Diablo Mesa by Douglas Preston
To Montague Rhodes James, O.M.,
in appreciation
QUIS EST ISTE QUI VENIT?
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1
DR. MARCELLE WEINGRAU, president of the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute, slowly unfolded her hands on the glossy expanse of desk in front of her. Then, equally slowly, she reached for a slim manila folder, which she pulled close with exquisitely manicured nails. Even Weingrau’s simplest movements, Nora Kelly noted, had the appearance of being premeditated. But she’d grown used to this since Weingrau had accepted the presidency and knew it was neither a signal of encouragement nor one of alarm—necessarily.
Now Weingrau gave Nora a broad, warm smile. “The reason I asked you here this morning,” she said, “is because of an opportunity that has come our way. A wonderful new project—extraordinary, really. Connor and I would like you to direct it.”
Nora felt a flood of relief. She wasn’t sure why she had been summoned to the president’s office that morning. Ever since she’d been passed over for a promised promotion in October in favor of Connor Digby—who was seated nearby—she and Weingrau had maintained a formal, carefully calibrated relationship. Nora and Digby shared adjacent offices, and while he was a good archaeologist as well as a friendly if unremarkable fellow, her relationship with this unexpected new boss had been awkward. In the six months since his promotion, she’d kept her head down and focused on her work, trying, and failing, to get over a sense of betrayal and resentment.
“Not to bring up an uncomfortable subject,” Weingrau went on, “but I know you were disappointed not to get the chief of archaeology position. You’ve done excellent work for the Institute and brought us some welcome publicity. In fact, this new project is a direct result of that.” She tapped the folder three times with a red fingernail.
“Thank you,” said Nora.
“This project is a little different, perhaps, than what we normally undertake—although well within our archaeological mission.”
Nora waited to hear more. Weingrau’s mix of words—complimentary and chipper—was uncharacteristic.
“Your work in locating and recovering the Victorio Peak treasure attracted the attention of a well-known businessman—and potential donor, I might add—who is the motivating force behind this exciting project.”
At this, Nora felt a faint stirring of unease. Why was Weingrau laying it on so thick?
“His name is Tappan. Lucas Tappan. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Nora paused. “The private space company guy—Icarus? That person?”
“Exactly. Tappan is best known as founder of Icarus Space Systems, but his major interests lie in wind power. The space thing is a bit of a side effort. All worthy businesses, I might add. And he’s a man of means.” Another broad smile.
Nora nodded. He wasn’t just a “man of means”—he was a billionaire.
“Mr. Tappan has brought us not only a very intriguing proposal, but a grant to go with it. Connor and I have discussed it, and we’ve gotten approval from the Executive Committee of the board.”
Nora found herself growing more uneasy. Normally, the board of the Institute did not get involved in project approvals. And why hadn’t she heard anything about this before?
“I’m going to let Connor fill you in on the details,” the president said.
“Right.” Digby turned toward Nora. He was considerably more nervous than the cool Weingrau. “Um, are you familiar with the Roswell site?”
Nora wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. She stared at Digby.
“The Roswell site,” he repeated. “It’s located in the remote desert, north of—”
“Do you mean the place where the supposed UFO crashed?” Nora interrupted.
“Yes, exactly,” said Digby, charging ahead before Nora could respond. “To recap: In 1947, the foreman of a ranch northeast of Roswell, New Mexico, found the wreckage of something unusual on a section of BLM land leased by the ranch. The military went out to investigate and, on July 8, issued a press release stating the 509th Composite Group had found the wreckage of a flying disk. Two hours later, the announcement was quickly emended to say it was a weather balloon that had crashed. It was only years later that investigators began to uncover the truth: that a UFO, apparently monitoring U.S. nuclear tests, had been struck by lightning and crashed. The government had recovered the remains of the spacecraft and possibly the remains of several aliens. All this was followed by a massive government cover-up.”
He said all this in a rush, then stopped.
Nora continued to stare at Digby. Why would he call this wacko theory “the truth”?
“Mr. Tappan has brought us a proposal, well prepared and fully funded, to excavate the Roswell site. A professional archaeological dig, done by the book.”
“And this is the wonderful new project you want me to direct?”
He gave her a nervous smile. “Exactly. With all the staff, equipment, and money you require to do an excavation to the highest professional standards.”
When Nora continued to stare at him, he fell into a nervous silence, taking a pencil from his shirt pocket and starting to fiddle with it.