“Excellent,” Trent replied. “I have a very dear friend, a Lama in Tibet, who is the guardian of the old knowledge. Many years ago, when I was studying under him, he took me to a secret cave, high up in the Himalayas. Inside were hundreds of ancient machines, some for producing electrical power, and some that flew in and out of the atmosphere. I believe he would agree to take us back to that cave if you are willing to go there.”
My heart was pounding in my throat and I felt suddenly short of breath. I looked over at John. He simply smiled at me. John’s words from our first conversation came back into my mind: ‘We have resources you need and you have knowledge we need. Together we can make a difference.’ My mind was racing. “Would there be records of what happened during the last meteor storm?” I asked.
“It is my understanding that there will be contiguous records for the last hundred thousand years in the cave,” Trent replied, “perhaps longer.”
“If that’s the case, we could determine the date of the meteor storm,” I said. “That single piece of information would determine everything else for us. This is critical.”
The look of satisfaction on John’s face told me everything I needed to know.
I thought, here was the opportunity of a lifetime. “When would we go?” I asked.
“You have to understand,” Trent replied. “This isn’t going to be easy. You’re looking at a two week journey on foot up into the 18,000 foot level of the Himalayan Mountains. There are no roads. It’s rugged and totally primitive. This is the only time of year we can make it up there.”
“It’s worth it,” I said. “Count me in.”
I looked over at Tia. “Me?” she said, “I hate camping. This is way over the top for me. I’ll stay here.”
“I’ll have one of my security people go with you,” John said. “You’re too important to me to let you go alone.”
“We can leave in the morning then,” Trent said as he stood up. “I’ll take a look at my room now if you don’t mind.”
“This way,” John said.
John supplied a full set of clothing and boots for the journey, all in my size and already packed. I showered, shaved and gathered my travel documents after I awoke at a quarter to five in the morning. Breakfast was served at six and by seven we were on our way to the airport. We landed to refuel in Reykjavik, Iceland and then in Athens, Greece. We finally landed in New Delhi, India. John had a business there so the customs people were used to seeing his Learjet 45 and employees coming and going. They didn’t even ask if we were there for business or pleasure. They just processed our passports and passed us through.
The security person was one of the men who accompanied me to the Clark Street Storage Facility. His name was Ed and all he would tell me was he was a former Navy SEAL. We were driven to a nice hotel where we crashed for the rest of the day and into the night. Ed woke me while it was still dark outside, and we left just as it was starting to get light. Trent seemed to have a lot more energy than I would have guessed.
We drove the entire day and ultimately arrived at the village of Chitkul around dusk. That’s where the road ended. Trent had arranged for us to stay in one of the small private homes. I wasn’t sure about the local currency being used, but I suspected our stay was expensive.
I awoke as it was starting to get light outside. I dressed and ventured out to get a better look at the surrounding area. It was cold and windy, but the local people were already moving around setting up their stands for the tourists that would enrich their community. Chitkul was centered in the Baspa River valley at an elevation of 10,660 feet above sea level. Towering above the small village were the snow covered Himalayan Mountains. I heard the dull ringing of small copper bells and looked over to see where they came from. A herd of shaggy white goats with spiraled horns crossed the main path through the village. I took a deep breath. The air was thin, but still laced with the scent of wild flowers mixed with the organic odor of goat droppings. In the background pulsed the churning sound of the Baspa River as it cascaded down the valley in a series of white rapids.
Trent emerged from the house, looked around and drew in a deep breath.
“God, I love this place,” he said. He looked over at me and smiled. “I’m glad you’re up. We have several arrangements to make before we can leave.”
“Look,” I said, “I have some personal requirements that I need to discuss with you.”
Trent stopped and looked at me. “Personal tent, no shared accommodations, privacy?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “How did you know?”
“John,” Trent replied. “He didn’t say why. I didn’t ask. What else do you need?”
“That’s about it, actually,” I said, “It’s personal and important to me.”
“As I said, I didn’t ask,” Trent replied. He waved me along as he headed toward a relatively large wooden building. The walls were made from three foot wide by eight foot high panels placed between vertical support poles. The panels were ornately carved with differing designs worked into smaller panels within the main panel section. The roof was a metallic gray except for the entrance, which was graced with a wooden roof and moss covered planks, carved corner ridges and overhangs.
We entered the wooden building, which appeared to be a shrine of some kind and removed our shoes. Trent walked swiftly to the center before a large wooden Buddha statue and bowed. He went straight to the side where a Buddhist priest sat. Trent bowed again and spoke briefly to the priest, offering him a small packet of local currency. The priest bowed in return and Trent bowed again and made his exit.
“Blessing for the journey,” Trent explained, “necessary for the cooperation of the locals.”
Next stop was a barracks type building with another tin roof. Above the door was a sign, ITBP.
“This is the Indo-Tibet Border Patrol, a para-military organization that controls the area from here to the Tibetan border, which is about fifty five miles up into the mountains,” Trent said. “We need a permit to travel beyond this point.”
“Will we get anywhere near Tibet?” I asked.
“Oh, my dear boy,” Trent replied, “we will travel well within Tibet.”
We entered the ITBP office and Trent bowed before the officer at the desk. They spoke briefly and the officer leafed through a thin stack of papers. When he finished he shook his head. Trent continued talking to him using animated hand gestures and arm movements. The officer got up and walked over to a door in the back wall and knocked. He opened the door and spoke with someone inside the room and then waved his arm, indicating we should enter. Trent bowed again to the officer and we entered the inner office.
An officer with applets on the shoulders of his uniform and a gold braid running from the right shoulder down under the arm sat at a large desk. Trent bowed again in front of the officer and stated his case. The officer questioned Trent about several things and then held his hand out. Trent pulled a wad of currency out of his pocket and handed it to the officer, who in turn pulled a paper form from his desk drawer, filled in some blanks, signed and stamped the form and handed it to Trent. Trent bowed again and we left.
“Permits have to be applied for three months in advance,” Trent explained. “There is, however, an expediting fee that can be paid for immediate service.”
“I see,” I said. “So even out here in the middle of nowhere money still works.”
“Human nature, my boy, human nature,” Trent replied. “Next in line are the Sherpas.”
Trent spent the next several hours interviewing Sherpas, locals who carried the equipment and supplies for people traveling up into the mountains. For each one Trent selected, a sum of local currency was paid.