David Golemon - Legend

"Mr. President. I have several updates for you. But first I have to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind, and request that you prepare your computer to receive an e-mail attachment."

"Fine, Niles, ask and e-mail away. I only have more shmoozing to do for our esteemed secretary of state. It never ends."

"Mr. President, your oldest daughter is in Washington on summer break?"

"Kelly? No, she's out at Berkeley for the summer. As a matter of fact, she's in deep with me. She went and ditched her protection team to see some boy out there. She called and said not to worry; we traced the call and it was from a pay phone in Los Angeles. It's a secret around here, but I have about three hundred agents of the secret service and FBI trying to track her down before the press gets ahold of it. Why do you ask about her?"

Niles e-mailed the still frame through to the president. "Is this your daughter, sir?"

The president looked closely at the enhanced image. "Goddammit, where is she?"

"That photograph was taken on the very same ship that Professor Zachary sailed on a month ago."

A shocked silence, then, "I'll get the secretary of state down to Brazil and see if we can have their cooperation to send some troops into that area. In the meantime, Niles, get your people moving!"

The connection was terminated and Niles replaced the receiver on his phone. He ran his fingers across his bald scalp.

"This job never gets any easier," he mumbled.

Niles opened his computer's monitor to a large map of South America. His hand reached up and touched the jagged course of the Amazon River; the clear plastic of the touch screen felt cool to his fingertips. As he crossed the open flow of the giant river, his fingers traced red lines that were reactive to his light pressure. Then he saw that wherever he ran his finger, the tracking line followed, and he realized just how much the computer graphic looked like blood.

He removed his hand quickly and looked at the spots his outstretched fingers had been. The flow of red was not only the color of blood, but it was also in the shape of four long claw marks.

The man sat in the forward compartment of the Learjet. He listened to a single headphone jack and smiled as he caught the only intelligible side Everett's conversation. But it was enough. Captain Juan Rosolo, former commander of the Internal Security Division of the Colombian government and inside man for the Cali drug cartel, had the destination for his special squad of men. He made sure the team he was sending to Montana understood in no uncertain terms what the price of failure would be. The quest for the map would end tonight even at the cost of all their lives, either by this Major Collins's hand, or by his own.

"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.