Walks Alone nodded.

Crazy Horse mounted his pony. He looked up at the sun. The day was advanced past the mid-point. Perhaps it would not be today. But he felt his “brother’’ closing. He looked down at Walks Alone, the damaged, old rifle in one hand, the · satchel in the other. Everything fell into a shadow for a moment, and he glanced up, expecting to see a cloud passing in front, and he glanced up, expecting to see a cloud passing in front of the sun, but the sky was perfectly clear. A great weight pressed down on Crazy Horse’s heart as he forced himself to ride away from the boy.

He rode across the Greasy Grass and toward the bluffs on the eastern side when it struck him like a white man’s bullet in the chest that by giving the stone skull to Walks Alone he was helping fulfill the prophecy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE SPACE BETWEEN

“There’s only one problem,” Earhart said.

Dane Was examining the golden globe set on the pedestal in the center of the power room. “What’s that?”

“We need power to get this thing moving and no one has come back with a crystal skull yet.”

“We have to trust the Ones Before,” Dane said.

“We don’t even know who or what the Ones Before are,” Earhart pointed out.

Dane noted that the surface of the globe was marked. He leaned closer. Thin lines curled around the surface. It reminded him of something he had seen before. He felt a strange tingle in his hands.

“Let’s get going,” Earhart said as she turned toward the tube exiting the power room.

Dane reluctantly turned from the globe and followed her.

EARTH TIME LINE IV

The ship’s engineers and reactor specialists had seemed happy simply to have something to do, although they had at first eyed the crystal skull with disbelief when Frost showed it to them. When he had explained as best he could what he had “seen” and “beard,” their disbelief faded and their interest perked up. They’d been at work ever since.

Word of the activity had spread quickly in the confined space of the submarine. After all, even though the Nautilus was a relatively large submarine, almost two thirds of that length was taken up by the reactor and shielding. By the second day of work, every member of the crew had been by the officers’ wardroom to see the crystal skull and the intricate wire frame the engineers were weaving around it. Although Frost had described what they were building, he’d had no idea why.

One of the engineers had tried to explain, as much as he understood, what they were doing. In essence, they were wrapping copper wire around the skull to help make it a part of a Tesla coil, but unlike one any of the engineers had ever seen before. They weren’t sure what the changes would produce, but they were faithful to Frost’s vision.

“It’s done,” Captain Anderson told Frost as the poet poked his head in the galley for about the fortieth time.

The skull was enshrined in copper wiring, only glimpses of it still visible. A dozen members of the crew were crowded in the wardroom, admiring the work. Captain Anderson seemed much less than happy that the work had been completed, and Frost knew why, because he had already told the captain what needed to be done next.

Anderson grabbed a mike hooked up to the ship’s intercom system. He clicked it twice to get everyone’s attention. Then e began. “Men, this is your captain. As you all know, we’ve n doing some special work for Mister Frost. Part of our mission up here. I know many of you have questions as to the exact nature of that mission, as I do,” Anderson looked over at Frost. “We came here because we were ordered to by Naval Command. Those who issued us those orders are dead. Our families are dead. Everyone on the planet other than us is most likely dead, and we will be shortly. That is our reality.

“Mister Frost believes, though, that there are other people who we can help.” Anderson paused. “I’m going to let Mister Frost tell you the rest.” He held out the mike.

Frost took it in his liver-spotted hand. He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I” he paused as the captain pointed and whispered. “You have to press the button on the side.”

Frost nodded. He pressed the button and waited until the brief burst of static passed. “Gentlemen, we are indeed doomed. You have all heard the reports and seen the film footage of the strange craft that destroyed our planet’s atmosphere. I believe you will all agree that craft is not of our world. There are others, not of our world, but like us, who are also threatened by those who flew that craft and attacked us. “We can help them. I cannot explain it all. I ask you to have faith in what we must do.”

Frost released the button and took several breaths before pushing it again. “It is an axiom that man is at his best when times are the worst. We are facing our worst time, and I ask you to be your best.”

He released the button and handed the mike to Anderson. “You know what must be done.”

Anderson took the mike. “I need two volunteers. Two men to take what we have made here in the wardroom and bring it into our reactor core.”

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

BOUYER

“Goddamnit, get your men into line!”

The NCOs were trying to sort out the confusion. Plunging into the Little Big Horn River, thirsty horses and men crowded the ford, vying with each other for water. The three companies resembled a mob, not a military unit. Bouyer’s growing unease seemed to match the growing dust cloud to the north. He felt hollow and loose inside thinking about the numbers it took to make such a cloud of dust. If there was this much confusion now, with no battle engaged, how would it be once they went downstream?

Bouyer looked over his shoulder one more time. First to e right, where there was no sign of Custer or his two battalions. Then to the left, the direction in which Benteen and his battalion had disappeared a few hours ago. Would Benteen believe him, or was he marching hard, out of supporting distance for the coming battle?

“Where’s my support?” Reno muttered next to him, his yes searching in the same directions Bouyer’s had.

Bouyer dug his heels into the flanks of his horse while the noncoms and officers sorted out the mess in the river. Reno followed him. They rode up the west bank of the Little Big Horn and looked to the north, downstream. The valley widened out, with low bluffs enclosing the left and the tree lined river on the right. Reno pulled up his canteen and took a deep swig.

“I’ll take some of that,” Bouyer said, ignoring the surprise on Reno’s face, The major handed over the canteen.

Bouyer lifted it to his lips and took a drink. He almost choked on the brackish water that poured down his throat. Reno laughed, an edge to it that Bouyer didn’t like. They both knew that Bouyer had expected a different liquid. The rumor was rampant in the camp that Reno was a drunk.

“’I’ll support you!’ By thunder, that’s what he said,” Reno snapped, controlling his horse with difficulty, the animal sensing the fear in the air. “’I’ll support you!’ Well, where is he?” Reno laughed wildly again, the sound contradicting the words.

Bouyer didn’t say anything. He knew the village was ahead. Any damn fool could see the dust from thousands of horses and the smoke from many fires. Bouyer had never seen so much smoke. He knew Bloody Knife was right. Custer wasn’t going to ride through this. This wasn’t going to be another Washita. Of course, he’d known for many years that this battle was going to turn out differently than Custer expected.

Besides not seeing either of the two other columns, the uncertainty of the space on his flanks bothered Bouyer, and he knew it bothered the major. Reno had been in quite a few fights in the Civil War, and the man had some tactical sense.

The Little Big Horn didn’t run. In a straight line north but meandered back and forth, east and west, opening and closing the valley in width--not good for a man with only a limited number of troops to advance up through.

A deployed battalion of cavalry was difficult to control, especially once the firing started. The only ways to issue orders were by yelling, which didn’t work well once the shooting began, or sending messengers, who had the possibility of getting shot before they got to their destination, leaving their message undelivered. Add in the fear of getting killed, factor it by the physical and mental state of the men and horses, and any tactical maneuver could be a recipe for disaster. Bouyer knew professional soldiers didn’t want to admit it, but pure damn luck played the biggest role of all in battle.

Here, in the valley, Bouyer knew Reno would have to watch his flanks. There weren’t enough men in the battalion to stretch from river to bluffs at the widest parts. Bouyer wondered where the major would post him and the scouts. The command would have to be anchored on the river. If Custer wasn’t behind him, as they both feared, then the general was to the right and Reno had to keep the way open either to support Custer, or as briefed, to be supported by him. And the right was where Bouyer wanted to be. He mew he needed to be close enough to reach Custer at the critical juncture.

Bouyer looked in that direction. On the east bank of the river the bluffs were much higher. It suddenly occurred to him that somewhere behind those bluffs Custer was riding with his five troops. Bouyer didn’t know why he suddenly thought that; from the orders, Custer should be coming this way into the valley behind them, but Bouyer knew it as sure as he knew anything this day, which in sum didn’t amount to too damn much. And just as surely, he knew that Reno knew it, too. He could tell by the way the major was just sitting there, his command mired in the crossing, no longer in a rush to move ahead up the valley floor toward the lodge fires and pony herds.

And Benteen? Bouyer shook his head. Benteen was exactly where he wanted to be. Out of it. Bouyer could hear Benteen’s voice in his head: Let Custer fall on his own sword, Bouyer shook his head to clear it of thoughts that didn’t do anything to help him right now. He had to trust that each dispersed piece would come together at the right time, although it appeared very unlikely at the moment. Bouyer nodded as Bloody Knife rode up to his side, joining him. He noted that Bloody Knife had the leather satchel containing the crystal un tied off to his pommel.

Bouyer stiffened as a band of twenty mounted warriors suddenly appeared out of a gully six hundred feet away, then wheeled and disappeared back into their own dust.

“There is no surprise,” Bloody Knife said in Arikara.

‘’There never was,” Bouyer replied sharply in the same tongue. He didn’t bother translating the comment to the major. Reno was ignoring them. Finally turning his attention back to his command.

G Troop was formed and up the bank now, with lieutenant McIntosh in control. The other two would be up shortly.

Bouyer stared to the north, his eyes slowly unfocusing. He felt a great weariness seep over him. As if pressed down by the bright sun. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest a little. Just a few moments. Under a tree on the bank of the gently flowing river. He knew what he was to do today was important, but he also felt it would probably end in his death, and he enjoyed life. He had lived far more than the vast majority of men. He’d traveled places only a handful of white men had ever seen. He’d enjoyed the feel of falling snow on his face as much as that of the warm sun at noon on a summer’s day. Why had he been chosen?

Bouyer’s head snapped up. The troops were up and formed. The dust to the north was greater than before, and he could hear faint war cries carrying through the heavy air. A rush spiked through the fatigue.

“Forward in fours!” Reno ordered. “Scouts to the left flank,” he added, looking at Bouyer.

The exposed left. All feeling drained out of his veins. Bloody Knife was watching him, the Indian’s face impassive.

“Keep my flank covered out there,” Reno said.

BENTEEN

They had come across no sign on their march south and west. Benteen wiped sweat off his brow and looked up at the sun blazing overhead in the direction they were moving. He’d had two couriers come from Custer since they had left the main column. The first had ordered them on to the second ridge. The next courier had ordered them to go even farther and been divided again by Custer with Reno’s battalion heading for the valley of the Little Big Horn to attack the village.

Despite the orders, Benteen had pressed his battalion more and more to the north. He wanted to be as close to the rest of the regiment as possible. He’d looked inside the satchel Bouyer had given him and been startled by what he saw. He wasn’t a religious man and he also thought whatever gods the Indians worshipped were false, but this thing had some kind of power, of that be bad no doubt.

If only Custer hadn’t split off Reno. That bothered Benteen more than anything. Benteen could understand Custer wanting to get him out of the way. He’d always known that Custer would cut him out of any fight.

But sending Reno into the valley first and Custer following with a supporting force--that wasn’t like the general at all. The son of a bitch wanted to be at the head of the column when it ran through the Indian camp. That way that damn reporter could--Benteen’s mind froze, locking him in the saddle. He pulled off to the side and let the first several pairs of his column go by as his eyes turned to the northeast.

He knew the valley of the Little Big Horn. And now he knew exactly what Custer had planned. The damn fool wasn’t going to support Reno. He was using Reno as a blocking force to keep the Indians from escaping upriver. But you didn’t send blocking force in the attack against a superior force, and there was absolutely no doubt in Benteen’s mind that Reno’s one hundred and twenty-five men were vastly outnumbered.

Benteen closed his eyes and thought it through, putting · himself in Custer’s place with Custer’s mind. Custer was afraid the Sioux would run. Reno was to bottle them up from the south and engage the warriors. The village would be farther north downstream. Custer would want to flank the village either from the west or east, so he would either swing south around Reno and march to the west of the Little Big Horn or he would cut north before the river and stay on the east side. The west was too far. Custer could never push his tired horses to get there in time before Reno was decisively engaged. So it had to be from the east. On the other side of the river.

Benteen moved then, galloping up to the front of the column, shouting commands. They turned hard right and began marching to the north, violating his last orders from Custer.

MARTIN

Giovanni Martini had once served as a drummer boy for Garibaldi in Italy, so although he was new to the United States, he was no newcomer to armies. One thing he had learned early in his army career in Italy was to appear dumber than he was. Smart men got used like sponges until they were wrung dry. Dumb troopers got to take things much slower and weren’t often called on to do extra duty. Since coming to the United States several years ago, he had been unable to get a job so he had enlisted in the Anny. His name was changed to John Martin on the enlistment forms, and he was sent out west to serve.

Martin had exaggerated his lack of understanding of the English language as a buffer to keep himself from being worked too hard. Unfortunately, a few days earlier, that tactic had backfired for Martin. The H Troop first sergeant had grown tired of trying to get the trumpeter to do as he was told, and when the tasking came down from the regimental adjutant for a trumpeter to serve with headquarters, the first sergeant had, as first sergeants are wont to do, sent what he considered his most expendable man: John Martin, who didn’t seem to understand English.

Martin, of course, understood much more than he let on. Riding next to Custer, he felt like he was in the center of the storm as the general issued orders and conferred with scouts. Major Reno’s column had disappeared as Custer’s five companies had climbed behind a hill on the north side of Ash Creek, west of the Little Big Horn. The four remaining Crow scouts were riding with Custer, keeping close to their commander.

The land here lay in long swells leading to bluffs cut with ravines. It was impossible to see very far in any direction except from the very top of one of those bluffs and even then tin didn’t like this wide-open country. He felt it was deceptive in its openness with death lurking in the form of savage red-men behind every hill.

He also was less than thrilled about the enemy they were · after. In Italy the fighting had gotten pretty bloody, but when a soldier put his hands up and surrendered, it was all over. They were gentlemen in war on the Continent. Here, there was no surrender. Martin had seen several scalped and mutilated bodies, the results of a trooper wandering too far from the camp or civilians caught out in no-man’s-land. Not a single one had looked like they’d had an easy death.

Martin’s band crept down to his side where his .45-caliber Model 1872 Colt single-action revolver rested in its holster. It was a reliable weapon although difficult to reload. There was great debate among the soldiers about what was the best way · to kill oneself with the gun. There was no debate that suicide was the desired course of action in the face of capture by the red man. All one had to do was see some of the bodies, as Martin had, and he was convinced a bullet through the brain was to be preferred. He had twenty-four cartridges for the pistol, counting the six already in the cylinder.

Across his lap, Martin held the Model 1873 Springfield Carbine, which was standard issue for the regiment. It was a single-shot, breach-loaded rifle. He had twenty-four rounds for it in canvas loops on the cartridge belt looped over his · shoulder and another seventy-six in a larger cartridge bag attached to his saddle. Martin was not happy with the Springfield. It shot accurately enough, but it was too slow. He’d seen the Henry repeater rifles that some scouts at Fort Lincoln had and he wondered why the Army hadn’t bought those. Another problem with the Springfield was that the cartridge cases sometimes split after being fired and would not eject · when the breech was opened to insert a new cartridge. This malfunction required the firer to dig out the split casing with a knife--not something one wanted to do in the beat of combat.

Martin’s bugle was slung over his back, and since issuing officer’s call back at Ash Creek he had not been ordered to use it again. He could look to the northwest and see the smoke from many campfires lazily drifting into the air and was glad he didn’t have to use the bugle.

Custer gestured for Martin to follow and the two of them, along with the scouts, left the column and rode up a nearby hill to the west As they crested the top, Martin pulled back hard on his reins and felt his heart start pounding.

The Indian village was down there, no doubting it now. As far as he could see to the north there were teepees and lodges on the other side of the river. Martin crossed himself and said I quick prayer to the Virgin Mother.

“We have got them this time!” Custer exclaimed, taking in the view.

Martin followed Custer’s gaze to the left. There was no sign of Reno yet, although there was quite a bit of dust in the southern part of the river bottom. There was an occasional echo of a shot being fired, but that could just as well be hunters.

Custer was standing in his stirrups, looking in all directions now. Martin took the opportunity to gaze around as well. It was difficult to tell how the land lay, as bluffs masked much of the river below them and to the north. There was one thing for certain, though: They could not get down into the Indian village from their present position. The Crow scouts did not seem very happy about the sight that lay before them.

More shots rang out and then for the first time they could see small figures in blue appear on the flat plain to the west of the river: Reno’s batta1ion was in the attack.

“Perfect!” Custer smacked a gloved fist into the palm of his other hand.

Martin frowned. There were so many brown-skinned figures moving in the village that it looked like a swarm of bees that had had a stick poked into it.

Custer took his hat off and waved, although Martin didn’t anyone down there in the valley could see them up here. Then the general pulled his horse’s reins and they headed back for the column.

Custer rode up to his brother, Tom, and barked orders, telling him to send a messenger to the pack train. “Have McDougall bring the pack train straight in this direction, across the high ground. If any straps break and packs get loose don’t bother to fix them. Cut them off. Speed is of the essence. Tell him there is a big Indian camp.”

Custer’s brother nodded and rode off to get one of his men to send the message. Custer waved his hand and the column moved off at a gallop to the north, hidden from the action below by the high bluffs lining the river.

Martin reached down to his saddle and made sure the strange satchel he’d been given by the half-breed scout was still tied off securely. He’d promised the man, in exchange for a ten dollar gold piece, to carry whatever was in there and not look inside for the day. A strange request, but Martin thought all the red-men were quite strange and this Bouyer fellow was half red.

Martin spurred his horse and followed after Custer as the general rode north.

SCOLLEN

Corporal Henry Scollen was in the second rank of riders in · M Troop, which led the way for Reno’s battalion. He was very unhappy. A Troop was behind his troop. And G Troop brought up the trail. Scollen’s distress came from his mount. His own horse had come up lame just prior to the departure from Fort Lincoln, and the new mount the quartermaster had pressed upon him had been an unending source of trouble. It was with great difficulty that he kept it in line as the column rode onto the broad open plain to the east of the Little Big Horn River.

Scollen had never been fired at, so it was with great surprise that he realized the snapping sound in the air was bullets flying by. There were Indians all about in the distance, darting in and out of the rolling terrain to his front. He could see the tops of lodges a long way ahead. He ran his bands nervously across the leather satchel he’d tied tight to his saddle. Whatever was inside was hard and a little bigger than a mess tin. It was also warm, which was strange. A ten dollar gold piece. That was what Bouyer had given him to carry this for the day. Why? Scollen had no idea, nor had he asked any questions, eagerly taking the gold.

“McIhargy!” Reno· cried out, and Scollen watched a trooper ride up to the major. Scollen was close enough to hear what Reno was saying. ‘’Go find General Custer. Tell him I have everything before me and the enemy is strong. Go, man, go!”

“Where is he, sir?” McIhargy asked.

Reno pointed east. “In those hills.”

McIhargy spurred his horse and galloped off to the east. Reno then began yelling orders, putting A and M Troops online with G Troop in support. The wide river valley extended mead for a couple miles, then there was a line of trees coming out from the river across their front. The village was on the other side of that.

The battalion broke into a gallop, and the tired horses did their best, gobbling up terrain with long strides. Scollen’s arms ached from keeping his horse in its proper place in the advance. He could see warriors now, much closer. They appeared to be naked, their bodies painted. Some brandished guns, which they fired at the advancing soldiers. Others had spears and bows. But they all were giving ground to the blue onslaught. Perhaps they would all run, Scollen thought. Perhaps the fight would be over quickly.

Reno was spending as much time looking over his shoulder to the southeast as he was making his advance to the north. Scollen could understand the major’s concern. Scollen had heard the orders Cooke had given the major. Where was Custer? If he was indeed in the hills on the other side of the Little Big Horn, he was too far away to be in immediate support as promised.

The valley widened, and Reno could no longer keep a company in reserve. G Troop was also brought on-line. The scouts were off to the left. More and more Indians were ahead, several times the number of troops that were charging. The edge of the village was not far now.

A piece of lower ground straddled the ground in front of the advancing line of troops, and Reno brought the command to a halt with his hand raised in the air. “Form a line of skirmishers!” he screamed.

Scollen pulled back on his reins, but the horse bucked and the leather slipped out of his hands. The horse bolted forward, smelling the gunpowder and dust in the air.

“Scollen, get back here!” the M Company first sergeant bellowed.

Desperately Scollen grasped for the leather rein, but even when he got it in his hand, the horse was too far gone. Full speed it galloped across the open ground between Reno’s halted force and the Indian village.

Scollen dropped the rein and grabbed for his carbine, but in his tenor, he dropped the rifle as the horse jumped a gopher hole and the satchel slammed into his hands. A painted figure flashed by to his right, then one to his left. He felt something tear by his shoulder, a spear, just missing him.

“Oh, Jesus!” Scollen screamed as he was surrounded on all sides by hostiles. He reached for his pistol as a daring brave jumped up and tried to grab the reins. The horse rode over the brave, leaving him screaming in pain.

Scollen’s hand closed on the butt of his Colt as an arrow thudded into his horse’s chest. Another, then another. A large brave came running forward. A long spear in his hand. Scollen raised the pistol and fired. The brave was still coming. Scollen fired again, but he must have missed, as the brave kept charging.

The horse collapsed to its front knees as the brave slammed the spear into its chest. Scollen fell, rolled on the ground and got to his knees. His hands were empty. In a panic he felt the ground to his side for his pistol as his eyes were mesmerized by half a dozen braves coming toward him, weapons at the ready.

“Please!” Scollen yelled, putting both his hands up in entreaty.

Something slammed him in the back, feeling like the kick f a horse, and Scollen’s eyes widened in amazement as the tip of a spear came out of his chest, soaked in red blood. He looked up and was as startled to see a woman, a female warrior, standing in front of him, staring at him intently.

He was surprised he felt no pain. The surprise vanished as another Indian slammed a hatchet into his left side and skin, muscle, and bone gave way. Scollen screamed, his hands still held up in entreaty. He was still screaming as a brave began scalping him. It was only when another slammed a club down on his head that the screaming stopped and blessed darkness came.

The Sioux who killed Scollen were impressed with his bravery, charging their line all by himself. It was a feat worthy of a warrior. But that didn’t stop one of them from using his hatchet to slit open his stomach, cut off his bead and stick his head into the opening in his stomach.

Standing back from the mutilation was Buffalo Calf Road Woman, the hero of the battle of the Battle of the Rosebud, known among her people by her feat, the Battle Where the Girl Saves Her Brother.

She walked over to the dead man’s horse, noting the satchel tied off to the dead animal’s saddle. She took it off, ignoring the warriors who were tearing the man’s body apart. She immediately felt the warmth in her hands. She peeked inside and gasped. Powerful medicine.

Buffalo Calf Road Woman took the crystal skull, hidden inside the satchel, and moved forward into the battle.

GAIL

Gall was walking back from visiting relatives in the middle of the great encampment when he heard the first shots. He paused, hoping it was simply hunters returning. But as the shots continued, he realized that today there would be a battle.

From the sound, the fighting was in the valley to the south, which caused him some concern. As his people were camped the farthest in that direction. He wondered why there had not been an alarm of soldiers approaching, but he supposed it was due to everyone relaxing after dawn had passed and no blue coats had shown up. No one could believe that the soldiers would attack this camp in the light of day when the full force of the mighty Sioux nation and the other tribes here could be seen by any foe approaching.

So much for beliefs, Gall thought as he tried to make his way through the sudden bedlam in the camp. Women were screaming, trying to track down children. Dogs were barking and warriors were grabbing weapons and running to the sound of the gunfire.

As he got closer to his lodge, Gall’s concern grew. Bullets Hew by, mostly high, but it told him the enemy was not far away. One of his wives ran past, shepherding some young ones. She did not meet his eye or halt at his yelled questions, and Gall felt a heavy weight press down on his chest.

The bodies lay outside of his lodge. His eldest wife, his youngest daughter who just this morning had filled him with such joy, and one of his sons. Dead, struck down by the bullets of the blue coats. Gall dropped to his knees and picked up the body of his daughter. He peered into her lifeless eyes, closed the lids, then slowly put her back down.

He could hear more firing now. The sound of horses in agony. Men yelling, in their tongue. Some of them white men. Warriors ran or galloped past, heading to the south. Gall stood and pulled open the entrance to his lodge. His hatchet, steel blade gleaming, lay just inside. He picked it up, feeling the heft of the handle. He also picked up the satchel with the skull and it looped over his shoulder. Then he turned and moved to the south.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

MOSCOW: THE PRESENT

The cloud of radiation reached the southeast suburbs of Moscow and crept inward, the most successful invader of Moscow since the Golden Horde of the Khan many centuries previously. Between Moscow and Chernobyl, the land was more scorched and dead than even the Mongol invaders had accomplished.

To the east, panic was beginning to ripple through Europe. People stared at wind reports with intensity, noting every little change and hoping against the realistic words of the scientists that something would happen to forestall the curtain of death that was coming toward them.

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Dane hovered just above the top of the Shadow Sphere, slowly turning and looking in all directions over the Inner Sea. Earhart was by his side.

“Nothing,” Dane reported.

Instead of replying, Earhart opened her suit and stepped down onto the surface of the sphere. She carefully walked down to where the black water met the craft and knelt.

“Be careful,” Dane warned.

“Something’s coming,” Earhart said.

“What?”

“We’ll see it when it gets here.”

EARTH IV

Out of a crew of one hundred and eighteen, ninety-six had volunteered. From that number, Anderson had picked two of his reactor specialists, given the nature of the task. The two men had suited up in the bulky radiation suits and now were ready, standing in the holding area in front of the large hatch that was in the first shield wall between the front of the sub · and the rear. One of them carried the wired skull, the other a large hatch wrench. The hatch was unbolted and they stepped through; the hatch shut behind them. They moved down a short passageway and opened a second hatch, moved through, and shut it behind them. They were now in the emergency operations room for the reactor. They’d both been here before on maintenance checks. Inside a suit, a man could safely work in the room for thirty minutes.

They moved to one side where there was another hatch plastered with red warning signs. The man with the wrench opened it, and the one carrying the skull stepped through. He waited as the other man slipped inside, closing one hatch be· hind them and then opening the next one, again covered with warning signs.

The sailor with the wrench paused before the final turn and looked back at his partner. Peering through the clear plastic visors of the headgear they stared at each other for a few moments, knowing what the next action would bring. Neither d a word. The sailor turned back to the door and twisted the wrench. The hatch opened. Although there was no apparent difference, both men cringed, as if hunching down inside their suits would make a difference. They knew they were being bathed in radiation from the reactor core, but it was an instinctual reaction. They moved to the core and the one with the skull put it in position as Frost had directed.

Both jumped back as they were bathed in a bright blue light The skull was the source of it, the intensity so strong, they couldn’t look at it for more than a second before turning their eyes away.

The captain s voice came over the intercom. “Are you men all right? We’ve just picked up a fifty percent power drop in reactor strength.”

They stared at the skull, which was now pulsing with blue power, realizing that somehow it had tapped the reactor core of that much energy in an instant. They also knew that if it was holding that much power, it had to be giving out radiation far beyond the ability of their suits to block. One of them checked the small card clipped to the outside of his suit. It was bright red, meaning they’d just received a fatal dose in an instant.

“We’ve got a problem, captain,” one of them called out.

“What is it?” Anderson’s voice echoed through the core.

“This thing is hot now. Very, very hot. If we remove it from the core and bring it forward of the shields, it will contaminate the rest of the ship. At fatal levels.”

*****

In the control room Anderson turned to Frost. And waited.

Frost was seated in a battered metal chair, his white hair unkempt. “The skull has the power to open the gate large enough for the submarine to pass through.”

“To where?”

“To where we must go.”

“And then?”

“I can’t see that far.”

“That’s pretty slim.”

“It’s all been pretty slim, but if you had not listened to me, you all would be dead by now along with everyone else.”

“Not much of a life here.”

Frost waited, letting the emotion run out of Anderson. Finally the captain sighed. “All right.” He keyed the intercom and gave the orders. Every man on the ship heard them and knew what they meant.

*****

When the intercom went silent, the sailor who’d carried the skull. In went over to the wall and grabbed a set of metal tongs. He went back to the core and picked up the skull, holding it between the metal jaws. “Clear the way,” he called out; the message was picked up by the live speaker and transmitted through the ship. Forward of the reactor, a pathway was cleared of all personnel, not that the steel bulkheads were any safety against the deadly rays being emitted by the skull.

The two men quickly retraced their steps, exiting the reactor and sealing all hatches behind them. After the months of being crowded, they found it strange to move through the ship with no one else in sight. They reached the base of the sail and found the hatch to the ice cap open. They moved outside without hesitation, a snowstorm beating against their radiation suits. They didn’t look over their shoulders as the hatch was slammed shut.

They moved forward of the Nautilus about a hundred yards to the point where they couldn’t see their ship anymore through the swirling snow. Both halted. The one holding the skull hesitated, then put it down on the ice, expecting it to melt through and disappear.

It didn’t

Instead, as soon as it was released. The skull rose up and came to a hover four feet above the ice, unaffected by the strong wind that blew by.

The skull shot out bolts of blue into the descending snow. Directly in front of the two sailors, the air crackled and snapped. Both men took an involuntary step backward as a ,lack oval three feet wide by six feet long, opened. It began to grow larger.

A crashing noise from behind diverted their attention for a moment. The large bow of the Nautilus appeared, smashing through the ice. Someone was on top of the deck, waving at them. They walked closer. A slab of ice being broken lifted both of them higher. They staggered to remain upright.

A sailor on the front deck held out a loop of cut hose. The first man lifted his arm, hooked and caught hold of it. He was swung onto the deck. The second did the same, just as the nose of the Nautilus hit the black circle. The three men were silhouetted by blue against the black.

As if pulled through, the Nautilus increased speed and snapped out of sight, and the man who had rescued the two suited sailors screamed in agony.

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Earhart jumped to her feet as a wall of black water surged up and toward the sphere. She slipped as the water crashed over her legs. Dane grabbed her arm and held on, half expecting kraken tentacles to attack. He blinked as the blunt gray nose of a submarine of a type he had never seen appeared fewer than fifty feet away. It was coming straight toward the sphere, and Dane helped Earhart farther up to the very top.

The bow of the sub hit the sphere with a solid thud, bringing the craft to a dead stop. There were three figures on the front deck. Two standing, dressed in bulky yellow suits streaked with black as if they’d been hit with a blowtorch. The third was prone, unmoving, his uniform and skin fried. Another casualty in the war. Dane found he felt little for whoever the man was--no, that wasn’t quite right he realized, it was more he couldn’t afford to focus on it, to allow himself to feel. He realized it was a sad state of affairs, and death was just a small speed bump in events.

Dane now saw the writing on the side of the sail: Nautilus.

“I think we’re about to meet Mister Frost,” he said to Earhart.

A hatch on the side of the sail clanged open and several men came out of the submarine and made their way forward. Foremost among them was an old man with white hair. Dane and Earhart walked down the sphere until they were next to the high bow of the Nautilus.

“Mister Frost?” Dane asked.

Frost nodded. “How did you know?”

“I’ve seen you--and this submarine--in a vision.”

“Then do you know what happens next?” Frost asked.

‘1 haven’t seen it,” Dane said, “but we need to get this”—he pointed down at the sphere—“to an Earth time line where we can gather something from the air, then return with it back to my time line.”

Frost stared at him, obviously understanding little of what Dane had just said. He could see the crewmen gathered around their dead comrade.

“We still don’t have power,” Earhart said.

Dane turned to her. He felt old and tired. “Actually, I think we might have enough power to take the first step.”

“Where?”

Dane nodded toward the Nautilus. “There.”

“The reactor?”

“The crew.”

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

RENO

“I thought I saw the gray troop up therein Girard yelled, pointing to the bluffs on the east of the river.

Reno looked in the indicated direction, but he saw nothing · moving. And if Custer was up there, Reno knew he was in a very bad place. His firepower was down by one-fourth simply by the fact that a dismounted skirmish line required every fourth man to hold the other three men’s horses. The other three men were part of the skirmish line that stretched from the river on the right to the scouts far to the left on the low bluff.

Mitchell!” Reno called out His cook came forward, half bent over, as many of the men were, making their target space smaller for the bullets that were whizzing past.

“Go tell Custer we are engaged against hundreds--no make that thousands of hostiles. We need support immediately!”

Mitchell looked about, fear in his eyes. “Where do I go, sir?”

Reno pointed to the high bluffs. “He’s behind those. Find him! Tell him I can’t hold much longer.”

“Yes, sir.” Mitchell ran, hopped on his horse and was gone.

Reno felt a moment of doubt. Had he halted his charge too soon? Could he have carried it into the village? Then he looked to the front and all doubt was gone. He would be lucky to hold this line, never mind attack farther.

The men were steady, Reno saw. They were holding their own so far. He watched as a trooper staggered back as if punched, holding his gut, blood pouring over his fingers, a surprised look on his face.

But still there was no concerted assault by the Sioux. There had to be thousands, Reno calculated, looking at the long lines of lodges as far as he could see above the smoke that was drifting across the battlefield.

The firing was picking up. God, Reno thought, we’re going to run out of ammunition. His pistol was in his hand, and he fired as he spotted two warriors ride out of the powder fog toward the line.

The warriors turned and rode back, disappearing. Reno blinked. There was something flickering in the air and then he realized what it was--arrows falling out of the sky on a high trajectory. Most missed but occasionally one found its mark and tore through flesh. Reno’s shoulders involuntarily hunched up, waiting for the impact of a dart from the sky. He saw one of the horse handlers lose control and the four horses rushed back the way they came.

Someone came galloping down the line and Reno leveled · his pistol at the figure, pausing as he recognized the man. lieutenant Varnum’s horse was foaming at the mouth. “They’re infiltrating along the trees by the river!” he yelled.

Reno looked past Varnum toward the river. If they were cut off there, it was all over. The battalion would be surrounded. Reno looked back down the valley, watching the four horses gallop away into the dust that had been raised during the charge.

“The left flank’s in the air!” Varnum continued. ‘’The scouts have nothing they can anchor on. They could get rolled!”

“Where’s Custer?” Reno demanded.

“I don’t know, sir, but the hostiles are getting behind us along the river!”

“Hold here!” Reno ordered. He mounted and rode to the rear, through the dust until he could see clearly. Nothing. Reno closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then turned his horse around and rode back into the dust cloud toward the firing.

“Steady men,” he called as he rode along the line. ‘’Pick your targets. Don’t waste bullets if they’re out of range.”

“Sir!” It was Captain Moylan of A Troop. “The line’s too bin. If they rush us, we’ll break!”

“What?” Reno flinched as a horrible scream exploded from a wounded trooper’s mouth. The man had both hands on an arrow shaft that was sticking up out of his chest.

“The lines too thin, sir!” Moylan repeated. “I don’t know why they haven’t rushed us yet. They’ve got the numbers.”

“The left,” Varnum said, pointing. There was a great dust cloud there. ‘’They’re rolling it. That’s why they haven’t hit us in the center yet with any force.”

“What should I do?” Reno asked.

Varnum’s lip curled in disgust, but Moylan had no time for that. “Pull into the trees, sir. Get the horses under cover. We’ll lose them out here, and if we lose them we’re dead.”

“Yes,” Reno nodded. “Yes. Do it.” The plan made sense. Move to the trees near the river for cover. Then he could anchor his flank on the river.

Moylan was already gone, issuing the commands to his troops. Reno began giving orders, trying to keep some order as the battalion slipped to the right, into the cover of the trees.

Reno gratefully rode his horse down into a cut, where the river had once flowed, before taking its current course. He had a moment’s hope. This could be a good defensive position. But as he dismounted he saw that all was confusion and getting worse. Visibility was worse among the trees than it had been in the open. Indians were infiltrating behind them along the river and through the trees. Gunpowder smoke was growing even thicker. The troops were mixed up, and command and control were difficult.

And then there was more smoke, black smoke. Reno coughed. The savages were setting the woods on fire. He spun about. He could see the sparkling water of the little Big Horn dancing over stones. On the far side of the river were high bluffs, a steep cut going up.

Reno turned back. He saw Captain Moylan. Bloody Knife · came up and signed. Yes, yes, Reno signed back. Hostiles behind them, all around. Bloody Knife was gone, back into the line, fighting. It was all hectic, confusing.

“We have to pull back!” Reno yelled at Moylan.

Moylan looked at him in astonishment. “To where?”

Reno pointed at the cut.

“We’ll never make it,” Moylan protested. “They’ll cut us down crossing the river.

“They’ll roast us here!” Reno yelled back. “If we get up to the high ground, we can reunite the regiment!”

“We don’t know where Custer is,” argued Moylan. “He could be coming up the valley. Maybe we can fight back south,” Moylan suggested.

Keno moved around the perimeter, trying to get an idea of how his force was faring. He could be coming up the valley. Maybe we can fight back south,” Moylan suggested.

Reno moved around the perimeter. Trying to get an idea of how his force was faring. He came across Bouyer loading his rifle and firing calmly. Isaiah Dome, the black scout, was near Bouyer, also firing away. Bloody Knife was also there, carefully firing his rifle.

Where will the Sioux attack come from? Reno signed to Bloody Knife.

Bloody Knife lowered his rifle and looked thoughtful for a second, then his head exploded, splattering blood and brains into Reno’s face. Reno blinked blood out of his eyes.

A great shout rose from the Indians’ lines. Reno looked up as bile rose in his throat to see a massive force of hundreds of hostiles coming forward from the northeast.

Reno vomited. Then spit. “Across the river, men! Fall back across the river to the high ground Mount up and ride!”

Some heard him and moved. Most didn’t. A trooper in the middle of the first group was shot and tumbled from his horse. Reno suddenly realized there were Indians along both banks of the river, but it was too late to rescind the order. It would be a desperate gauntlet to run, but there was no other way to go. And if they spent any longer down here they would be out of ammunition. Even if Custer wasn’t up there, the pack train had to be. And they needed the rounds the mules carried.

“Go!” Reno urged his men. The word spread and the battalion dissolved, flowing toward the river. Indian riders appeared, mixing in with the troopers, and it was a desperate battle, men firing at each other at point-blank range. Hand-to-hand combat developed as Indians dragged troopers off their horses.

Like a magnet, though, the cut on the far side drew Reno’s men. The terrain ruled. It was the only way they could go. The water wasn’t wide, perhaps twenty feet, and shallow.

Reno turned as he heard lieutenant McIntosh call out. The lieutenant staggered and fell. Reno tried to turn back to get him, but the wave of retreating troopers was too strong. He was pushed out toward the river. He had no idea how many dead and wounded he was leaving behind. At least twenty-five, probably more, he estimated from what he’d seen.

No time to reflect on the staggering defeat he’d just received. His horse leaped off the bank into the water. He spurred it across, clambering up the far bank. He saw Lieutenant Hodgson get shot and fall off his horse into the river. A trooper came by, yelling for the lieutenant to take his stirrup. Hodgson grabbed it, and the horse carried rider and wounded across the river, but too slow, too slow, as arrows and bullets honed in on the helpless target. Hodgson’s dead hand released the stirrup as the rider made the far bank. The body rolled back into water.

Reno fired until he realized his pistol was empty. Tears in his eyes, he turned and rode into the draw and up toward the high ground.

Behind him, among the smoke and trees, Two Moons, the leader of the Cheyenne, found Bloody Knife’s horse. He saw a leather satchel and reached for it, pulling his hands back in surprise as they were burned by whatever was inside. He grabbed a shirt off a dead blue coat and wrapped it around the satchel, then took it with him.

CRAZY HORSE

His horse had been drinking in the little Big Horn when Crazy Horse heard the first shots. The horse’s ears pricked back, and it lifted its head while Crazy Horse sat motionless. Other than the distant shots, it was very quiet where he was, about a mile downstream from the northern-most edge of the village. He’ d had to go that far in that direction to find a place to easily ford the river, then be able to get up on the high bluffs to the east He’d ridden several miles, noting how empty the terrain was to the east, but also how rolling and full of gullies and ravines it was. A large force could easily sneak through that land and come up on the village unobserved, then fall down out of the high ground with a devastating attack.

Crazy Horse had made a mental note to have sentries from his tribe placed to the east this evening. As he heard the sound of the firing to the south increase in volume, he realized that the enemy was already here and coming from the south.

He climbed his horse out of the riverbed and then galloped to his lodge on the northern end of the village. He knew that warriors from the southern lodges would be taking the brunt of whatever fight was happening there. Crazy Horse began yelling to the warriors from his tribe and the Cheyenne who were also camped nearby to prepare themselves for combat.

While he was doing all this, Crazy Horse could hear the sound of battle: gunfire. The screams of wounded men and horses, and the war cries of other warriors. Women and children fled by his lodge seeking shelter as far away from the ting as possible. Some were even beginning to strike their lodges to remove themselves from the area entirely. Although time was crucial, Crazy Horse didn’t even consider not completing his preparations—after all, what good did a bulletproof dream do him if he didn’t do as it told?

Each warrior had his own way of preparing, and by the time. Crazy Horse was done, he had quite a large number of Warriors waiting to be led. With more than three hundred mounted men behind him. He raced for the southern end of the camp. It was a fearsome sight, this large group of warriors, painted and bedecked for war, their hands bristling with the instruments of killing: rifles, muskets, spears, lances, bows, war clubs, hatchets.

But as they made their way to the other end of the camp, they were met by exulting Warriors, yellin2 about their great victory over the blue coats. Crazy Horse stopped and questioned a brave holding a bloody scalp: “What has happened?”

“Many blue coats attacked. We killed many and the others ran away, across the river.” The warrior pointed to the southeast. “It is a great victory!”

Crazy Horse looked in the direction the man indicated. He could see many Sioux crossing the river and climbing up to the bluffs, and puffs of smoke from rifles being fired up there.

Then he looked at this side of the river, down the valley floor. He could see squaws moving forward to strip the bodies of the dead soldiers. Crazy Horse made a quick count of at least fifteen white bodies.

Still, he thought. That is not right. The white man might be crazy, but not that crazy. And from that direction the soldiers were not falling into camp. Of course those soldiers were now in the high ground, and if they attacked again they would be coming down, but from all indications those particular soldiers had been defeated.

But there could be others, Crazy Horse knew. He could tell that his warriors were chafing to fling themselves into the battle that had moved to the other side of the river. But the village still could be attacked by other soldiers, and there appeared to be plenty of warriors already there. Crazy Horse made his decision. He signaled and his warriors reluctantly followed as he swung to the west. He planned on circling the village to make sure there weren’t more soldiers coming from another direction.

BENTEEN

They’d crossed Custer’s trail twenty minutes ago. Just north of Ash Creek--just in time to meet the slow-moving pack . They’d then passed the lone teepee, still burning. Although anxious, Benteen wasn’t in any particular rush. According to his orders, he was still supposed to be riding over ridges to the south. He was caught between doing what he knew was militarily right and being discovered disobeying Custer’s orders. On top of that, Bouyer and his talisman were nagging at Benteen.

They were now a mile past the lone teepee, the little Big Horn River not very far ahead. There was the distant sound of gunfire for a while now, but Benteen didn’t know what it meant. Was Custer engaged? If so, where? Was Reno in the valley fighting? Benteen ordered the troopers to pick up the pace.

Then Sergeant Kanipe came riding up with a message to the pack train to follow his trail to the east of the river.

“The east?” Benteen asked. “What of Reno’?”

“He’s in the thick of it, sir,” Kanipe said. “I saw them fighting in the valley as I came back.”

“Isn’t Custer supporting him?”

Kanipe was Just a sergeant. He shrugged. “I don’t know, Sir. Last I saw of the general he was riding to the north.” Kanipe didn’t stay any longer. He rode on, heading for the pack · train that was following Benteen. “Forward at the trot!” Benteen ordered, pushing the unit as fast as the mules could go. The firing was now much louder · and much more rapid, almost as fierce as battles Benteen had been in during the Civil War. The only thing lacking was the sound of artillery.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

THE SPACE BETWEEN

“Submariners are volunteers for the most dangerous duty in the Navy to begin with,” Captain Anderson said. “During World War n. the loss rate among German U-boat crews was more than ninety percent.”

Dane could tell Frost was shocked by Anderson’s apparent pride in such appalling numbers. Having served in the Special Forces during the Vietnam War, Dane knew the perverted pride men took in being among the elite.

Anderson sighed and looked between Earhart and Dane. They were in his cramped wardroom onboard the Nautilus. Even the ship’s captain seemed to see the weakness of his own words. “Our Earth--our time line as you call it--is dead. We’re all that’s left, and we’re not even there anymore. Some of the men now think we could have a life in another time line”--he held up a hand to forestall Earhart—“but I don’t see how. H the time line is viable, then this ship did its mission and returned home, so we, us in another time line, would still be there and, hell, I don’t know. I just know it wouldn’t work.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Earhart said. “I’ve been trapped here in the Space Between for a long time. I accepted early on that there was no going back and then no going sideways.”

Dane stirred. “Why?’’

Earhart turned to him in surprise. “What?”

“Why did you accept you couldn’t go back to your own world or go to another time line?” Dane asked.

“The portals,” Earhart said. “Some tried to go through, and they ended up like the crewman caught on the deck.”

“But you have Valkyrie suits now,” Dane said.

“But which portal to go through?” Earhart argued.

“Any,” Dane said.

Anderson and Frost were trying to follow their argument, but were lost.

“You can go through any in the Valkyrie suits,” Dane continued, “and you’d be all right. You could check them out. Maybe find a world where you could live instead of here--” he waved his hand, indicating the strange place outside the submarine.

Earhart stared at Dane. “Because the voices told me to stay here.”

Dane finally nodded. “Okay. As long as we’re clear on that. We’re all here”--he looked at Frost and Earhart--“because we believe we’re part of a larger plan. One that fights the Shadow. Correct?”

Both nodded in turn.

“Let’s not fool ourselves into thinking we don’t have choices,” Dane said.

“Why is that important?” Earhart asked.

· Dane shrugged. “Because we don’t know diddly. I still believe we need to follow the Ones Before and fight the Shadow, but I don’t know what the end of this is going to be. And some day before the end of this war, I think we’re going to have to make our own decisions.”

“That is all fine and well,” Commander Anderson said, ‘’but you started this by saying you were going to need my crew, volunteers for a mission in which they were sure to die.”

“Not just die.” Dane said. “but die horribly.”

Anderson rubbed his hands across his face. “How many men?”

“I don’t know,” Dane admitted. He had counted the number of slots in the “power” room, but he didn’t know how many they would need to do what needed to be done. “There are a hundred slots inside the sphere.”

Surprisingly, Anderson laughed. He removed a small badge clipped to his shirt pocket and held it to Dane.

“My radiation badge,” Anderson said. “We used a crystal skull charged by the reactor core to open the portal that got us here. Moving the skull through the ship, well--” he ripped open the covering on the badge. The strip underneath was bright red.

“We’re all going to die horribly anyway,” Anderson said. “We might as well do it for a reason.”

Nobody said anything for several moments, then Earhart spoke up. “Then where next?”

“We find a world that still has ozone and no people,” Dane said.

“And how do we do that?” Earhart asked.

Dane stood up. “I think we’ll see that once we power up the sphere.”

“Why do you say that?” Earhart demanded.

“The golden orb in the power room,” Dane said. “1 think it not only consolidates the power, but is also a portal map.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

LONESOME CHARLIE REYNOLDS

They could all hear firing to the west. They couldn’t see anything because the entire unit was riding in the low ground formed by a ravine running to the north. Four miles had · passed since they’d looked from the high hill and Sergeant Kanipe had been dispatched to bring up the pack mules. Lieutenant Cooke rode just behind Custer as the long line of troopers moved at a trot. Lonesome Charlie Reynolds was also close to the general.

“Perfect,” Custer said to Cooke. ‘’Reno will fix them in place. They don’t know we’re coming--these hills are a perfect shield.”

Reynolds didn’t quite share the general’s optimism, but the · scout didn’t say anything. The horses and-men were nervous both from the sound of the fighting to the west and the knowledge that they were heading toward the massive Indian village.

The Crows scouts, who had been ahead, were now sitting off to the side of the ravine. Custer paused and looked at them. They didn’t look anxious to continue down. Custer crooked a finger to them. He signed with his hands, indicating they were released from duty.

The scouts nodded their agreement, then turned their horses and rode back toward the south. Custer spit. “Cowards, all of them. I’d rather not have such with me.”

Reynolds thought the scouts were the smartest people in the area.

Custer cut into his brooding. “How do we get down there?”

Reynolds pointed ahead and to the left, where the ground started descending more steeply. “That’s Medicine Tail Coulee. It runs into the Little Big Horn.”

“Can we cross down there?” Custer asked.

“I Suppose,” Reynolds answered weakly.

“I rode up the Little Big Horn during the ’74 expedition,” Custer said. “It’s not deep. I’m sure we can cross. We’ll go down and smash them against Reno’s blocking force.”

As far as Reynolds could recollect, Reno wasn’t supposed to be a blocking force. Reno’s battalion was supposed to be attacking the village, but Reynolds didn’t see any point to reminding Custer of his own orders. A light was in the general’s eyes, one that Reynolds had seen before, the light of battle. There was no stopping the man now.

“Trumpeter!” Custer called out.

Martin rode to Custer’s side. ‘’Ride to Benteen,” Custer instructed. “Have him link up with the pack train and bring m forward on the double.”

Lieutenant Cooke tore a page out of his notepad, scribbled on it and handed the piece of paper to the man. “Go!” Cooke yelled. Martin galloped along the line of troopers. Cooke watched his departure with sad eyes.

Custer faced downslope. “At the quick, men!”

The coulee narrowed as they descended, forcing the column of fours to become twos. Reynolds was not far behind Custer, who led the entire force. Reynolds happened to look up and see an eagle circling high above, floating on currents of warm air. “I wish 1 were you,” he whispered.

WALKS ALONE

The vision was true. The soldiers were coming down out of the heights and falling on the camp. But the others had not listened, drawn in by the firing to the south. Walks Alone had remained, but not totally because of the vision. He was only twelve, and he’d been ordered to remain behind if the camp was attacked. He was to use his rifle to defend his tribe’s portion of the camp, along with several other boys and old men. It had been very difficult for Walks Alone to remain in place as he heard the firing and war cries to the south, but he had done so.

And now his obedience to his orders was bearing fruit. More blue coats had just been spotted coming down Medicine !ail Coulee, just opposite his tribe’s lodges. Walks Alone and the handful of armed boys and old men left in the camp had raced to the opposite side of the Greasy Grass from the coulee and taken up position, watching the blue coats get closer and closer while a messenger was sent to the south to warn the warriors of this new threat.

Walks Alone steadied the barrel of his old rifle on a tree. There were only old men and a handful of warriors at the west side of the ford. And there were so many soldiers--a file, two by two, as far as he could see up the Medicine Tail Coulee. In the lead was a slender white man in pale buckskins, followed by a soldier carrying a fork-tailed banner with crossed sabers on it.

There was a grassy half-bowl on the east side of the river. Medicine Tail Coulee, down which the soldiers were streaming, entered the bowl from the southeast. A sharper, more deeply cut ravine branched up to the northeast, about forty feet north of Medicine Tail Coulee. A high ridge abutted the river between the two coulees.

The lead soldiers paused in the bowl, gathering strength for a charge. The buckskin soldier was gesturing, crying out something in the words of the white man, gesturing right toward where Walks Alone was hiding and the village behind him.

Walks Alone now knew he had not been a coward. If he had run to the sound of the firing he would not be here to see Sitting Bull’s vision come true. He knew now why the hills · had drawn him.

The hooves of the buckskin soldier touched the water, the first of the white men. Walks Alone pulled back on the trigger, surprised at the kick of the rifle against his shoulder. The buckskin soldier twisted in his saddle and crumpled, a look of shock on his face. He was kept from falling only by the quick actions of another soldier at his side who spurred his horse to the buckskin man’s side and held him.

Walks Alone pulled back the lever on the rifle, the spent · shell casing tumbling out. His fingers shook as he pushed another cartridge in the chamber. The soldiers would overrun them, he knew that. There was no way the handful of warriors could stop them. But he would stand here and do his duty. He looked up and was surprised to see that the soldiers were milling about. Not charging. The column in the coulee was halted by the confusion. The soldiers were not falling into camp.

Walks Alone sighted in on another blue coat and pulled the trigger.

CHAPER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Dane tried hard not to look at the hundred men strapped into the alcoves all around him. He stood next to the golden sphere, while Earhart had taken her place in the pilot’s pod. They’d run a wire from the two chambers so he could communicate with her. He wore a headset with a boom mike in front of his lips.

“Are you ready?” Dane asked.

“Yes.”

Dane placed his hands on the golden globe. It was cold, dead. He began closing off the outside world. Focusing only on the object between his hands. He’d had a “map” of the portals in his hands once before, and he remembered what it felt like. He projected that feeling through his hands, into the globe. He felt a tingle, then growing warmth. He kept his eyes closed, his focus tight.

“I’m getting something,” Earhart reported.

The surface was beginning to pulse under Dane’s hands. The portal map he’d used before had been like a ball of snakes, the various tubes between portals writhing with energy.

“The inner surface of this pod is flickering,” Earhart said.” I’m getting glimpses of the immediate area around the sphere.”

Dane felt the drain as the globe drew power from him. A sharp pain lanced through his brain, from frontal lobe to rear and down into his spine. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue putting in power.

“Oh.” Earhart’s voice was odd.

“What is it?” Dane asked, trying to maintain his focus.

“I see how to draw power from the” –she hesitated—“fuel.”

“Do it.” Dane didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to see · the men whose fate he had just sealed. Immediate fate, he reminded himself as they were already dying from radiation—as would millions on his planet if they didn’t succeed. It was brutal math, but realistic.

Sounds intruded on his focus. Moans. Hisses and gasps of pain. In concert with the cacophony of pain, Dane felt power flowing in from all around. The pain in his head receded. The surface of the globe was now dissolving into the portal tube · lines. Dane felt his hands becoming enmeshed. He saw flashes, visions, flickering images of what lay on either end of the portals as he ran his hands over one, then another of the strands.

Earth. The surface blasted and blistered from nuclear weapons. A wasteland. Gone. Not a viable choice, Dane realized, shifting to another strand.

Earth, where a hammer and sickle flew over the House. Not a viable choice as the environment appeared sound and people were alive, regardless of who ruled America.

Earth, a large city, which Dane couldn’t quite place, the streets deserted. Dane gripped harder, trying to hold on to what he was seeing. A blue sky. No apparent damage. Just no people. He slid his hands both ways on the strand. He reached a knob at the end of the strand with his left hand and focused hard. A column, but clear, shimmering, not black.

“I’ve got it,” Dane yelled. Too loud, hurting Earhart’s ears. But he was being overwhelmed with the screams of the men surrounding him. He didn’t want to know what the sphere was doing to them to produce the anguished mental power he felt washing over him.

“I’ve got the location in the Inner Sea,” Earhart confirmed. “But it’s not active.”

“It will be,” Dane whispered. He focused on the knob in his hand, drawing in the emotional power from the Nautilus sailors. He felt the sphere moving, and he knew Earhart was doing as she had promised--flying the massive object through the Space Between.

“It’s getting black,” Earhart said. “What the hell are you doing?”

Dane didn’t answer. His hand tightened on the knob on the end of the strand, feeling the warmth grow to blinding pain, but still he didn’t let go.

The sphere accelerated and Dane staggered, almost losing his grip inside the portal map.

“I seen it. I got it.” Earhart’s voice was rising in pitch. “We’re going in.”

The sphere lurched and pain spiked through Dane’s left hand, so severe he let go. He staggered back from the portal map.

“We’re through!” Earhart yelled.

Dane looked around. One hundred men had taken their place in the alcoves. He estimated more than half were dead, their heads solidified. The rest didn’t look very healthy.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

LONESOME CHARLIE REYNOLDS

“The general’s hit! The general’s hit!”

Lonesome Charlie Reynolds didn’t need the high-pitched screaming of Custer’s standard bearer to tell him what he had just witnessed with his own eyes. He rode forward along with several troopers to the general’s side. Custer’s eyes were open, and he seemed more surprised than anything.

“They shot me!” Custer exclaimed, lifting up a blood-soaked glove from his side. ‘’1 can’t feel my legs.”

“Easy, George, easy.” Boston Custer was at his brother’s side. The command was halted. Firing from the other side of the river was continuing, but it wasn’t particularly strong. Reynolds slid off his horse and knelt, one hand still holding his reins and at the same time steadying his rifle while he aimed across the river. He fired.

Reynolds, like Bouyer, was a half-breed, and he’d seen all the signs. The two had talked and Bouyer had given him a very strange thing, a clear skull wrapped in a leather satchel, with the admonition to keep it near Custer all the time. What Reynolds would have really preferred was to ride away with the Crow scouts, but he knew this was his place.

He’d recognized the sun dance circle when they’d passed through it the previous day, and he knew from that and what Bouyer bad given him that he was in the midst of great events. Reynolds had done the sun dance when he was fifteen while still living with his mother’s people. He knew there were things in the world beyond the knowledge of man and much more powerful. The Great Spirit chose a man’s fate when he was born, and all any man could do was live his fate as best as possible.

As he reloaded, Reynolds looked around. The front half of Captain Yates’s F Troop was in the grassy bowl now. E Troop was bottlenecked in Medicine Tail Coulee behind it, the column of twos halted by the sudden stop of F Troop. Another ravine just downstream looked like it went up to the northeast. The Indian fire was not heavy, other than Custer, only two other troopers had been hit, both wounded. A charge could take the crossing. Reynolds could see the lodges on the other side, the village was there for the taking with a determined charge.

But Yates was with the general and his brother. They were arguing about whether to take Custer off his horse. At that moment, one of the troopers in F Troop took an arrow through the throat.

Reynolds remounted. Several troopers were firing, but the rest were milling about, no orders being given, the entire command stopped with the strike of one bullet. Without the general, Reynolds knew there was no one who could lead the regiment, not even Benteen if he were here, and the fire from across the river was growing heavier by the minute.

GALL

The edge of his hatchet dripped red as he walked among the bodies. Gall could hear firing from the other side of the river. Warriors had chased the soldiers over there and into the bluffs. The camp was safe, and a victory had been won, testified to by the number of bodies in blue lying about the valley floor and the fact that the white men were running away in a panic.

He spun about as he heard a shout. A large man with black skin was running, rifle in hand. He had no horse and must have been cut off when the whites retreated. Gall had seen this man before and knew of him. He was named Isiah Dorman, and he scouted for Custer. He had a red wife, but he had betrayed the people and now served with the whites.

Dorman fired a quick shot over his shoulder at a group of Sioux who were chasing him. He missed. Gall began running to join the fight when one of the Sioux pulled up a shotgun and fired, hitting Dorman in the legs with pellets and tumbling him to the ground. As the black man fumbled to reload, one of the Sioux used a spear to knock the gun out of his hands.

A warrior fired an arrow at close range, and the steel blade sliced through the man’s chest and imbedded itself in a prairie dog mound behind him. Gall came to a halt and watched. Squaws came running up to the pinned man. They had stone mallets that they used to pound grain and com with. They used those to smash Dorman’s flesh, breaking his arms as he flailed about trying to keep them away.

Gall felt nothing as the man screamed. A warrior took a knife and gashed open a wound on Dorman’s side. The warrior grabbed a tin cup that was hooked to the black man’s cartridge belt and held it below the wound, filling it with blood.

One of the squaws had just lost her husband and she had a metal pin in her hand, a picket pin she must have taken from one of the dead horses farther back in the valley. With both hands, she drove it down between Dorman’s legs, slamming through his testicles and pinning him to the ground in that direction. An undulating scream ripped from his throat.

With that, the squaws moved on to other bodies. But Gall could see that Dorman was still alive, blood pouring from his wounds. A small group of boys came running by, bows in hand, and Gall stopped them with a yell. He pointed at the dying black man and gave an order. The boys notched arrows and fired, peppering his body. The black man was finally dead.

The firing in the bluffs to the east was much more sporadic now. The white men had lost many horses in the valley. They would not be going anywhere soon, and there would be time to deal with them later.

Gall looked back over the field of battle and frowned. Why had the soldiers begun to charge and then stopped so quickly? And again, this did not fulfill Sitting Bull’s vision. The soldiers had not fallen into camp; they had attacked on a level field. And where was Long Hair, Custer? Gall had seen the flag one of the soldiers was carrying. These were Custer’s men, but there had not been that many of them. Even the blue coats were not stupid enough to attack the entire Sioux nation with just this handful of soldiers. Were they? Where were the others?

Gall heard shots downstream, to the north. He looked in that direction but could see nothing through the trees that lined the banks. His warrior’s sense told him the fight was begun anew, though. He grabbed a pony and threw his powerful leg over it. Hatchet in hand, he rode north. Through the village, yelling for all the warriors around to follow him.

BOUYER

Bouyer scooped up a dismounted soldier, swinging him on the horse right behind him as he crossed the little Big Horn. He reached the far hank as arrows rained down around and bullets whizzed by. The horse struggled, fighting its way up the steep bluff carrying the two men. Halfway up, it collapsed, spilling Bouyer and the soldier to the ground. Bouyer began to tumble back down slope but arrested his fall by grabbing onto a bush. The soldier continued down and Bouyer saw three arrows sticking out of the man’s back, arrows that would have been in his own back if he hadn’t tried to help the soldier.

The Little Big Horn below him flowed red. A dozen blue coats lay still in the shallow water as more tried to escape. Bouyer saw Reno to his left, scrambling on all fours up the slope toward the top of the bluff. There was no coordinated withdrawal, just a mad desperate rush to escape. Cursing, Bouyer got to his feet and dashed up the bluff until he reached the top, about a hundred fifty steep feet above the Little Big horn. There were about two dozen soldiers already there, most dazed and just lying about. The bluff was covered with knee-high grass and had great views in all directions.

Bouyer looked to the north. He could hear gunfire although it was hard to determine exactly in what direction or how far it was, as there was still considerable firing from below. He couldn’t see anything, no sign of Custer or the other half of the Seventh Cavalry.

This was not coming together the way Bouyer had expected. He’d thought there would be one magnificent battle with the entire Seventh pitched against the united Indian tribes. He blinked sweat out of his eyes, sensing failure. The skulls were dispersed, he knew that. He needed to bring them together. He’d given them to the names listed on the paper he’d received, but he had little idea where all those people were now.

He saw Reno now on the top of the bluff, collapsing to the ground. Bouyer went over to the major. “Sir!”

Reno’s eyes had the distant stare of one who had seen things they wished they never had. Bouyer slapped him across the face hard. “Sir. You need to rally the men. The Sioux ain’t gonna stop. They’re gonna come right up that hill you came up unless you put some hot lead into them.”

Reno blinked, as if Bouyer were speaking a foreign language. Hell, Bouyer thought. Reno not only needed to organize a defense, he needed to gather a strike force to ride out and find Custer. There were at least fifty men here now, with more straggling in every minute. Bouyer grabbed Reno by the shirt and spoke slowly, but forcefully. ‘’Major, you need to take command. Now!”

CHAPTER THIRTY

EARTH XVI

Earhart had never experienced flight like this. The pod around was displaying the three-hundred-sixty-degree view from the outside of the sphere. She could look in any direction, and she could also direct the sphere to go in that direction simply by pressing one of four lit buttons on the waist-high console that wrapped around her. Up. down. Left. And right or any combination thereof. Simplicity in the utmost.

There was a city below, with several beaches east and south, and a steep hill with a large statue on top of it. Rio de Janeiro. Earhart had flown there once before. They were over South America.

“Can you deploy the panels?” Dane’s voice interrupted her flying reverie.

Earhart looked down at the console. It had come alive when Dane powered up the ship, and at first she had concentrated simply on searching for the controls to maneuver the sphere. Those for the panels weren’t hard, either. A small accordion like symbol was to her right. She pushed it. A loud rumbling noise reverberated through the sphere. Directly in front of her, on the inside of the pod’s surface, a small window appeared, showing the large cargo bay above, and the top of the sphere began opening. The gap grew wider until the entire top was open. Then the panels began folding outward, extending in both directions.

*****

Dane had his hands off the portal map, but power was still flowing through him into the pedestal on which the map was placed. The draw wasn’t as intense as it was while moving through a portal, but it was still appreciable. He kept his eyes closed. But there wasn’t anything he could do about the sounds of multiplied pain that echoed through the chamber. He prayed that the Shadow wasn’t an Earth time line, because any civilization that would develop and use such a mode of power was as evil as Nazi Germany.

That gave Dane pause for a moment as he remembered his Vision of the flag with the hammer and sickle flying over the White House. Could...

He was jerked out of this train of thought by Earhart’s voice. “We’re moving through the atmosphere. The panels seem to be working. We’re drawing in something.”

“Where’s it going?” Dane asked.

There was a pause, then Earhart replied. “Into the panels and storage area. I’ve got some sort of reading. Seventy percent I’m assuming that’s against the capacity the sphere can store.”

“Is it enough for what we need?”

“I have no idea. But we can’t take back more than this thing can store. We have to hope it’s enough.”

Dane opened his eyes. Most of the sailors in the alcoves were dead. One of the still living met his gaze with an anguished look. The leads Dane had noticed were in the man’s body, most likely activated when Dane had accessed the portal map.

“How much longer’?” Dane asked, unable to break the man’s accusing gaze.

“Not too much longer.” There was a pause. “We’re over the South Atlantic now, moving west to east. We came in over Rio. There was nobody there. The city was deserted, I saw no signs of human life.”

“We knew that,” Dane said. “Any idea what happened to help people?”

“Not a clue. Ninety percent, I’m turning back toward the portal.”

Dane tore his eyes away from the man. He took a quick count. Fewer than fifteen were still alive. The heads of the rest were just like those who had previously occupied the alcoves, solidified into dull gray skulls. He looked down. The portal map looked like a mass of pulsing golden snakes. He forced his hands into it, feeling the heat.

Visions, glimpses of other Earth time lines shot through his mind, but he focused on finding this one. He caught a glimpse of the abandoned city, recognizing Rio now, and he hold.

“We’re at one hundred percent capacity,” Earhart reported. “I see the portal.”

Dane flinched as a spasm of red hot pain shot into his palm.

“Keep it open. Eric!”

He could hear the panic in Earhart’s voice. He gritted his and tightened his grip. Ignoring the pain. It felt as if his bands were on fire, burning. He could even feel the flesh peeling back. The pain went deeper and deeper, into the marrow of his bones.

“Steady.” Earhart’s voice was almost a whisper, as if she were afraid anything louder would distract him. “Steady. Eric. Steady.”

The sphere lurched.

“We’re in. Now to your Earth time line.”

Dane pulled his bands away from the portal map, surprised to see them intact. He looked about. “We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“They’re all dead.”

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

LONSOME CHARLIE REYNOLDS

“We have to cross now!” Reynolds yelled at Captain Yates. The entire unit was stalled, some of Yates’s men laying down a covering fire across the river, but the rest were bottled up in the coulee, able to neither advance nor go back due to the press of the column coming downhill behind them. The firing from the Indian side was getting stronger.

Yates was dismounted, standing next to where Tom Custer was tending to his brother. The younger Custer. Boston. Was there along with the youth, Autie. A family gathering, thought Reynolds, but one that had taken the heart out of the regiment.

If Yates wouldn’t act, Reynolds knew he had to. He turned his horse toward the river and rode into the water, hoping that some of the troopers would follow him. He knew they could take the crossing with one charge and if they did that, the way into the village would be open. Beyond that he didn’t know what would happen, but he saw it as their only chance. If they could take some squaws and children hostage, perhaps they could negotiate their way out of this.

Water splashed around his horse’s hooves and bullets cracked by. Reynolds paused in midstream and fired his rifle. He glanced over his shoulder. A squad of soldiers was following. We are going to do it, he thought, when his horse suddenly reared up, front legs high into the air. As he slid off the side of the bucking horse, Reynolds saw the shaft of the arrow sticking out of the horse’s chest and then he felt the wind explode out of his lungs as the horse rolled on top of him and then off to the side, dead. He heard his bones breaking, but curiously, he felt nothing as he gasped air back into his lungs. The water of the little Big Horn splashed over the lower half of his body as he lay, his upper back against the body of his horse.

Reynolds looked down. Like a piece of firewood, he could see white bone sticking out of the water. His bone, from his leg. He wondered why he didn’t feel anything, but then, when he tried to move and couldn’t, he knew. His back was broken.

Reynolds twisted his head and looked back the way he’d come. The squad of soldiers was staring at him, halted, and Captain Yates was giving orders, turning them around to go downstream and up the next coulee. They had Custer on his horse again, his family around him, keeping him in the saddle as they rode away.

Reynolds lifted an arm and signaled for help. Few saw the gesture. But Autie Custer did. He hesitated, looking between his brother and the trapped scout, and then dashed out into the water.

“Take this.” Reynolds held out the satchel containing the skull.

Autie took it. “But what about--” his words were cut off as an arrow grazed his left cheek. Slicing it wide open.

“Go!” Reynolds yelled. Autie turned and ran, taking the skull with him. Reynolds watched him and what was developing.

In Medicine Tail Coulee the rest of Yates’s troops came down and then turned ninety degrees to the right, heading up Deep Coulee. C and E Troops followed Yates, but the farthest back units, Calhoun and Keogh’s troops, L and I, were able to do a right flank and climb up out of Medicine Tail Coulee where the banks were not so steep.

They were leaving him. Reynolds turned back to the west. Warriors were now standing on the banks in the open, firing at the retreating troops. He could see more arriving on ponies every second. A pair ran out into the water toward him. His rifle had gone into the water during the fall. He reached under water to his belt and pulled out his pistol. But he knew the cartridges were soaked and would not fire. He let it drop out of his hand. The two warriors were close now, splashing through the creek, one with a musket at the ready, the other with a steel ax.

Reynolds signed with his hands. Kill me.

Reynolds raised his eyes to the sky above. The eagle was still up there, far above the insanity practiced by men on the ground below. Steel flashed through the sky, between Reynolds and the eagle, and he saw its flight no more.

BENTEEN

They had left the pack train behind as they moved forward, as there was no way the mules could make any sort of decent time. Benteen had not been sure how to take Sergeant Kanipe’s message, because it was directed to the commander of the pack train, which technically was MacDougall, not him. They were following a trail, although Benteen wasn’t sure if it Was Custer’s or Reno’s.

A figure came riding from the west, straight toward the head of the column. Benteen halted his horse and waited. He recognized Trumpeter Martin and could see that his mount had been run hard. There was blood on the horse’s flank.

Martin rode right up. and without a word handed over a note scrawled on notepaper:

Benteen, come on; big village; be quick; bring packs. P.S. COOKE.

“Where’s the villager?” Benteen asked Martin.

“In the valley,” Martin replied shortly.

“Are they fighting”

“Martin shook his head. “ They skeddadling.”

Benteen could hear no firing. If the Indians were running, there might not be time to go back for the packs. Besides, Benteen figured, they were coming as fast as they could. His battalion’s presence with the pack train would not make them come any quicker, but could make a large difference if Reno and Custer had the Indians on the run.

While Benteen had been talking to Martin, Captain Weir of D Troop rode up. Benteen handed him the note without any comment. Weir read it.

“We’re moving forward to the river,” Benteen said.

Weir silently acknowledged by riding back to his troops.

Benteen moved the battalion forward quickly, traversing two miles until they reached the Little Big Horn right where the trail said one of the two cavalry units had crossed. Looking to the north, Benteen could see some fighting going on and he could now hear firing. The soldiers he could see seemed to be withdrawing toward the right, north of his position.

“Where did Custer go?” Benteen asked Martin.

The trumpeter simply pointed to the north on the east side of the river. Benteen frowned. It was obvious that Reno’s troops were engaged and not faring well. Other than a handful of soldiers, all he could see were hundreds of warriors in the valley on the other side of the river.

Benteen looked to his right and to his dismay spotted a small group of four Indians about a quarter-mile away in that direction. If there were hostiles between him and Custer and Reno was retreating in the valley, then he paused in his thinking as he recognized them. They were Crow, scouts from Custer’s unit.

Benteen rode to them as they came forward. He could tell they were agitated.

“Many, many Sioux!” one of the scouts exclaimed.

“Much fight, much fight!” another babbled.

Benteen looked past them, up the hill, and he could see clusters of blue uniforms in the high ground almost a mile away. That decided it for him. He quickly formed his battalion and headed in that direction. He was met just short of the soldiers by Major Reno, who was staring blindly toward the northwest.

Benteen stilled his horse and stared as the senior ranking officer came forward. Reno had no hat and his tunic was covered in blood. There was a look in his eyes that Benteen had seen before in battle: shock, close to panic.

“He said he would support me!” Reno cried out before Benteen could say a word. “He said he would support me with the entire outfit!”

“Where is Custer?” Benteen asked.

“He didn’t support me. They’re dead. Hodgson, MacIntosh, Bloody Knife. All dead.”

Benteen looked past the distraught major. There were a number of troops on the high ground. Some were firing back down the way they came. Occasionally more soldiers would come up from the river, some on horse, many walking. All in a panic, obviously there had been a rout.

“Here,” Benteen said, holding out the order he’d been given.

Reno took it and read. He laughed hysterically. “Big village. Oh, yes, it’s big. There’s thousands of them, Benteen. Thousands. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Benteen said, leaning over and putting a band on Reno’s shoulder. All the while he was thinking hard. If Reno had been beaten as badly as it appeared and most of his troops were dismounted and pushed back to this side of the river, then the pack train was a priority. They would need the ammunition it carried to replace that which was lost on the horses in the valley and for them to be able to mount a viable defensive stand. Benteen barked orders, moving his three companies onto the high ground to support Reno’s battered troops, and then he turned to a lieutenant and sent a detachment riding hard to the rear to bring up the pack train.

He knew one thing Custer had been right about. They were in for a fight today. He saw Bouyer. Standing near the northern edge of the knoll. Benteen rode over.

“Where’s Custer?”

Bouyer pointed north, toward a cloud of dust. The distant echo of shots could be heard. “There.’’

“This side of the river?”

Bouyer nodded. “He didn’t make it into the village for some reason.”

Benteen rubbed his chin worriedly.

“We’ve got to move forward,” Bouyer said.

Benteen was stunned. “What’?”

“We’ve got to move forward to support Custer.”

“Support Custer?” Benteen laughed bitterly. “We’ll do well to survive here.”

Captain Weir rode up in a hurry. “Sir, my company is ready to move.”

“Move where. Captain?”

Weir pointed in the same direction Bouyer had. “To the Sound of the firing, sir.”

Benteen realized that Weir had been taught a little too much Napoleon at West Point.

“They’re massing below us,” Benteen said. “If the pack mules don’t get here soon, we’ll be overrun.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bouyer said as he mounted his horse. “I’m going forward.”

He held out his hand toward Benteen. “The satchel.”

Benteen took the leather case off his saddle and almost dropped it. He could smell the leather burning. Whatever was inside was very, very hot. Bouyer took it and looped the tie over his pommel. Then he simply took the one from Reno, realizing the officer was too dazed to offer any help.

Bouyer rode off. Weir looked at Benteen, awaiting orders. Benteen was between a rock and a hard place. If he ordered Weir to stay, he was abandoning Custer, much like Custer had done to Elliott at Washita so many years earlier. But if he ordered him to go, he was reducing his fighting strength by one-fifth. Probably more than that given the state most of Reno’s men appeared to be in.

Taking silence as assent, Weir yelled orders and his company charged after Bouyer. Heading toward the sound of firing.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

THE SPACE BETWEEN

“I can’t give you anything,” Dane said. He stepped back from the golden globe and reluctantly looked around the chamber. Everyone was dead. The crew of the Nautilus had gone above and beyond the call of duty to an extent none of them could have ever imagined.

“We’ve got the ozone!” Earhart yelled, causing Dane to reach up and pull the headset away from his ears. “Let’s head back to your time line.”

“We don’t have the power.” Dane stepped back into the Valkyrie suit and headed up. As he passed the control room, Earhart was waiting, also in her suit. She followed him up the tube to the upper half. The panels were folded in, and even inside the suit, Dane could feel an air of electricity filling the compartment. He continued upward toward the top of the sphere. The Naga staff was still in the keyhole, and he turned it. The top parted and Dane stopped it when there was enough room to exit. He went out, onto the top of the sphere. They were floating in water, only the top sixth of the sphere above the surface.

“What now?” Earhart asked. “We have the ozone.”

“Wait,” Dane said.

“For?”

“Just wait. We have to trust that the others have done their duty.”

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CUSTER

General George Armstrong Custer stared at the blood on his hands in disbelief. There was no pain. He just felt very, very tired. He was aware that someone was walking next to his horse, holding him in the saddle. He looked down and saw Autie guiding him. There were troopers all about, most mounted some on foot, all heading up the draw toward higher ground.

That was good, Custer thought. Higher ground was always best.

He could hear firing and screams, but they seemed far away. Where was the village? Were the Indians running? He saw Tom off to his right and slightly ahead. He tried to call out but no words would come. They came out of the draw and a knoll was ahead. Tom was deploying troopers in a defensive line, facing downslope.

Defensive? Custer thought. That was wrong. They should be attacking. Always attacking. Autie helped Custer off his horse. Custer tried to stand, but his legs were so weak. He sank to the ground. He was surprised when Autie pulled a pistol and shot his horse, his favorite steed. Why did he do that?

Custer wondered as the horse collapsed next to him. Autie helped Custer to a seated position with his back against the dead animal. He drew Custer’s pistol and placed it in his hand. Custer could barely hold on to it. He tried to ask Autie what was going on, why were they on the defensive. But no words would come and his nephew turned his attention outward, pistol at the ready. There was blood on Autie’s face. Now had that happened?

Then Custer saw beyond the perimeter. Hundreds of Indians were coming forward, up the draw like wolves to a downed buffalo calf. They were firing rifles and bows. A trooper trying to escape was swarmed by the wave of hostiles disappeared. This couldn’t be, Custer thought. It just simply couldn’t be happening. Not to my regiment. Not to the Seventh.

BOUYER

Bouyer and Weir, with D Company behind them, reached a high point where they could see to the north.

“Oh my God,” Weir whispered.

A small knot of soldiers was holding a perimeter about a mile away on a hill. All around were Indians, at least a thousand Bouyer estimated. The Indians weren’t charging, but holding back, pouring lead and arrow at the soldiers.

“We can’t …” Weir didn’t finish the obvious.

Bouyer understood, but he also knew he didn’t have the luxury of choice. He had three skulls. He’d had to pad the satchels with his blanket to keep them from burning his horse.

Bouyer kicked his spurs into his horse’s side and headed forward.

Weir wheeled his horse and pointed back the way they had come. His troop needed no urging. D Company raced back to the bluff that held the survivors of Reno’s command.

CRAZY HORSE

Crazy Horse rode around to the left, two hundred of his mounted warriors following, putting the firing to his right. He knew the terrain and knew where the battle was taking place. He also knew that the other tribes would attack head-on.

He and his warriors galloped along a draw, out of sight. Crazy Horse could sense the anxiety among his men and their desire to ride straight toward the shooting and join in the battle. But they followed his lead.

GALL

Gall strode hack and forth along the front edge of the Indian line, holding them back from charging directly into the white men’s guns. It was difficult, but his size and stature brought grudging obedience. They lay down in the waist-high grass along the edge of the coulees that flanked the hill on which the white men had set up their perimeter.

Gall had warriors with rifles move forward so they could see. He directed those with bows back, out of direct sight, and had them fire up into the air, their arrows arching over and down into the whites. Gall had his hatchet in one hand, and the satchel from the sun dance in the other.

CUSTER

Autie placed something in Custer’s lap. A leather satchel with something hot inside. That woke Custer from his blood-drained stupor. He blinked. Looking about. Arrows were coming down, almost as heavily as a summer squall. Some men had pulled saddles over their backs as they lay prone, firing. The ground was littered with their shafts like stalks of prairie grass.

Custer saw that the damned Springfield’s were jamming as cartridges expanded in the heat of the chamber. One trooper, fifteen yards in front of the main line of the perimeter. Was on his knees, knife in hand, trying to extract a round. Several braves saw this and charged forward. The man grabbed the barrel of his Springfield and jumped to his feet, swinging it like a madman. He knocked two of the braves to the ground before he was overwhelmed.

Custer tried to lift his hand holding the revolver but he couldn’t do it. Where was Tom? And Autie? And Boston? And Calhoun? His family? Someone came rushing up on the left and Custer twisted his neck. Tom. Bleeding from a wound in his chest.

“George—“ Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off as an arrow punched in one side of his neck and out the other with a gush of blood. Tom’s hands grabbed for the shaft as arterial blood spurted for several seconds. A bullet cut short that attempt. Hitting Tom in the side of his head, splattering his brother with his brains.

Custer could only stare in horror.

BOUYER

A soldier came galloping madly toward Bouyer, leaning as far forward on his horse as possible. It took Bouyer a second to realize why the man was in this uncomfortable and unusual position-he was trying to minimize his back as a target for the dozen braves on ponies chasing him.

Bouyer pulled back on the reins, halting. As the man raced past, a bullet caught him in the shoulder, tumbling him from his horse. The man scrambled to his feet, looking about wildly. He saw Bouyer and raised his hands in supplication.

Bouyer forced himself to be still as the braves raced up, two jumping off their ponies. One of them smashed the back of the soldier’s skull in with a stone-headed club. The other braves circled Bouyer, weapons held menacingly. Bouyer pulled one of the crystal skulls out of its wrapping. It glowed bright blue and was so hot he could feel it seer his flesh, but he held it high.

The warriors pulled back. even the two who had been in the process of scalping the soldier. Then they were startled as a second glowing skull held high appeared over a rise to the · west-and the hand holding it belonged to Sitting Bull.

“Powerful magic!” Sitting Bull cried out in Lakota.

“Yes,” Bouyer agreed.

Sitting Bull turned to the left. Just over the next rise lay the battlefield. They could hear the firing falling off from the crescendo it bad been. Bouyer knew the end was close.

“We go?” Sitting Bull inclined his head toward the rise.

Bouyer nodded and put the stirrups to his horse. Skulls in hand, the two rode toward the rise.

*****

An arrow slammed into Custer’s left thigh. Piercing through flesh and muscle into the ground beneath. He didn’t feel any pain. He didn’t feel the burning heat from the satchel Autie had placed in his lap. All he felt was in his mind, disbelief and shock about what was going on all around him.

*****

Gall saw Sitting Bull and the strange half-breed from the sun dance appear to the south. Both holding up glowing skulls. He signaled, indicating for the warriors not to attack the half-breed. Then he reached into his satchel and grabbed hold of the hot skull. He almost laughed at the pain. The sun dance bad prepared him for this. He held the glowing skull aloft and moved forward.

*****

Buffalo Calf Woman slammed an awl through a dead soldier’s left ear, pulled it out, then jammed it into the right, piercing the eardrum. He should not hear in the afterworld. Because he had not heard clearly in this world. He had not heard the Great Spirit warning the whites to leave the people in peace.

She looked up and saw mighty Gall striding forward. A glowing blue object in his hand. She opened the satchel she’d taken from the blue coat. She blinked in the bright blue glow and then reached in. She grabbed hold with both hands and held it aloft. Then she headed in the direction Gall was going.

*****

Walks Alone saw Gall and Buffalo Calf Woman. Where was Crazy Horse? He wondered as he pulled out the skull the great warrior had given him. He stood up, ignoring the warnings from the braves around to stay down. There were still soldiers alive on the hill, firing.

None would hit him. Walks Alone knew. He beaded up the hill.

*****

Two Moons notched an arrow and fired it high into the sky, firing a second before the first impacted. He paused as he noted the people moving forward with the skulls. He put down his bow and opened the satchel he’d taken from Bloody Knife. He removed the skull, gasping as it burned his flesh, and moved forward.

*****

Crazy Horse turned to the south toward the firing. His warriors spread out on either side. He could hold them back no longer. Their vengeance against those who had invaded their lands, killed their families, and brought disease and death was unstoppable now.

Crazy Horse reached into the satchel tied off to his pony and pulled out the talisman given by his “brother.” He kicked his pony in the side and raced forward.

*****

Sitting Bull halted, fifty yards short of the last stand being mounted by the whites. He could see the Son of the Morning Star, still alive but wounded in several places, leaning back against the saddle of a dead horse.

Bouyer saw Custer also. He stopped next to Sitting Bull as Buffalo Calf Woman and Walks Alone joined them. The skulls seemed to sense each other’s presence, their glow becoming brighter, making them unbearable to gaze upon directly.

And then Crazy Horse and three hundred warriors crested the hill behind the last stand and swept down.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Rachel leapt out of the water and landed with a splash directly in front of Dane and Earhart.

“Let’s go,” Dane said. He didn’t wait for a reply as he moved forward in the Valkyrie suit, floating ten feet above the water, following Rachel’s dorsal fin. The dolphin, paused, arched her back so she could see that they were following, then continued ahead.

Dane saw their destination: a narrow portal column, streaked with red, flickering to solid black. Then gray with red, then black. Still filled with the red lines.

“That’s not a locked in portal,” Earhart said.

Dane didn’t respond. He moved forward, hit the portal and disappeared.

Earhart followed.

CHAPTER THRITY FIVE

CUSTER

“Angels,” Custer whispered. “Come to rescue me.” He dropped the pistol he couldn’t fire and reached up with both hands toward the white figures that had just appeared in front of him.

*****

Dane saw the massacre all around as a wave of several hundred warriors washed over the remnants of Custer’s command. But all veered away from the strange vision of he and Earhart in the Valkyrie suits and Custer nearby with a glowing skull in his lap.

Dane slowly turned and saw a handful of people approaching, glowing blue skulls held in their hands. He raised his white arms wide, welcoming them, spreading out the metal net he had taken from the sphere.

The screams of the last dying soldiers echoed in his ears. He didn’t want to believe he’d become jaded to death. He wanted to believe that this battle had been inevitable anyway and he was here to cull something good out of a futile massacre.

Sitting Bull walked up and dropped the glowing skull into the net. Then Buffalo Calf Road Woman. Walks Alone. Crazy Horse. Gall. Two Moons. And then Mitch Bouyer with two skulls.

Eight.

“Eric.”

Dane had almost forgotten Earhart was with him. He turned.

George Armstrong Custer was looking at him. His face was pale, his body wounded in several places.

“The ninth,” Earhart said. He was the only one of his command left alive. On his lap was the ninth skull.

Dane felt Custer’s shock and confusion. “Take it,” he ordered Earhart.

With a clawed hand she reached down and lifted the skull, from Custer’s lap. Dane wanted to say something to those around, but he knew the portal might not last. He turned to it, hit the blackness and disappeared.

Behind him Earhart hesitated. Her thoughts and feelings ere jumbled. She saw her lines in Bouyer’s face. Her son, but not her Son. Standing on a hillside littered with bodies. He was half of one people, half of another. What would happen to him, she wondered? He didn’t even know who she was.

The portal flickered and she entered it.

*****

Dane went directly to the power room carrying the skulls.

Earhart took her place in the control room, entering the command pod. There was no need for them to talk, to discuss what came next.

Staying in the Valkyrie suit, Dane removed the nine skulls · and placed them in the alcoves that were on the same level as the portal map. When he was done, he went to the center and · exited the suit. The power flowing in from the skulls was intense, much stronger than what he had just experienced from e crew of the Nautilus. He let his hands flow among the portal strands, letting his own time line attract them with its draw.

His hands wrapped around a strand that felt familiar in a way he couldn’t explain. Then he realized he’d touched this one before, when he’d cut off the portal the Shadow had been using to drain power from his world and that this sphere had come through.

“I’ve got power,” Earhart said. “I see the portal. It’s big enough. You’re sure it’s the one back to your time line?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Dane said. “But, yes, this is the one.”

The sphere hit the portal, rocked, bounced, then Dane almost fell off the pedestal as the craft canted hard right.

“Whoa!’’ Earhart called out. “I’ve got it.” The floor leveled. “Deploying panels and releasing the ozone.”

*****

Onboard the Flip, Foreman was one of the first to get the reports of the sphere reappearing. A dozen military and research aircraft from various countries were within range of the craft. And they immediately vectored in.

*****

“What are we going to do about the radiation?” Dane asked.

“We’re heading north now,” Earhart reported. “You just keep the power coming. I’ll take care of it. We’ve discharged all the ozone we picked up. And keep that gate open.”

*****

At McMurdo Station the Surviving scientists couldn’t believe the data their instruments were recording. It wasn’t just a reprieve for them; it was a reversal of the damage to the ozone layer that had been done for decades previously.

*****

Moscow was a ghost town, millions having fled by the inevitable wave of radiation being borne by the winds. The front edge had passed through the suburbs and now threatened the city itself. A handful of dedicated soldiers stayed at their stations, manning the nuclear launch control center, the air defense monitoring station, and the other key facilities that had NBC (nuclear, biological and chemical protection capability. They would stay there as long as they could stay buttoned up and alive.

The air defense monitoring station was the first to pick up the image of the sphere as it approached from the south. The size of the image was so overwhelming the general in charge had no idea what to do.

*****

Earhart brought the sphere and its miles of deployed panels down to a level where they wouldn’t hit the highest object. “How’s the power?”

Dane looked at the nine skulls. Five had already gone blank, while four still glowed. “We’re under fifty percent.”

“Damn.” Earhart “knew” the controls of this ship. It was something she hadn’t wanted to discuss with Dane because she didn’t know how she knew. Whether the Ones Before had planted the knowledge in her somehow, or more daddy, she had piloted this craft sometime in the past and didn’t remember, she had no idea.

She pushed a button to her extreme left.

The panels crackled with energy, drawing the radiation in the air toward them. The sphere and panels swept through the sky above Russia in long, fast S-turns. Cleaning the air of death, heading toward Chernobyl.

“We’re getting hot inside the cargo bay,” Earhart informed Dane.

“We don’t have much power left,” Dane replied. “How much longer?”

“I think we got it,” Earhart said, checking the displays. “Most of it at least. I’m heading back toward the portal and bringing in the panels so we can go faster.”

As the sphere accelerated, the panels began folding on themselves.

Eight of the skulls had been drained of the energy put into them at such cost. Only one still glowed. Dane was staring at it as if he could keep the power flowing from it with simply his will. Perhaps he could, he suddenly realized. He was one of the chosen. He realized he had the power if he was willing to make the sacrifice.

He had asked others to make sacrifices.

“Eric.”

He lifted one hand out of the portal map and extended it toward the line of blue power that flowed from the skull to the map.

“Damn it, Dane. We’re almost there. What are you doing?”

He put his hand into the flow. His head snapped back as if he’d been shot in the forehead. He was only kept from falling by his one hand still gripping the portal end of his Earth time line.

The sphere hit the portal with a jar that knocked Dane to the other side, pulling his hand out of the power flow. Unconscious, he let go of the portal map and collapsed to the floor.

“We made it,” Earhart’s voice echoed inside the Valkyrie suit. “Dane? Eric, are you there?”

CHAPTER THRITY SIX

SITTING BULL

There was firing to the south, where Reno and Benteen’s troops were dug in on top of a knoll. They didn’t have access to water, and Sitting Bull knew it would only be a matter of a couple days before they became dehydrated and desperate.

They were not his immediate concern. He looked over the battlefield strewn with the dead blue coats and crowded with his people. All had gathered round. Staring up at him. The two ghosts had just disappeared into the black with the glowing skulls. Such a thing none here had ever seen, and all knew they had witnessed powerful medicine.

For the first time in his life, Sitting Bull was at a loss for words. He could see Crazy Horse and the strange half-breed who had brought the skulls whispering together.

“My people” Sitting Bull began, but he still could not summon the words that had always flowed so easily. Thus, he gave way when Crazy Horse, the one who never spoke in front of groups, who let his actions speak, surprisingly came forward.

Crazy Horse stood next to Sitting Bull. Looking around at the thousand faces looking back. Warriors, squaws, children. Many covered in white man’s blood. He, too, heard the shooting to the south where warriors kept the other blue coats trapped. This was a great victory indeed, but yes, even Crazy Horse could finally accept that they had only destroyed half of the Seventh Cavalry, and there was another column of blue coats coming from the north with even more men than Custer had, an ocean of soldiers to the east ready to sweep west.

“What happened today,” Crazy Horse said, his powerful voice easily carrying over the crowd, “the magic you have witnessed, must never be spoken of. Even among us. And you would be wise not to speak of this battle at all to the whites. For they will come thirsting for vengeance for the Son of the Morning Star and the others who lie here.” He swallowed, looked at his “brother,” who met his gaze steadily, then continued. ·’We must leave. Separate and go our own ways. And make peace with the whites when they offer it” There were no cries of dissent. The magic all had witnessed had been too powerful, too full of portent. “If we continue to fight we will all die. We will become as extinct as the great buffalo. We used to see the plaids covered with them as far as the eye could reach. They would pass by our encampments for days on end. Now we must search long and hard for a small group. If we continue to fight we, too, will come to an end.”

He waved toward the west. “Go. Separate. Hide from the whites. And when they offer peace, take it. It is not a good thing. It is not what I or you would want. But it is what will happen.”

Crazy Horse walked down, past the horse against which Custer lay dead, up to his “brother.” “Go in peace. Talk to the white chiefs. Tell them it is over.”

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Earhart floated into the power chamber, which was lit only by · a dim gold glow from the portal map. She saw Dane lying at me base of the portal pedestal.

“Eric?”

Dane slowly opened his eyes.

“Are you all right?”

Dane nodded, grimacing with pain. “We must take the fight to the Shadow.”

“How do we do that?”

“First, we find the Ones Before.” Before Earhart could ask the same question, Dane continued. “I sensed something in the portal. I think I can get us to them.”

“And then?”

“We find out the truth about this war. And we end it.”

THE END

COMING SOON FROM ROBERT DOHERTY

BATTLE FOR ATLANTIS

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