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  THE COSEGA SEQUENCE

  Brandt Legg

  The Cosega Sequence

  Published in the United States of America by Laughing Rain

  Copyright © 2014 by Brandt Legg

  All rights reserved.

  Cataloging-in-Publication data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-935070-10-8

  ISBN-10: 1-935070-10-X

  Cover designed by: Jarowe

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. Published in the United States of America.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BrandtLegg.com

  Book One – COSEGA SEARCH

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Monday July 10th

  “How quickly can you get to Virginia?” Larsen Fretwell’s voice boomed through the satphone.

  “I’m in the middle of nowhere, Idaho, on day seventeen of a dig,” Ripley “Rip” Gaines replied, wiping dust and sweat as he switched to his other ear. “What do you have?” He didn’t want to leave yet. As usual, his sponsors thought the famed archaeologist was looking for one thing, but his hopes were elsewhere. A few early artifacts made him optimistic about this site, even though he’d been disappointed at seven previous locations.

  “It’s a Cosega find. Get here now!” Larsen, a former student and trusted colleague; his closest friend knew the parameters. If he’d discovered a piece of Cosega, then everything would change; the early history of the human race and all in the world that came after.

  After a long flight, the Virginia humidity greeted him. He’d been picked up at Dulles International Airport outside Washington, D.C. by a “kid” about twenty-five years old who didn’t seem to know much about the discovery or, at least, wasn’t willing to say. The heavy humid air reminded Rip of countless digs in the tropics. It made him comfortable, like the embrace of an old friend. The ancient Blue Ridge Mountains always felt welcoming; yet mysterious at the same time. He had spent most of his summers growing up in these mountains, a few hundred miles south. Their Jeep turned up a steep rutted dirt road on the edge of the unending Jefferson National Forest.

  Rip ran a hand through his dusty brown hair and tried to imagine what Larsen had found. Larsen’s words, “a Cosega find,” had been playing over in his mind almost constantly since he’d heard them. Cosega was the reason that Rip became an archaeologist. The Jeep’s motor whined as it pushed over the unmaintained road.

  Rip’s thoughts drifted to the past. They always did when he was in the mountains. Fifteen years earlier he had graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with honors, after publishing a series of papers on the prehistory of man. His first break came when billionaire Booker Lipton, a Penn alumnus, who had amassed a fortune through brutal corporate takeovers and a variety of other business dealings, immediately offered him funding.

  Rip had skipped the “cap and gown nonsense,” as he called it, and was already in Africa when his degree caught up with him. His first human origins digs were featured in an eight-page layout for National Geographic. Within a few years, Archaeology Magazine had twice detailed his findings for cover stories. He taught courses at three different universities and often shared his expertise on news and talk shows. Then, four years ago, he published a paper on the creation stories of all known Native American tribes entitled Cosega. The controversy that erupted had almost ended his career. Not yet forty, Ripley had already achieved more than the greats in his field who were twice his age. All this had left the hazel-eyed, ruggedly handsome professor, with an empty social life, but his single-minded pursuit of the past allowed little room for dating.

  “Dr. Gaines, I just want you to know that you’re the reason I decided to become an archaeologist,” his young driver said.

  “Don’t blame that on me,” Rip answered, only half joking.

  “When I read your Cosega Theory, I switched my major from Geology,” he said. “It just makes sense. More than Clovis or Cactus Hill.”

  Rip nodded, not in the mood to talk. It had been impossible to concentrate on anything other than the sketchy details Larsen had dangled. But the kid deserved some kind of response from his academic hero.

  “You know Cosega is still a dangerous word in most scientific circles. A lot of people think I’m crazy.”

  “They said the same thing about Galileo.”

  “Ah, but I’m no Galileo.”

  “People used to think that 15,000 years ago, humans walked out of Africa and a few thousand years later they made it to a land bridge over the Bering Strait and into Alaska. And the finds in Clovis, New Mexico seemed to back that theory up. Alaska. Prior to that, it is thought that the Americas were devoid of any human presence,” the driver continued.

  Rip, of course, knew all this, but as long as they were getting closer to Larsen and his discovery, he’d just let the kid talk.

  “But then the Cactus Hill, Virginia site proved that people have been here at least 20,000 years.”

  “Allegedly,” Rip corrected. “There is some controversy surrounding Cactus Hill. And I’m an expert on controversy.” He laughed.

  “Yeah, well all that is dependent on the thesis that modern humans evolved between 50,000 and 100,000 years ago. Your Cosega Theory disputes it all.”

  “Yes it does,” Rip said. “But it is only the ramblings of a mad man, unless I can find something that proves that humans have been around for hundreds of thousands of years.”

  “Dr. Fretwell just might have found your proof.”

  Chapter 2

  The Jeep finally entered the research area and wove through eleven tents and several parked trucks before halting on the edge of a thicket of trees. The intoxicating scent of pine and honeysuckle enveloped him. Larsen, his former student, met them along the path and Rip braced for the bear hug. Rip stood just over six feet tall but appeared small next to the six-foot-seven Larsen, whose massive arms wrapped around him and lifted him off the ground.

  “This time we have something,” Larsen said, laughing. Known for his almost freakishly large hands, he opened his right fist revealing an artifact. “I call it the ‘Odeon’ because it reminds me of the ancient Greek theatre.”

  Ripley Gaines had read every Archaeology paper that mattered, reviewed countless photos and taken part in digs on every continent. He always said, “There’s nothing new in the past.” Yet here he was, gazing at something he could never have conjured even in his most radical theories. It shimmered like expensive pearls – a flat near perfect oval the size of a bar of soap – made from an almost transparent quartz-like substance. Three evenly spaced inlaid gold lines – about an eighth of an inch thick – circled the narrow circumference.

  “Incredible!” Rip’s adrenaline was pumping. “What level are you at?”

  “It’s old.” His expression turned serious. “It’s too old.”

  “Beyond Cosega?”

  “A thousand times beyond.”

  Rip looked at Larsen. “Take me to the origin point.” He clutched the proof of Cosega tightly in his hand.

  “There’s something else,” Larsen said. “After I called you, we made a more significant discovery.”

  “More than this?” Rip s
tared at the Odeon he held.

  Larsen nodded. “We’re close to extracting it.”

  Rip impatiently pushed past Larsen. He could see the dig up ahead, at the bottom of a twenty-foot limestone cliff. Larsen caught up as Rip reached four graduate students working the tedious details. Ten or twelve other students stood watching, one shooting photos, but Rip didn’t notice any of them. He knew that cliff had to be millions of years old. If the Odeon did come from there, then the Cosega Theory, minus a major mathematical error, would now be the “Cosega rule.”

  “Dr. Fretwell,” one of the students shouted to Larsen. “We’re about to cut the last section away.”

  Larsen nodded. “Do it.”

  A few minutes later, the students stepped back while Rip peered, inside the shaft, which had been carefully cut into the cliff.

  “Cosega,” Larsen whispered behind him.

  With trembling hands Rip tried to comprehend the sight. Sweat burned his eyes that refused to blink. “It’s the world’s past, and my future,” he thought. Then turning to Larsen and pointing toward the object still resting within its stone hiding place, Rip said. “Do you see it, Larsen? You’re looking inside the change.”

  Rip remained mesmerized by the intricately carved stone globe that he’d just pulled out of the cliff until a woman asked over his shoulder. “Isn’t that cliff millions of years old? How could something perfectly round, with those carvings, come out of there?”

  Rip spun around startled and scowled. A digital recorder was pushed toward his face. “Dr. Gaines. Have you finally found proof of your Cosega Theory?”

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  “I'm eight million readers worldwide who want to know what you found up here.”

  “Jesus Christ! You’re with the media? What is she doing here?” He turned to Larsen, shouting. “Get her out of here!”

  The man with a camera began shooting. Rip instinctively moved away, trying to shield the artifact.

  “Damn it, Larsen. How did the freaking media get in?”

  “They’re not technically here as media,” Larsen stuttered. “I mean sort of.”

  “I don’t care who they are. Why is he shooting this?” Rip motioned wildly. “Get them out!”

  “Josh is an old friend. I wanted independent verification of the find. He lives a few hours away in Fredericksburg.”

  “Gale Asher.” The woman held out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Gaines. I’m with National Geographic and –”

  “Are you kidding me?” Rip yelled at Larsen, completely ignoring Gale.

  Gale smiled. Rip’s gruffness neither surprised nor intimidated her. She knew the media had been increasingly rough on him the past few years since he first published his theory.

  “I need you both to leave.” He felt sick as his arm motioned from Gale to Josh.” And I’ll need the memory card from your camera; this is a privately funded dig.”

  “You’re on federal land and besides, we were invited,” Gale challenged.

  Rip glared at Larsen. “Well, consider yourself uninvited. It’s a matter of safeguarding the dig from contamination, scientific protocols, protection of antiquities and site security.”

  Her curly blonde hair escaped from a small blue ball cap in a futile attempt at a ponytail. Somehow that wild mane made Gale seem even more dangerous to Rip. And she was not as gullible as he would have liked. As a reporter with the Wall Street Journal for six years, she’d regularly heard lies from corrupt politicians and executives. Finally, fed up with the hypocrisy and greed of the business world, she took a position with National Geographic, drawn by the chance to cover the planet’s beauty rather than the worst of its inhabitants.

  Stepping toward him, she fired off a series of wide-ranging questions about the dig and his career, then with alarming accuracy, recounted the results of almost every excavation he had done. Her preparation and knowledge both impressed and annoyed him.

  “Screw this. You three,” Rip shouted to three students in the crowd, “get tarps and screen off this entire area. No one goes in without my approval.” They looked at Larsen. “Do it now!” Rip yelled. Larsen nodded.

  He scooped up someone’s parka lying next to a box of bottled water and trail bars, and wrapped it around the globe. “You there,” he said to a guy working a sifter. “I want you to hold your screen to block any shots this clown tries to take until the tarps are up. Get in his face, be rude if necessary; he’s only a member of the media.”

  “Rip, you’re being a little heavy-handed,” Larsen said.

  “And a bit overly dramatic,” Gale added.

  “Am I?” He looked at Larsen. Did you see this thing? Think of the level, Larsen . . . think of the God damn level and tell me I’m overreacting. What was going through your head when you let them in before we even got it out.”

  “Whose dig is this?” Gale asked.

  Rip, ignoring her, headed down the trail toward the camp.

  Gale’s long blonde curls whipped around as she turned to yell after him. Her ten-pocket, tan safari shorts and dusty white cotton blouse made her appear like one of the grad students. “You can’t stop this story, Dr. Gaines. It’s too late. The past doesn’t belong to you!”

  Chapter 3

  Alone, inside a tent, Rip peeled away the parka slowly, like someone unwrapping a prized birthday present. Slightly bigger than a basketball, with its strange carvings, the globe didn’t belong in a prehistoric archaeological site. Gale’s question amplified in his head, “How could a smooth round stone, carved by man, be embedded in eleven-million-year-old rock?” All of recorded history had just been blown apart. Even his insane Cosega Theory was inadequate against this thing.

  Larsen found him. “Rip, I’m sorry about Gale and Josh. But this was going to get out. And Josh is an old friend. We’ll have more control with them.”

  “Look at this, Larsen. Tell me how this is millions of years old?”

  “It’s the object of your obsession,” Larsen said. “More than you imagined, isn’t it?”

  Rip studied the carvings cut about a quarter of an inch into the dark grey stone. “These inlaid gold bands, just like on the Odeon, come out from the equator. But it’s the etched circles that are most promising. They aren’t random. Do you see the pattern?” Rows of circles within circles, interrupted by lines of two different lengths and other “columns” of dashes filled the surface of the globe. “Do you think it’s some kind of binary language?”

  Larsen raised an eyebrow. “It’s way too old for anything like that. Let’s get it to my tent. I’ve got a kit there. We need to weigh and measure.” Larsen’s tent was roomier and included a table and chairs. Rip sat holding the globe.

  “Catch me up on how we got here. Start with the Odeon,” he said, not taking his eyes off the treasure.

  “As you know, we started at the human-formed wall,” Larsen began.

  The site, covering an area the size of two football fields, had been accidentally discovered more than a year before when two National Forest employees stumbled upon a three-thousand-year-old stone foundation. Rip, always watching for finds that don’t quite fit the standard history, obtained funding from Booker and asked Larsen to take a look. They began excavating the site three months ago and found several layers of artifacts, some going back eight or nine thousand years. The area had been inhabited for centuries prior to the arrival of Europeans. Its reliable water sources, plentiful game, along with the protection of the surrounding cliffs, had made it an ideal area for settlements over the ages. As they dug through the levels, multiple traces of human activity were discovered.

  “It’s been typical for months,” Larsen continued. “A rich but routine dig until a couple of days ago. While clearing underbrush to expand the perimeters, one of the guys noticed the smooth edge of what turned out to be the Odeon sticking out of the cliff. The gold bands glinting in the sun caught his eye. I called you as soon as we got it out.”

  “It’s not connected
to the rest of the site?” Rip asked rhetorically.

  “The cliff, as you know, is limestone. The recent heavy spring runoff finally eroded enough of it to expose the Odeon.”

  “And the globe?”

  “My team was, of course, meticulous. I had them in there with dental picks. Once we freed the Odeon, they poked through to a larger cavity behind. The globe was just sitting in there.”

  “Was the cavity natural or carved?”

  “Inconclusive.” He pulled out a scale. Rip reluctantly handed him the globe. “It’s surprisingly light,” Larsen said. “Four point three kilos, about nine and a half pounds.”

  “I thought the same thing. It should be heavier.” Rip took it off the scale.

  “Without testing we can’t be sure but I have to believe this object is millions of years old.” Larsen looked at Rip, a dire expression on his face. “There is no other explanation, but . . . it’s not possible.”

  “Cosega says it is.”

  “But not like this, not this old.”

  “How do we know? The past is hiding four point five billion years of secrets. We’re not even in kindergarten.”

  “Then you believe?”

  “I believe this thing is older than man, of unknown origin, and we just pulled it out of a Virginia cliff,” he said in a hushed tone. “All of my training and experience are useless at this moment.” They studied it until finally Rip got up and opened the tent flaps. “We need more light.” He moved it gently from hand to hand.

  “It’s beautiful,” Larsen said. “And you’re right, those gold bands are identical to the ones on the Odeon.”

  Rip had not taken the Odeon out of his pocket since they discovered the globe. “Let’s compare them,” he said. While moving the globe into his left hand, his thumbs moved along the top and bottom of the globe and it separated.