figure into our company's goals.'
'Yes, sir, he is someone that can clearly be handled,' Achilles said.
'Do not, I repeat, do not underestimate that man. He is resourceful, he knows the Group in the desert intimately. He is not one of your case files that you can scare into silence. Now, did he receive his payment for that detail work in Silicon Valley?'
'Yes, sir, he's admiring the cross as we speak.'
'Good, that should keep the greedy bastard occupied while you're in Las Vegas.'
'The field report on the success of the General Dynamics operation?' Achilles asked.
'No hurry, it's now a low priority. This Reese operation takes precedence, is that totally clear? Waste no time getting your Black Team out there.'
'Yes, sir.'
The connection was terminated.
Farbeaux removed his headphones and then placed his magic box back in the drawer and locked it.
Farbeaux stood and retrieved the Cross of Father Corinth, wrapping it carefully in the black satin cloth, and returned it to his wall safe. He then went to his desk drawer and removed a walnut box and lifted the lid. He drew out a polished Glock nine-millimeter pistol. He also removed a small cylinder that was embedded beside the weapon and slipped the silencer into his jacket pocket and the Glock into a holster he had removed from the same drawer. The desk phone buzzed.
'Yes,' Farbeaux said as he picked it up.
'My team has been ordered out of state for a day or so,' Achilles said.
'Good, maybe I can do some research without interruption.'
'Yes, sir.'
He knew his corporate sponsor had been scared by something and knew that whatever Purple Sage was, it had been initiated by the Event Group. So, that's why this Reese had become a liability, that and information he had on Event personnel disappearing in 1947.
He would have to find out exactly what was at stake. He wasn't about to be left out of an Event that could well be beneficial to Henri Farbeaux. He looked at his watch as he slid his jacket on. It would take the Black Team a while to gather and then make the commercial flight to Vegas. He would have time to beat them if he hurried. He quickly called his pilot and ordered him to file a flight plan from LAX to McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. He would beat the Black Team to Vegas and find out why New York was in such a panic.
EIGHT
For those fortunate enough to take the time to really watch, the desert is a living, thriving place, and the magic is never more noticeable than at night. As the sun sets, the dance of life and death usually begins in all the violence and splendor that we humans can only imagine. It ensures the survival of those species indigenous to the desert, this delicate dance. Now the animals, confused and frightened, had all but vanished from the small valley, leaving it still and motionless and far different today than yesterday.
Gus had awakened twice to the sound of his mule wandering away from camp. It was as if Buck was attempting to sneak off, so after twice having his sleep disturbed by having to drag the beast back to camp, Gus finally placed the bit and reins back into the mule's mouth and tied him to an old deadfall. If he had enough rope to cut up, as much as he would have hated to, he would have hobbled him. As it was now, Buck was actually trying to pull the old fallen tree away from camp. The mule's rear legs dug into the sand as he tried to back away an inch or two at a time. He would jerk his head and move it back a foot, then he would gather strength and do it again.
Gus sat up and watched as the animal struggled. He finally stood and quickly began to roll up his sleeping bag, wrapping it securely with the tarp. He then started packing the rest of his gear.
'You're right, old boy, I don't want to be here any more'n you do,' he said as he threw his things together.
He kicked out the smoldering embers of his campfire and tossed what coffee remained in the old, battered pot onto the coals. Buck seemed to understand what he was doing because the mule stopped his efforts to escape long enough for Gus to load him up. As he reached down to untie him from the fallen tree and undid the reins, a piercing scream filled the night. Gus clutched his hands to his ears, dropped the reins, and sank to his knees. Buck, sensing he was free, rose up on his hind legs and jumped over the old miner, the rear hooves and steel shoes missing the old man's head by mere inches.
Gus didn't feel the wind as the mule jumped over him, nor did he see him gallop away into the dark night. He was trying with all his strength to crush his hands hard enough into his ears to muffle the awful scream. He went from his knees to his back, rolling over sharp pebbles, thrashing around and kicking at the sand, rolling in pain. Unable to stand it any longer, he rolled onto his stomach, then risking further pain, he removed his hands from around his ears and used them to push into a standing position. He staggered a moment until he had his bearings. When he stuck his fingers in his ears, he realized the screaming wasn't coming from outside his head, but within it. He touched his fingers to his nose and felt the stickiness of blood. The old man couldn't know it, but the high- pitched screaming had opened pinprick-sized aneurysms in his outer brain. The flow of blood stopped as soon as the invasion of sound suddenly ceased.
As he looked around, the quiet was deafening. To Gus it was like being under fire by artillery during the war: once it stopped, you encountered the silence that anyone who has lived through it can attest to, a quiet that continues to roar. Now the only thing he could hear or feel was his own ragged breathing and a heart he thought was trying to escape his chest.
'What in the hell was that?' he asked himself out loud, his voice shaking. The uncaring desert absorbed his question, but didn't hold an answer.
He finally brought his ragged breathing under control and thought he heard Buck braying in the night some distance from camp. He looked around and finally noticed the mule was gone.
'Buck!' he called.
But the only answer he received was the return of his own voice from the mountain, and even it looked down with its unsympathetic, ancient face.
Eight hours after the craft slammed into the earth, the mountain clearing was still active with subtle and unnatural noises rising on the soft night breeze that swept gently through the valley. The wreckage was scattered among the rocks and large boulders of the mountain. Some pieces caught the light of the rising moon, while others were so dark in color they were invisible. The chunks of metal ranged in size from inches to pieces the size of pup tents. The ground was gouged into an ugly scar where the craft had hit the earth. Some of the debris had glowed for a time after coming apart in the impact, and even now some of the wreckage hissed softly with the pulsing of power. But now the site was dominated by one sound, an intermittent noise coming from a large boxlike structure that had survived the crash intact.
The container stood ten feet high and was about the same in width. The small canisters attached to the top were crushed and leaking a mist into the night. The hiss of the escaping gas seemed loud and out of place in the small valley.
There was movement inside the metallic box, slow at first. Then suddenly the huge object rocked onto its side, knocking what remained of the cylinders free. The cylinders rolled away and finally came to rest against a large rock. The liquid spread out as it covered the rock, and slowly the five-pound stone started to disintegrate, finally oozing into the sand with barely a trace left of it.
The metal box was still once again, then suddenly something from inside hit the container so hard that it bulged outward, wrinkling the metal like ripples in a calm lake.
The activity was being watched. Eyes as black as obsidian were opened wide in terror as the crate continued
