FIFTY MILES SOUTH OF BILLINGS, MONTANA THREE HOURS LATER

“Where are you, Jack?” Niles asked into the scrambled security phone.

“Right now we’re about five miles out of the battlefield on US 212; we landed at Logan airport in Billings about six forty. Why, what’s up?” Jack asked, looking over at Mendenhall, who was driving. Sarah and Dr. Allan Nathan were in the back debating the merits of General Sheridan’s ruthless three-pronged attack method used for the campaign against the hostiles in 1876.

“Jack, I’m getting ready to call the president. We have received some disturbing news about a couple of the passengers onboard the Pacific Voyager. They are Department of Defense employees, Jack, that’s all I’ll say on this line. Now more than ever, watch your behinds out there; you’re a long way from help.”

“Warning received and appreciated, Niles, thanks.”

The connection was terminated and Jack closed his cell phone. No one spoke for a moment as Mendenhall turned off the highway at the battlefield exit. Jack reached out and turned up the air conditioner, then closed his eyes in thought.

“Look at this, Major,” Mendenhall said, indicating a faraway sight outside of his window. The passengers in the backseat were also quiet as they, too, had caught the same image against the darkening eastern sky.

An eerie silence filled the rental car as they followed the asphalt track. A sense of history wasn’t the term Jack would use; it was something else. He felt this way very rarely but he did recognize it. He gazed at the monuments sitting atop a small rise in the land, with the tallest in the center catching the late afternoon sun, and the whiteness of the grave markers gleamed. He had a feeling of loss, or more to the point, a feeling of being near a happening, a moment in time that transcends mere history.

The Little Bighorn Battlefield was a place that will be forever remembered. At Last Stand Hill, a man named Custer once stood and fell with over 265 of his men. It was also a place where countless indigenous peoples had fought and died for their right to exist.

Sarah and Nathan knew beyond any doubt it had to be one of the most haunted spots in the world. A small shudder traveled down Sarah’s spine as their car traveled over a steel cattle guard that spanned the flowing Little Bighorn River.

“I always heard from people that this place was creepy; now I know what they meant,” Sarah said as she watched the monuments fade over the rise.

“I don’t know if soldiers were ever meant to be here, for any reason, Major,” Mendenhall said, looking out of the window.

Jack didn’t comment, only because he thought the sergeant was right— soldiers weren’t meant to be here, then and maybe even now.

As they drove up the winding road, several cars passed them. As they entered the gate, they could see more than twenty Native Americans place picket signs into the backs of pickup trucks and vans, as they made ready to leave. A few even waved as Jack’s car drove past them.

As they went through the gate and toward the visitor’s center, they failed to notice the two large SUVs waiting about a mile away, well off the dirt road and outer RV camping area.

Jack, Mendenhall, Sarah, and Dr. Nathan walked down the path after parking in the lot next to the visitor’s center. It was now close to seven thirty and the area was deserted with the exception of a green pickup truck that had a National Parks Service emblem on its door.

Jack tried the door to the battlefield museum first and found it locked. He leaned close and peered through the glass but could see the building was empty. Construction materials were strewn about, as the visitor’s center and museum were readying for a much-needed expansion. But the workers had all left for the day hours before.

“Hi there, sorry, the museum closes at six on weekdays,” said a man walking down the path toward them. He wore a Smokey the Bear hat and a tan uniform.

Jack stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’m Jack Collins; I believe you were contacted earlier by my boss in Washington,” he said. He noticed immediately that the man was armed.

“You the army, Major?” the ranger asked, shaking his hand.

“That’s me.”

“We expected you before closing time, Major; my partners out front are locking up the gates right now, and the others are around on Reno Hill making sure no one gets locked in.”

“Well, we have to see the exhibits. It’s very important,” Jack said, releasing the taller man’s hand.

“National security, I heard your boss. What department did you say you worked with again?”

“The Smithsonian Institute, and Ms. McIntire and Dr. Nathan here represent the National Archives,” Jack answered, the small deceit rolling easily from his tongue.

“Well, my boss in D.C. said to let you in, so I guess we’ll let you in,” said the ranger. “But I must ask that none of you handle anything in the museum. You’re to look only, that clear?” he asked, looking beyond Jack at Sarah, Mendenhall, and Nathan.

They all nodded.

“Good, then welcome to the Little Bighorn. I’m Park Ranger McBride, and you’re in for a treat if you’ve never been here before,” he said proudly as he pulled a large ring of keys from his pocket.

McBride opened the door that guarded the past of Custer, his men, and the American Indians who had pulled off the biggest upset in the history of the American West, and they followed the ranger inside.

Another ranger was at the front gate saying good-bye and joking with a group of Northern Cheyenne protesters who were a part of the revitalized American Indian Movement (AIM), men the park ranger had come to know by name, as many were there every day in rotating fashion, just like clockwork, to let the public know their discontent on the current state of Indian affairs in Washington, which as always was nearly nonexistent and what little was there was very poor. The ranger laughed with them; he had grown very close with a few. About five of the AIM discontents were members of their separate tribal council police departments and wore their badges inside their coats. As the ranger started to swing the gate closed, he stopped when he saw two large Mercury SUVs coming down the paved road, nearly missing two of the Cheyenne as they drove past, drawing angry glares and a few curses. The ranger stopped with the gate partially opened and went out to greet the park-goers. He held up his hand as the first vehicle pulled up to the gate.

“Sorry, folks, we open again at eight in the morning,” he said as he stepped up to the passenger window.

The window rolled down and the ranger was face to face with a man with a thick mustache. The ranger saw the silenced pistol as it was raised and aimed at approximately his right cheek. The rear door of the SUV swung open and he was quickly pulled inside. The ranger was knocked unconscious and stripped down to his underwear. A man of approximately the same size and weight quickly dressed in the ridiculous ranger uniform and then stepped from the SUV. He walked over and pulled open the gate, and the two vehicles entered the park, and then the man closed and secured the main gate with the keys that were still hanging from the lock. Then the imposter walked over to the ranger’s truck and followed the first two vehicles as they went toward the visitor’s center.

The strange scene at the front gate had not gone unnoticed. Fifteen Cheyenne Indians no more than three hundred yards away knew the park was closed to visitors at night. And they also knew that a place they held as sacred was filling up with white men once again, and that was bad news.

As the four visitors entered the exhibition hall, McBride turned on the fluorescent lighting and the museum came alive around them. There were magnificent representations of all the tribes that had taken part in the battle. Also mannequins dressed in uniforms of the Seventh Cavalry were there, and others were garbed authentically as Plains Indians. Behind glass enclosures were artifacts that had been recovered from the many sources they had eventually come to after June 25, 1876. There were horse bridles, several rusted and broken Springfield rifles, and Colt pistols. Bullets and balls of every caliber were on display, along with very old powder horns for old flintlocks used by some of the tribes. Broken lance points and arrowheads were well protected behind glass. There were reproductions of the Regimental flag, the blue and red swallowtail flag sporting Custer’s personal choice of two crossed sabers. Jack perused these items and then turned to McBride.

“The artifacts we’re interested in are the recent finds from the dig that was just concluded.”

“Ah, I see, those are removed every day to the storeroom so work can be continued on them until noon every day; that was the price we had to pay to keep them on display. They’re right back through here.” He gestured to a door at the back of the museum.

“This is a going concern here; I didn’t expect all this, to tell you the truth,” Sarah said admiringly.

McBride stopped with keys in hand as he turned toward Sarah.

“We found out a long time ago that there is something that has lodged in the cumulative American psyche about the battle here, be it Indian or other cultures. It’s hard to put a finger on because there have been so many far more devastating defeats on this continent for the American military,” he said as he inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. “But for some reason the Little Bighorn haunts this country, maybe not because it was the last stand for Custer and his men, but maybe because, as it turned out, it was the last stand for the men and women he fought against. The tribes here may have won this battle, but it doomed them as a free-roaming people, thus in truth, destroying them. My personal belief is that Americans have always pulled for the underdog, and this place reminds them of what we did to these great people. Besides, all the men, no matter what side they fought on, in this place at least, had to have been the bravest there were at the time. You feel them here. You can even see them here when you’re alone.”

Sarah knew what the ranger was talking about. She knew they all did, from the moment they laid eyes on the fenced monuments on Last Stand Hill. This place was alive and they all felt it.

McBride turned on the overhead lights as he escorted the quartet into a room that had examination tables from one end to the other. The artifacts they had come to see were in varying positions on the tables, left as they were when the lab was closed for the day. Jack and the others took all this in with a feeling of awe.

“There you are, the latest field finds. Some amazing stuff, to be sure,” McBride said.

Jack’s eyes went immediately to the time-worn and -eaten saddlebag. The bottom was nearly rotted completely through as it lay under a circular magnifier-lamp. He walked over and snapped on the light, which lit up the lens, and then he pulled out a chair and sat.

“Hey, I said you’re not supposed to touch anything!” McBride called out.

“Easy, chief, we’re not here to harm anything,” Mendenhall said as he grabbed the larger man’s arm, restraining him. With his free hand he reached out and deftly removed the ranger’s nine-millimeter handgun.

“What the hell is this?” McBride protested.

“I believe you were told there were national security issues involved,” Mendenhall said.

“Really, we’re not going to harm anything,” Sarah chimed in, in an attempt to calm the ranger.

“Oh my,” was all Dr. Nathan could muster, staring at the pistol that Mendenhall had removed from McBride’s holster.

Jack was meanwhile engaged in looking through the magnifying glass. “Has anything been found in this saddlebag?” He looked across at the ranger, who was still in Mendenhall’s arms.

“No, it hasn’t even been examined yet.”

Jack nodded and took a deep breath. He leaned over and examined the old leather pouch again. Taking a large pair of tweezers, he carefully lifted a small corner of the leather flap. It tore away and Jack cursed.

“You’ll destroy it!” the ranger said angrily.

Nathan stepped forward and removed the tweezers from Jack’s fingers.

“I think we can probably x-ray that, Major. That should show us the contents pretty clearly.” Professor Nathan gently carried the saddlebag to the lab’s X-ray area that was behind a screen.

“Just like a bull in a china shop,” Sarah mumbled as she leaned over the table to examine the old steel box that had been recovered along with the saddlebag.

Jack shrugged his shoulders at Sarah’s halfhearted reproach.

It took Nathan all of five minutes to get the shots of the saddlebag done. He reported, “The only items left in the saddlebags were more than likely organic in nature, perhaps field rations the Indians didn’t find. Nothing even remotely resembling a cross, I’m afraid. There was no metal left on the leather at all; even the leather rivets had rusted away.”

“Damn.” Jack turned and looked at Sarah.

She was turning the metal box over and Jack saw it was the same box as they had seen in the pictures back at the complex. The initials W.K. were on the back in between the rusted hinges.

“Open it,” Jack ordered.

“I’m not opening this; I can’t do it without destroying it,” she protested.

“So why don’t you put it down?” McBride asked, fuming over the destruction these people could be causing to the valuable finds he was in charge of protecting.

“You know we’re looking for a cross,” said Sarah. “Why won’t you help us?”

“Because my job description says nothing about assisting thieves and vandals, whoever you are,” he said to Sarah’s back. Then he turned halfway around and faced Mendenhall, who twirled the ranger’s automatic on his right index finger and then quickly placed it back in McBride’s holster.

“There, a gesture of trust and goodwill, Ranger. If she destroys the box looking for the cross, you can shoot me,” Mendenhall said, looking over at Jack, who nodded his head.

McBride looked away for a moment in thought. Then he looked back at Will Mendenhall and actually brought his right hand up halfway to his holster. Then he dipped his head and relaxed.

“Dammit!” Sarah said. He’d called her bluff. She put the box down.

Jack shook his head and pursed his lips. “Well, that’s that. They were the only items linked to Keogh.”

McBride cleared his throat. “Don’t ask me why I’m telling you this,” he said as he stepped toward the examination table nearest him. Mendenhall looked questioningly at the major, who shrugged his shoulders. “But those aren’t the only items Captain Keogh had on him at the time of his death.” He reached out and pulled a black cloth away from a lone Christian cross that had been placed on the table for examination.

Sarah’s heart raced when she saw what had been right in front of them. It was a large cross measuring seven inches by four in width. It didn’t resemble any of the crosses they had seen in the original ISO photos at the Event Group meeting.

“That wasn’t in the report and pictures we received,” Jack said.

“Well, it wasn’t cataloged until this afternoon.”

“What makes you think it was Keogh’s?” Sarah asked.

“Since its discovery, it’s been cleaned and examined by experts.” McBride addressed Jack. “And his name is on it, in small letters on the crossbar of the cross itself. And our historians also know its Keogh’s because there are several accounts of his having one just like it delivered to him before he left the fort.”

Jack’s eyes lingered on McBride a moment as he remembered the Libby Custer account Niles had mentioned. He knew the man had to be telling the truth because he was not only a park ranger, he also was a tour guide and one that had to be very knowledgeable about the battle and all its strange aspects.

Jack walked over and looked at the cross more closely. He picked it up and turned it over; sure enough, engraved in small script on the back of the cross member was the name: Myles Keogh, for Papal Service.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

Sarah went up on her toes to see it. Then her eyes widened and she gently removed the rust-spotted cross from Jack’s fingers. Why didn’t the Parks Service experts see this? she wondered as she stared at its base.

“The pope and his archives people were sly ones.” She gestured for the others to come over as she felt the goose bumps rise on her arms. She slowly twisted the bottom of the cross, and they all heard it crack in her fingers. McBride grimaced, thinking she had broken it. Then they heard a small pop as if a cork had been pulled free of a bottle.

“Would you like to have the honors, Ranger McBride?” Sarah asked while holding out the cross.

He shook his head quickly. He wanted nothing to do with the new discovery by whoever this woman was.

Sarah looked at Jack.

“You go ahead, Sherlock, it’s your show,” he responded.

Sarah gently tapped the top of the cross as the others slowly leaned inward. Nathan had his mouth open as if that would help whatever was inside come free. She tapped again and nothing happened. She tapped once more and again nothing. She tapped it harder against the stainless-steel table and, as they all watched, the edge of a piece of yellowed paper could be seen. Sarah swallowed and laid the cross down. She reached for a pair of tweezers and a pair of surgical gloves. She then picked up the cross and used the tweezers to gently pull on the corner of the exposed paper. It slid out as easily as if it were placed inside only yesterday. She lay down the tweezers and cross and carefully unfolded the paper. The paper cracked along the fold lines but Sarah pushed on. Particles of very old fiber floated around the map. They all breathed a collective sigh of relief when it was fully open.

The map was eleven by seven inches. Its cursive lettering and artwork were meticulous. Sarah took a deep breath and let out a small whoop, startling the others and making Nathan duck as if a ghost had taken a swing at him.

“Sorry,” she said.

“What is it?” McBride asked.

“Just a five-hundred-year-old map that was written by a very brave man,” she answered exuberantly.

As they examined it, they could see it was very detailed and showed the route to the valley and the giant lagoon clearly. They even had to smile when they saw that the area was marked with a small X. Then they all noticed one thing at the bottom, near the spot marking the lagoon, written more boldly than the other calligraphy: a warning Padilla had penned so that anyone could read it. Unfortunately all but the ranger understood the simple Spanish immediately.

Aguas Negros Satanicos.

“What does it say?” McBride asked as the sound of a helicopter slowly started to penetrate the wooden structure.

Sarah looked at him and then the others. “Roughly translated, ‘The Black Waters of Satan,’ ” she answered a split second before bullets smashed through the door, slamming into her and Ranger McBride.

Jack and Mendenhall drew their sidearms and hit the tiled floor before the echoes of the attack had faded. Jack crawled over to Sarah, who was unmoving on the ground where she had fallen; she had tried in vain to cover the park ranger. When he saw blood spreading out in an ever-widening pool around the two prone bodies, his own racing blood froze in his veins.

Mendenhall fired three quick shots, two hitting drywall on either side of the door and one through the door itself, after rolling away from Sarah and McBride. The sergeant couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Professor Nathan standing upright as bullets slammed into the walls and fixtures; the man was slowly walking toward the rear of the examining room as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Apparently the sudden explosion of violence had unhinged the professor’s thought processes and he thought just leaving would make it all stop. Mendenhall saw what had caused it. Dripping from Nathan’s chin was blood and brain matter. “Get down, Professor, for Christ’s sake!” he shouted as he fired twice more through the closed door.

“Sarah, Sarah!” Jack called loudly over the gunfire.

His heart lurched when she turned over and rolled under the lab table where Jack was lying. “God, are you all right?”

“Yeah, one barely clipped my shoulder. Not much of a wound but it stings like hell. Ranger McBride’s had it though, caught one in the head.”

“Goddammit!” Jack said. Then he looked up and saw the feet of Nathan as he slowly walked toward the rear door. “Nathan, get your ass down!” he said loudly.

“He’s in shock, Major!” Mendenhall called out.

More automatic fire erupted and chunks of drywall started flying around them. Even more of the rounds were striking the examining tables.

Nathan continued for the steel back door. Mendenhall quickly popped up and returned fire. Six shots left his Beretta and slammed into the drywall separating the examining room from the museum as he tried to cover the oblivious professor. Then all hell erupted through the false ceiling as more rounds penetrated through the roof of the building. A heavy-caliber weapon had just opened fire from the unseen helicopter.

Jack rolled until his body struck McBride’s. He felt the ranger’s still-warm blood as it soaked through his shirt and Windbreaker. He quickly rolled the man over and unsnapped his gun from its holster. It was a Beretta like his own. He checked McBride’s belt, opened one of the leather pouches, and pulled out two extra clips of nine-millimeter ammunition. He slid the weapon and clips over to Sarah, who immediately checked the gun’s chamber and removed the safety. Without rising, Jack reached up and started feeling around the tabletop until his fingers found what they were searching for: Padilla’s map. He quickly stuffed it into his pocket, ripping the map almost in two as he did so, and then rolled again. He grabbed Nathan by the foot and pulled his leg out from underneath him, then grabbed his belt and tugged until the professor fell onto his back.

“Now you stay down, dammit, Nathan!” Jack hissed as he kicked the steel door twice with his foot. “That’s a steel door and it’s locked; what’s the matter with you?”

More fire entered through the front door and struck the expensive equipment lining the walls.

“Will, get on your cell phone and see if you can get ahold of the county sheriff, we can’t stay in here,” Jack said as he fired his Beretta five times into the steel lock of the door. He was satisfied when the chrome disintegrated under the nine-millimeter onslaught.

With a shaking hand, Nathan reached up and wiped some of the gore from his cheek and jaw. “I …I… wasn’t thinking, Major, I just …”

Jack ignored Nathan’s shocked rambling as he kicked at the door again; this time it swung open, letting in fresh air. Whoever their assailants were, they must have heard the door open, because Jack heard running footsteps heading out and away from the inside of the museum. Jack first waved Sarah out the door and then quickly stood and picked up Professor Nathan and shoved him through. He looked at Mendenhall, who tossed his cell phone aside after a stray round had ricocheted off a table and smashed it, almost taking off his hand. He then fired his last five shots through the steel door. On the way out, he ejected the spent clip and inserted his only backup.

The fresh air revived Jack as they ran away from the visitor’s center toward the parking area. If it weren’t for Sarah they would have run right into several men running straight at them from the gravel parking lot: Jack pushed Nathan to the grass when he saw Sarah fall flat into a defensive position. Laser sights reached out for them in the dusk as Jack fired from his own immediately prone position. One round caught the first man in line and Mendenhall shot the second, using two rounds. Sarah turned onto her back toward the visitor’s center and fired three quick shots at five men running from there. To Jack’s amazement, two men fell, one grabbing his leg and the other falling to the gravel surrounding the building and then not moving at all.

“Did you reach anyone before your phone died, Will?” Jack asked.

“No signal; I’m afraid we’re in deep shit here, Major,” Mendenhall shouted over the din.

Jack fired five more times in the direction of their pursuers. He dropped one and, from what he could see in the gathering gloom, there were still five more, minus the one he had just shot, that came out of the visitor’s center, and at least three remaining from the parking area group. Jack fired twice more and Mendenhall once, as the evening grew darker. At Jack’s command they turned as one and sprinted away, Jack taking the aged professor by the arm and helping as best he could. Out of the dusk, more automatic fire started up, and they could feel as well as see the tracer rounds thumping into the grass around them. Then they heard the helicopter as it swung in from somewhere beyond a far hill. It made a run at Jack, and he saw tracer rounds striking the dirt and gravel around him. The black helicopter swooped by and disappeared over a small rise.

“Sarah, head for the slope and that iron fence. Hurry, we have to get to some kind of cover,” Jack called out as he turned quickly and fired at the shadowy shapes chasing them. This time he didn’t see anyone fall, but Mendenhall, who had fired at the same time as Jack, brought down another of the pursuing men.

Sarah was out of breath by the time she made the outer fence that encircled Last Stand Hill. As she opened the unlocked gate, she turned around and saw Jack coming with the professor in tow. She could make out Mendenhall bringing up the rear. Sarah crouched by the open gate and fired six times into the darkness, making the pursuers hesitate momentarily. The gunmen stooped over, lowering their silhouette. Mendenhall took advantage of Sarah’s cover and sprinted the last thirty yards to the open cemetery. He followed Jack and Nathan, and ducked behind the first marker he came to. Then he popped up and fired five times into the gloom and heard a satisfying yelp as one of his nine-millimeter slugs found the mark.

“Out!” he shouted as he ejected the spent clip.

Sarah tossed him one of the spare Beretta clips and Mendenhall slammed it home. Jack ejected his own empty clip and inserted his last one. They were each down to their final rounds of ammunition. The helicopter came over the rise and Jack finally identified it as a Bell ARH, the newest attack chopper on the market. Whoever these guys were, they were well funded. The ARH was equipped, Jack knew, with a FLIR, a forward-looking infrared targeting system. That meant that no matter how dark it was, they could be hunted down and killed. The black bird again swooped in and fired, narrowly missing Sarah and the professor as rounds chipped away the stone monuments around them. He could feel the wind as the pilot arrogantly flew low enough to stir the dried grass into a storm cloud.

“Take cover and pick your targets; maybe all this noise will bring the rest of the park rangers running,” he said as he quickly fired two rounds.

Collins was answered by a steady stream of automatic fire that tore into the headstone he was hiding behind. When it had settled, he turned to see where Sarah was and wasn’t surprised at all when he saw she had moved and taken up station right behind him. The stone marker that covered her and also marked a bodiless grave read boston custer, then below that, civilian and finally on the bottom, fell here, june 25, 1876. As he watched, three rounds struck it and took off the top of the stone. Sarah popped right up and fired. Behind them was the tall monument placed there in honor of all the men that fell; the green grass around it suddenly erupted as a long stream of bullets tore it up. Jack cursed and stood upright, and fired five times into the dark. He hit two men as they fell screaming. He ducked back just in time as the marker he was behind disintegrated and he rolled away to another, feeling his back and chest pelted by stone. The roar of the Bell ARH’s turbine announced its presence as it passed low overhead.

“Goddammit!” he shouted in futility.

Mendenhall yelped as a round ricocheted off a marker and slivers of stone struck him across the forehead. “Damn!” he echoed.

Jack peered around for Nathan, who was crawling quickly to hide behind the largest of the monuments, where bullets had struck the grass just a moment before. Then he turned his attention to the assault that was coming from the front. He saw five men, darting in a zigzag, move toward the cemetery. He rested his back against the marker and closed his eyes. He was trying to think how to give Sarah and Nathan time to get out, when suddenly there were shouts and whoops as heavy fire erupted from behind them, from the far side of the cemetery. Then several blasts that sounded like shotguns boomed to the right of the attackers. Two men fell in agony as buckshot tore into them. Jack managed to stand and fire his own weapon into the running men; he brought down one and thought he wounded another. As he watched in confusion, the ARH attack chopper came in and then suddenly turned away, flying quickly to the south.

“Who in the hell’s out there?” Mendenhall hollered.

Other, much louder whoops rent the night, as now there was shotgun fire opening up on the left. Whoever had come to their rescue had the attackers in crossfire hell. Several pops from handguns sounded and then they heard the sound of a bullhorn.

“This is the U.S. Parks Service, lay your weapons down!”

The attackers didn’t listen; they opened fire in the direction of the amplified voice. Jack took the opportunity to sight in on the muzzle flashes and downed one more of the men. And then that was it, he was out of ammunition. Suddenly, screams again made Jack’s blood run cold as more shotguns opened up on the remaining men. Then, as abruptly as their rescue had begun, it was over. There was an eerie silence one hears after a firefight that goes against all reason. Suddenly the field was alight as floodlamps were turned on in the cemetery. Several trucks came barreling up and then the bullhorn sounded again.

“In the cemetery, lay your weapons down and place your hands in the air.”

Jack tossed his Beretta to the ground and stood. “Don’t shoot! Major Jack Collins, United States Army, on government business to the battlefield!”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see about that,” a voice said without the aid of the bullhorn.

Jack, Mendenhall, and Sarah stood. Nathan wasn’t about to stand up just yet; he found the large stone monument and its surrounding fence comforting. As they watched, they saw a large man in a tan shirt and green pants step into the light. He was followed by two more park rangers and, to Jack’s surprise, about fifteen Native Americans.

“I’ll be damned,” was all Jack could say.

The Indians were all carrying shotguns and they followed the rangers inside the cemetery. Additional men were checking on the attackers, who were all down in the grass, either dead or very near so.

The three watched as they were slowly surrounded by the men who had saved their collective asses. Jack had to smile at the deputized protesters, he couldn’t help it.

“May I ask what’s so funny?” the large ranger asked Jack as he frisked him.

Jack looked at the nodding Native Americans, who were miles ahead of the clueless park ranger, as they alone understood the humor Jack found in the situation; it was one of them who finally pointed it out. Holding a shotgun crooked in the elbow of one arm, the man stepped forward. A black cowboy hat obscured the Cheyenne policeman’s two long braids.

“He’s smiling at the irony, Ranger Thompson, ’cause the last time we had an American army officer surrounded on this spot, we weren’t in the mood to bail his ass out of the fire.”

“I’m glad you were on my side this time,” Jack said as he held his hand out to the AIM protester.

The man took Jack’s hand and shook. “Maybe you’re just lucky you didn’t identify yourself before the shooting stopped,” the man said, smiling.

That simple gesture and comment ended the second battle of the Little Bighorn.

Two hours later, Jack, Mendenhall, Sarah, and Professor Nathan were handcuffed and sitting in a large room facing the county sheriff and an agent from the FBI’s Montana field office in Billings.

The four had said little other than to thank the Native Americans who had bailed them out of a tight jam. The FBI agent paced in front of them, stopping now and then to peer at one or the other of them. They smiled and returned the look, frustrating the man to no end. He was in the process of looking at Nathan because the older man had averted his eyes when stared down, possibly a chink in their armor. The fed was about to pull the professor out of the room and question Nathan alone when the phone rang and the bored-looking county sheriff picked it up.

“Interrogation,” he said. “It’s for you.” He held the phone out to the FBI agent.

“Special Agent Phillips,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Yes, that’s right, we have two National Parks rangers dead and I … well, yes, but you listen here, Mr. Compton, I don’t know who you think you … yes? My director?” he said as he swallowed. “Yes, sir; no, sir …I understand … yes, sir, national security, but … but … yes, sir, immediately,” he said as he handed the phone back to the sheriff without looking at anything other than his highly polished shoes. Then he adjusted his tie, which hadn’t needed straightening, and turned to the sheriff. “Cut ’em loose,” he said.

“What…on whose authority?” the sheriff sputtered in protest.

“On the authority of the director of the FBI, and above him, the president of the United States. Do you need any more names?” the agent responded angrily. “Now take those cuffs off.”

Jack looked at Sarah and Mendenhall and raised his brows.

“May I borrow your phone, Sheriff?” he asked.

The bemused county sheriff slid the phone over to Jack. “Probably long distance,” he mumbled.

Jack hurriedly punched in numbers and then waited as he was connected to the Group’s secured phone line. After a series of beeps and static it was answered.

“Compton,” the voice said.

“It’s Collins. This line isn’t secure.”

“Confirmed, phone line is not secure. Now, are you all right? Sarah, Will, Nathan?”

“Yes, we’re fine. Niles, we have the item in our possession,” he said as he turned away from the sheriff.

“Thank God!”

“Listen, the people that hit us, the sheriff’s office and the FBI have identified them as Colombian nationals. Did you tell anyone else we would be here in Montana?”

“Commander Everett, remember? He was in on our conference from his location in New Orleans,” Niles stated flatly, suddenly knowing where Jack was heading.

“Did Everett use a land line?”

“Yes, his cell had no signal. His end of the conversation was in the clear.”

“They must have had a tap, what we call a SATAG on the phone. That means they may have tracked him to New Orleans and, through our conference call, tracked us to Montana. Where’s Carl now?”

“Making ready the expedition’s transportation in New Orleans,” Niles answered.

“Call him and tell him to use only his secure cell and to watch for visitors. I’ll send him more security; he may have more company headed his way when the powers that be find out they failed out here.”

“You got it, Jack. Get home.”