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did, continuing in his best seminar manner, “So finding this site creates more mysteries than it solves. We can credit, given the mass of conventionally ignored evidence lying about the New World, that there was a great deal of pre-Columbian exploration of the Americas, stretching from the ancient Mediterraneans forward to the Celts at about the time of Caesar. The Celts, by the way, were superb mariners. Caesar himself says so in the third book of his De Bello Gallico , The Gallic Commentaries.
    “Trade between this continent and Europe, we may speculate, effectively ended with the rise of Roman might. The colonists were then absorbed by the ‘natives,’ themselves the children of previous colonies, their heritage long forgotten. From these peoples came the various Native American tribes.
    “That, at least, is how archaeology, once it confronts this find, will explain it. What it won’t and can’t explain is the concealment of this site by a sophisticated technology at least equal to ours yet dating from the site’s construction.
    “Equally bizarre is the seemingly successive sharing of this site by the diverse peoples who touched these shores. Such a technology, such an artful melding of different cultures, bespeaks a sophisticated guiding force, a mentor, stretching forth its hand through the centuries. Who built this place and why? How many different feet have trod here? And, more pressing, why is Langston so determined to keep it secret?”
    “Aren’t you leaping to conclusions, Professor?” asked Greg.
    “What’s your alternative? Piltdown Man, the Hitler diaries, an elaborate hoax?”
    Greg nodded.
    Bob shook his head. “By whom—to what end? Every effort’s been made to conceal this place, not to foist it on the academic community. Also—it feels old.”
    They all felt it, an aura of antiquity pervading the altar, the stone tiers, the tunnel and stairs worn smooth by feet eons dust.
    “‘The dark and backward abysm of time,’” John quoted softly.
    The heavy thud of explosions rocked their sanctuary, sending them diving to the hard floor amidst a shower of falling rock.
    “They’re blowing their way in!” Greg shouted as the bombardment continued.
    “No.” John picked himself up as quiet returned. “They’ve sealed us in.”
    A quick trip up to the entrance proved him right. There was no winking green light. The door wouldn’t budge under their combined efforts.
    “Letting thirst kill us,” said Zahava.
    They somberly rejoined Bob. Undeterred by the prospect of a lingering death, he was still exploring the altar by the fading beam of his light.
    “There’s got to be another way out,” said John, shining his own light along the chamber walls.
    “No, there doesn’t,” said Bob. “But in fact, there is. Eureka!” he cried, finding his feet as the massive capstone swung soundlessly aside. A gleaming alloy ladder hung to the side of the altar well, the shaft plunging into the dark beyond the range of their lights. “This is just so cool!” enthused Bob, lowering himself gingerly onto the top rung. “What are you waiting for?” he grumbled as they hesitated. “We’ll be as dead as this place is if we don’t find another exit.”
    One after another, they followed him down into the blackness.

Chapter 6

    “T hen what?” demanded Sutherland, voice fading in and out in John’s cellphone.
    “Down the ladder, into a tunnel like the first one,” John said. Greg, Zahava, and Bob sat behind him in the small diner, sipping coffee. “The tunnel was indirectly lit, power source unknown.
    “Past a sealed door—same alloy as the ladder—about a half-mile farther. Another quarter mile and we came to a light-activated entrance like the one Langston’s crew sealed. We found ourselves on the weather side of Goose Hill, just above the breakwater. Bob marked the spot with his walking stick. We followed the beach several miles to South Dunsmore—a delight on a cold night with the tide