"I'll do my best, sir," Sean said.
Now, months later, he'd been unable to find anything.
The cryptic letter was pretty vague, a fact Sean had made known to the president. Dawkins had insisted that Sean at least give a look around the Seward estate. And when the president of the United States insisted that someone do something, they usually did it.
Tommy was busy back in Atlanta, showing his parents the entire operation at the International Archaeological Agency. For nearly two decades, Sean's best friend, Tommy Schultz, had believed his parents to be dead. He'd used his inheritance to establish the IAA in their honor to continue the search for lost artifacts in hopes of exposing new and genuine history to the world. His parents certainly had a lot of catching up to do. For nearly 20 years they'd been imprisoned by North Korea's Chairman, otherwise known as the Dear Leader. When he died and his son took over, one of the head generals continued to keep Tommy's parents hostage, demanding they unravel a mystery that would lead to what the general believed was an ancient power that would make his military unstoppable.
Now they were safe, back home in Atlanta with their son.
That gave Sean plenty of time to take a look into the matter with the president's letter. He'd read it so many times, Sean nearly had the whole thing memorized.
"Dear Mr. President,
I write this correspondence to you with the utmost urgency.
I recently received word from my men in the Denali region. The anomaly they reported discovering before is, apparently, extremely dangerous. Our head geologist recommends we bury the anomaly so that no one else will be hurt by it. One of our men tried to touch the strange device and was instantly struck dead. None of the physicians or researchers on the team know what happened to him, only that there was a bright blueish light that sparked over his head before he died.
As your Secretary of State, I recommend the following actions be taken, both for national security and to continue in the steps of Manifest Destiny as set forth by our forefathers.
One, we must close off the mountain where the anomaly was found.
Two, I recommend we make an offer to the Czar to purchase the territory west of Yukon.
This land will provide numerous resources for our nation, and by owning the land, we can monitor it to make sure no one strays into the mountain and finds what I can only assume was meant to never be discovered by mere mortals.
I believe the Russians will accept a sum of around seven million, but we may try for less. I know that the war has taken a great toll on our finances; however, I deeply believe this is necessary.
Sincerely,
William Seward
Secretary of State
United States of America
What had Seward's men discovered in Alaska that caused him to be so afraid? According to the letter, one of the men died in what sounded like some kind of electrocution accident.
There was no way to know without seeing the anomaly in person.
The driver turned off the main road, and Sean snapped back to the present. His wandering thoughts about the last few months hadn't been productive. In fact, all the time he'd spent on the project had produced almost no results, except for one.
He discovered a note that appeared to be written in Seward's handwriting, albeit somewhat rushed. The note was short with no formal heading or footer denoting who it was from or who might be the recipient.
It had said, "The KGC are aware of the oddity and are preparing an expedition. Proceed with Operation Iron Horse."
Sean had no idea what Operation Iron Horse was, but he knew exactly what the KGC was. It was an acronym for the Knights of the Golden Circle, a "secret society" of Confederate supporters who often worked behind the scenes — and sometimes in full view — to help the efforts of the rebellion.
Rumors about the KGC being involved with the assassination of Abraham Lincoln had been floating around since the late 1800s. Most of the information was hearsay or hypothesis. There was rarely anything substantial, as was usually the case when it came to secret societies. They were called secret for a reason, and Sean knew it wasn't because they took their rules and guidelines lightly.
The KGC stepped deeper back into the shadows in the years following the American Civil War. Maybe they ceased operations. Or perhaps they just took on a new position from which to manipulate events.
Sean shook the thoughts from his mind. The SUV was slowing down as they approached a clearing. Another SUV was already parked off to the side of snow-covered side road. It appeared to be nothing more than a trail with two ruts, most likely used by people with four-wheel-drive who liked to get out on the weekends and do a little off-roading.
As he looked through the windshield, Sean could see two men standing by a pile of dirt. Shovels were lying atop the mound.
"At least you took the courtesy of not making me dig my own grave. I appreciate that," Sean said.
No one in the vehicle said anything to his smart-aleck comment.
The driver turned the wheel to the right, maneuvering the SUV off to the opposite side of the other. Snow crunched under the tires as it plowed into fresh unpacked drifts. He stopped the vehicle and got out. The men in the back with Sean didn't need to be told what to do. They immediately opened the doors and motioned for the prisoner to exit.
Sean obeyed, knowing there was no point in delaying things further. No cavalry was on the way to help him. If he was going to get out of this situation, he'd need a miracle. That or a little improvisation.
He noted the H&K submachine guns dangling from the shoulders of the men by the grave. The guys who'd been in the back of the SUV with Sean had similar weapons. The man in charge — or so Sean figured — was carrying a SIG 9mm he'd tucked in a holster.
Sean stepped down into the snow and squinted. The sun peeked through the clouds above, shining brightly off the white blanket of this time of year. His guards winced as well, but their sunglasses kept away most of the glare. Sean kept his fist clenched tight to make sure none of the men saw what was in his hand.
The smell of fresh snow and evergreen trees filled the air. Snowflakes fluttered from the clouds above, adding to the serenity of the moment. It was a calm Sean knew would either end in a bullet to the head or a chaotic escape. He was hoping for the latter.
One of the guards put his hand on Sean's shoulder and ushered him forward, toward the grave.
The snow crunched with every step. Sean's shoes sank deep into the white powder. He was thankful to be wearing a winter coat. The SUV had been too warm. Stepping out into the fresh air was a welcome change, except for the fact he was about to be executed.
He stopped by the big hole in the ground, and the driver motioned with a nod to one of the guys behind Sean. Immediately, the guard pressed Sean down to his knees. Sean looked around at the partially covered faces. The men didn't need to hide their identities. After all, a dead witness was a silent one.
Sean felt the cold of a muzzle press against the back of his skull. It was something he'd felt before. It made him squeamish every time, though no one could tell from looking at him.
The man in charge stood right in front of Sean with hands folded across his belt line.
"So, Sean, this is where I ask you why you were snooping around the Seward estate. Then you tell me where I can shove my questions, and then I tell you it's your last chance before you die. Of course, you won't tell me what I want to know, which will result in me having my associate behind you put a bullet through your knee. That may or may not get you to talk, so we'll continue torturing you until you either pass out — at which point we shoot you in the head — or you tell us what we need to know, which will also result in a bullet to the head."