Guardians of the Gates - Part 3, The Osiris Gate by Jeff Schanz (best book club books for discussion .TXT) 📖

place on a nearly identical earth, thousands of years later than the place they had come from, and thousands of miles further away. It was in a land that would eventually be known as Arizona, alongside a river flowing through a place now known as the Grand Canyon.

In 1909, the Arizona Gazette published an article about an explorer name G. E. Kincaid who claimed to be exploring areas of the Grand Canyon for the Smithsonian. The article told about his amazing discovery of a vast cavern that held many ancient Egyptian style artifacts like mummies, idols, tablets with inscriptions, and copper utensils. Entrance to the cave was only accessible via the river, and was supposedly precarious to climb. He was said to have brought back several artifacts to the Smithsonian for analysis. No other follow-up stories were ever published. No records of any artifacts, Egyptian or otherwise, were kept by the Smithsonian from any Grand Canyon expedition in 1909. No proof was ever made public. Despite the stonewalling, supporters of Kincaid maintained that a secluded, ancient Egyptian civilization had once lived in the Grand Canyon.

The times were such that newspapers regularly published sensationalist fodder to attract readership, and Kincaid's discovery, as told, was dismissed as fiction. Kincaid could get no permission or funding to return to the site, as it was officially government-owned land. The Smithsonian claimed they had never heard of Kincaid, and he was labeled a fraud. The subject was summarily forgotten, only occasionally revisited whenever a curious crackpot or two tried to find the spot for themselves. No permissions by the government were ever given to excavate it. Kincaid disappeared from the public eye shortly after the article was published, and was not heard from on the subject again.

Throughout the years, the occasional person would mount an attempt to uncover the “truth,” but requests from the government were met with stiff denials. Kincaid never officially shared further findings other than the original artifacts said to have been given to the Smithsonian. The Smithsonian held no records of any turnover and categorically denied ever having anything of Kincaid’s. Rumors circulated that the artifacts had been stored in non-secure places, since they were believed to be fraudulent, and eventually those artifacts found their way into private collections. A few more recent investigative, entertainment-type publications attempted to track down the artifacts and get them tested by experts. The few artifacts that were found stumped the experts, further complicating the strange, assumed hoax.

The kind of items that were offered as authentic artifacts, like shards of pottery, copper utensils, idols carved from both wood and stone, were a conundrum. The things that were not stone could be dated and were found to be only a few hundred years old. That fact led most experts to assume that Native Americans created the artifacts. But the subjects that were represented, in addition to the styles and methods, were closely associated with ancient Egyptian culture. Even some of the materials were said to have originated outside of the continent. And since no native tribe could have had contact with, or influence from, any Egyptian, this led to a hypothesis of a broader hoax. The hoax, it was said, would have been accomplished by finding old, not necessarily ancient, items that had been created by hand in the middle east, then bringing them over to America and depositing them in the caves, staged to seem like they had existed there until Kincaid “found” them. However, most of the raw materials in the items were native to the Colorado River valley. For his part, Kincaid never admitted to any kind of fraudulence, staying quiet in general, rarely commenting on anything. Some conspiracy theorists went so far as to claim that Kincaid was strong-armed by some powerful entity like the government to stay silent. They also claimed that all the artifacts were intentionally hidden to dissuade further study.

One set of artifacts, in particular, were said to have been a kind of diary written on a series of stone tablets. The tablets were not made from hard stone, and the years of exposure wore away some of the inscriptions. The carvings were rumored to have been made by an Egyptian priest, though there was no way to prove it since the tablets had been “lost.” Disproving the rumors was also impossible, and like everything else, they added to the conspiracy theory. At one time, an Arizona family claimed to have owned the tablets, and they allowed only one official viewing and one set of photographs to be made. The photographs wound up with another eclectic collector. When that collector died, his family never cared for the photos, which were boxed up, stored in an attic, and eventually burned up in a fire. The original tablets were never seen again, and most assumed they had been faked just for the photographs. Later generations of that family could never locate the tablets.

Once in a while, a new television show would decide to bring the old tale to the surface, but no new information ever comes to light. The families that once owned the purported artifacts claim they are no longer in possession. Other individuals occasionally assert to have found them, or found the site, and some offer crude copies of the artifacts, or inspired works, for sale. None of those items have been authenticated to date. Or at least, none that anyone would admit to.

Deep inside Morgan Ashe’s secret vault in New York are several unique items stored in a series of locked drawers. All the drawers are marked with a number and an Egyptian symbol. Several drawers have shards of pottery. One drawer has a stone idol that crudely resembles the god Osiris. Another drawer has a figure of unknown explanation that best resembles a Christian demon, but with the trappings of an Egyptian deity. Several pieces of rock have crude pictures carved on them, enhanced with blue and copper tones. One resembles a cavalcade of Egyptian priests. Another resembles a map or diagram of what looks like celestial bodies. And seven drawers in a column have a series of flat stone slabs that have been carved with hieroglyphics. Although not all the hieroglyphics are easily readable, on most of them, the author’s name survived. The inscriber identified himself as Ptahhomhet.

The helicopter hovered fifty feet above the landing spot, its rotors driving waves of sand in a circular pattern across the Arizona desert ground. The helicopter set gingerly down, its skids sinking into the soft earth. As the pilot decreased the power, the rotors reduced their tornado-like effect, and the doors opened for passengers to debark. A dozen men in orange jumpsuits exited the helicopter, most looking like this was nothing new to them, except for one man. He squinted against the severe brightness and ducked his head so the back of it took the brunt of the rotors’ downdraft. He hurried to the edge of the rotor wash, then stood upright again.

In front of him was a bald man in a tailored silk suit and sunglasses. The silk-suited man held a clipboard and confronted all the men who had exited the helicopter. Silk Suit looked unfriendly. He was a well-built man, his broad torso and arms straining the fabric of his silvery coat. His Italian leather dress shoes were mostly covered by sand. Despite the excess of clothing for the desert environment, he was not sweating, but his bald head was glowing pink under the hot Arizona sun. He held out a hand for all the newcomers to halt.

“Line up here,” said Silk Suit, without gesturing to a specific spot.

The orange-jumpsuited men organized themselves into a single file line. Silk Suit scanned the paper that was flattened against the clipboard, then looked up at the men in front of him. To the closest one, he asked, “Name and task?”

“Ed Sargent,” said the first man. “Engineer.”

Silk Suit examined his clipboard, nodded, and without looking up, walked to the next man. “Name and task?”

This scenario continued for all the men. The last man in line was the one who looked the illest at ease.

“Name and task?” said Silk Suit.

“Uh, Robert Ernst,” said the uneasy man. “I’m a communications specialist. I, uh, specialize in old analog equipment.”

Silk Suit made more than a cursory glance at his clipboard. He scowled and stepped closer to Robert Ernst.

Robert swallowed. “I just go by Rob,” he said, emitting a nervous laugh. Silk Suit was not impressed. Rob swallowed again. “They told me that I needed to replace someone who got sick or injured.” His statement sounded more like a question.

Silk Suit was still silently evaluating Rob’s face. Silk Suit then briefly sniffed at Rob’s neck. Rob wanted to object, but remained still, shivering like a burglar standing in front of a guard dog. Silk Suit blinked slowly and took one step back.

“You’re replacing Silvio Bana?” asked Silk Suit. The question had an air of menace, like a wrong answer might mean Rob’s life.

“Yeah, that’s what Charlie told me.”

“Charlie Palin?” Silk Suit was reading the name from his clipboard.

“Yeah. We had worked together before at the plant. He said he gave you my name.”

Silk Suit seemed satisfied enough and walked back to the front of the line. He spoke into a small device in his coat sleeve, then folded his arms in front of him, waiting for several seconds.

Rob was beyond nervous. This whole thing had been hush-hush, not seeming on the up and up at all. But the promised pay was astronomically high. Way too high for anything Rob could normally imagine doing with his skills. His daughter had almost nothing in her college fund, and they couldn’t afford a car for her either. The savings had long ago dried up and they couldn’t afford to do much of anything except exist. This side project would take care of all that in one day, as long as they gave him what they promised. Even though it sounded a little shady, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity. But now that he was here, he wondered if he had made the right decision. He knew Charlie from a few years ago, but Charlie hadn’t actually called him, or even emailed, to explain what this was about. Rob simply got a call from someone saying that they got his name from Charlie, and telling him he could make a wad of cash in a single day. Rob was starting to regret seeing dollar signs.

In front of all the waiting men was a huge buried boulder that resembled a giant tortoise sunk halfway into the sand. They were all standing in front of it, pointing at it. Rob had no idea why until it suddenly moved. A heavy rumbling sound coincided with a small tremor in the ground, signifying that something was happening, and then the rock lifted like a gigantic crocodile’s jaw opening. It moved slowly, driven by hydraulic steel rods. Once it reached its full height, it stopped. Inside was too dark to see much except the beginning of a stairwell. Rising from the stairwell was a slight man, medium height, with platinum spiked hair. He looked like Billy Idol’s kid brother. The man wore a shiny dinner jacket with the sleeves pushed up, and a torn concert t-shirt claiming to be from The Beatles’ 1964 U.S. tour. Either the shirt was authentic, or was purposefully distressed to simulate it. Faded jeans and some penny loafers completed the ensemble.

He waved at the men in line, then strode to Mr. Silk Suit. The two men in dress jackets talked for a moment. Then Billy Idol Jr. bade them follow him.

All the men entered the underground facility slowly, still in single file. They halted in front of a machine archway and waited as someone turned it on.