James Rollins - THE DEVIL COLONY

Their contact, Nancy Tso, was a Navajo woman, but also a National Park Service ranger. Earlier, Hank had made a few discreet calls, channeling through his contacts, and discovered the names of those who knew the region the best. On the flight here, Painter had read up as well as he could about the area. They all had. Kat had sent reams of information from D.C., but Painter preferred firsthand knowledge. The plan was to interview the guide, to see what they could learn.

Still, Painter had a hard time focusing. He had heard from Kat about the events in Iceland, listened to radio reports as news coverage of the volcanic eruptions spread. The entire archipelago south of Iceland's main coast was steaming and quaking. In addition to the one on the island, two submarine volcanoes had begun to boil the seas, spewing lava along the seabed and building steadily higher.

A giant volcanic plume was headed for Europe. Airports were already grounding planes. Gray, though, had gotten out ahead of it. He was already in the air, winging his way back to Washington with the prize in hand: an old journal belonging to the French scientist Archard Fortescue.

But would it shed any light on their predicament?

"There's the exit," Hank said, leaning forward and pointing.

"I see it," Kowalski said sourly. "I'm not blind."

Hank slipped back into his seat. They were all getting testy from lack of sleep. Silence settled over the vehicle as they took the exit off the highway and drove onto a two-lane road. There was no mistaking their destination as they continued the last few miles.

Sunset Crater appeared ahead of them. The thousand-foot-tall cinder cone rose above islands of pine and aspen. The cratered mountain was the youngest and least eroded cinder cone of the San Francisco volcanic fields. Over six hundred volcanoes of different shapes and sizes spread outward from here, most of them dormant, but beneath this chunk of the Colorado Plateau, magma still simmered close to the surface.

As they drove, Painter imagined the earthquakes and lava bombs that must have shaken the region a thousand years ago. He pictured the storm of flaming cinders and swirling clouds of burning ash, setting fire to the world, turning day to night. In the end, the ash field covered eight hundred square miles.

As they drew closer, the singular feature of this cratered mountain-in fact, the reason it had earned its name-became apparent. In the sunlight, the crown of the cone glowed a ruddy crimson, streaked and pooled with splashes of brilliant yellow, purple, and emerald, as if the view of the crater were forever frozen at sunset. But Painter had read enough to know there was nothing magical about this effect. The coloring came from a violent spewing of red oxidized iron and sulfur scoria that had settled around the cone's summit during its last eruption.

From the backseat, Hank offered a less geological viewpoint. "I've been reading the Hopi legends about this place. This was a sacred mountain to the Indians of this region. They believed angry gods once destroyed an evil people here with fire and molten rock."

"That doesn't sound like a legend," Painter said. "It pretty much matches the story told by Jordan's grandfather-and for that matter, even the history of the place. The volcano erupted here around 1064 AD, about the same time that the Anasazi vanished."

"True. But what I find most interesting is that the same Hopi legend goes on to warn that the people who died here are still here, that they remain as spiritual guardians of the place. Which, of course, makes me wonder what still needs guarding here."

Painter stared at the red cone, pondering the same mystery. Jordan Appawora's grandfather had hinted that something lay hidden here, something that could shed light on the ancient people, the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev -Hank's mythical lost tribe of Israelites.

Kowalski pointed ahead as they passed through the gates of the national park. "Is that our lady?"

Painter sat straighter. A slim young woman climbed out of a white Jeep Cherokee equipped with a blue light bar on top. She wore a starched gray shirt with a badge affixed to it, along with green slacks, black boots, and a matching service belt, including a holstered sidearm. As she stepped clear of the vehicle, she pulled on a broad-brimmed campaign hat and crossed toward the passenger side of their vehicle once it came to a stop.

Kowalski let out a low whistle of appreciation.

"I don't think your girlfriend back in D.C. would approve of that," Painter warned.

"We got an agreement. I'm allowed to look, just not touch."

Painter should have scolded him for his behavior, but in the end he couldn't disagree with the man's assessment of the park ranger. Still, as striking as the ranger was, she didn't hold a candle to Lisa. He had spoken to his girlfriend an hour ago, assuring her that everything was okay. She had hurried to Sigma command, joining Kat as this situation escalated.

As the park ranger reached their car, Painter rolled down his window. She leaned toward his door. Her skin was a coppery mocha, her eyes a dark caramel, framed by long black hair done up in a braid down her back.

"Ranger Tso?" he asked.

She checked the front and back seats. "You're the historians?" Her voice was rife with skepticism as she eyed Painter and Kowalski.

It seemed her instincts were as refined as her looks. Then again, park rangers had to wear a lot of hats, juggling duties that varied from overseeing national resources to thwarting illegal activities of every sort. They were firemen, police officers, naturalists, and historical preservationists all rolled up into one-and all too often, psychiatrists, too, as they did their best to protect the resources from the visitors, the visitors from the resources, and the visitors from one another.

She pointed to a neighboring lot. "Park over there. Then tell me what this is all really about."

Kowalski obeyed. As he turned into the parking lot, he glanced to Painter and mouthed the word wow .

Again, Painter couldn't disagree.

In short order, they were all marching down a trail, gravel grinding underfoot. As it was midweek and midday, they had the path to themselves. They climbed toward the crater, passing through a sparse pine forest, along a route marked as LAVA FLOW TRAIL. Wildflowers sprouted in the sunnier stretches, but most of the path was crumbling pumice and cinders from an ancient flow. They passed a few spatter cones, known as hornitos or "little ovens" in Spanish, marking where old bubbles of lava burst forth, forming minivolcanoes. There were also strange eruptions from cracks-called "squeeze-ups"-where sheets of rising lava hardened and curled into massive flowerlike sculptures. But the main attraction was the cone itself, climbing higher and higher before their eyes. Up close, the mineral show was even more impressive as the lower slope's dark gray cinders rose up into a spectacular display of brilliant hues, reflecting every bit of sunlight.

"This looped trail is only one mile long," their guide warned. "You have my attention for exactly that length of time."

Painter had been making tentative, vague inquiries, learning mundane tidbits that were getting them nowhere. He decided to cut to the quick.

"We're looking for lost treasure," he said.

That got her full attention. She drew to a stop, her hands settling to her hips. "Really?" she asked sarcastically.

"I know how that sounds," Painter said. "But we've been following the trail of a historical mystery that suggests something was hidden here long ago. Around the time of the eruption... maybe shortly thereafter."

Nancy wasn't buying it. "This park has been scoured and searched for decades. What you see is what you get. If there's something hidden here, it's long buried. The only things under our feet are some old icy lava tubes, most of them collapsed."