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Gray Empire (Grey Empire, #1), page 1
Gray Empire
Table of Contents
Title Page
Gray Empire (Grey Empire, #1)
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
By
B. James Wilson
Gray Empire
By
B. James Wilson
Digital Book – ISBN 978-0-9850791-9-2
Print Book – ISBN 979-8-9946593-0-4
Copyright © 2025 B. James Wilson
All rights reserved, including reproduction in entirety or partially in any form without the written permission of the copyright owner.
Scripture taken from the New King James Version®.
Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson.
Used by permission.
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Prologue - Herod’s Palace, Jerusalem, The Year 30 AD:
Chapter One - The Calling
Chapter Two - The Ninety-Foot Stone
Chapter Three - Caribbean Bound
Chapter Four - Getting To Know You
Chapter Five - Miami
Chapter Six - Assessing The Stone
Chapter Seven - Confession
Chapter Eight - Between Heaven and Earth
Chapter Nine - Minoan Script
Chapter Ten - Restoration
Chapter Eleven - Abrojos – Something Lies Below
Chapter Twelve - Western Shore
Chapter Thirteen - An Unholy Book
Chapter Fourteen - O’ Sacred Skull
Chapter Fifteen - ‘Til Seven Lives Are Given
Chapter Sixteen - An Approaching Storm
Chapter Seventeen - Murder by Natural Causes
Chapter Eighteen - Chumming The Waters
Chapter Nineteen - The Cactus Cross
Chapter Twenty - The Messenger
Chapter Twenty-One - Blair’s Secret
Chapter Twenty-Two - Rosslyn Chapel
Chapter Twenty-Three - Castle Sinclair
Chapter Twenty-Four - The Secret Room
Chapter Twenty-Five - The Practician
Chapter Twenty-Six - Best Laid Plans
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Back Aboard
Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Consult
Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Enochian Dictionary
Chapter Thirty - The Ravenscraig Map
Epilogue
Prologue
Herod’s Palace, Jerusalem, The Year 30 AD:
Though he was not numbered among the guests, Dagon was present on the night Salome danced. Dagon goes where he pleases, entering like a cold draft through a gap in a door or through a crack in the wall, or a broken window. He requires no invitation, no place at the table, no greeting or salutation. He glides unseen through any celebration, settling like a shadow in a dark corner or watching from within the flames of a fire. He could as easily inhabit one of the invited guests or all of them at once, but this was Herod’s birthday, and it was Herod he’d come to seduce. Unknown to his host, Dagon had prearranged the night’s entertainment. There was nothing more for him to do but relax and watch the evening unfold.
Herod’s recent wife, Herodias, sat in her place at the center of the women’s table. She smiled alluringly at her husband, as he sat, centered at the men’s table twelve feet away. The two long tables faced each other, enclosing a wide aisle between, where the entertainers would perform. When she caught his eye, Herodias lifted a celebratory goblet and drank to Herod’s good health. There was no great effort required to encourage him to drink more than he should. Nor was much effort required to suggest that he ask Salome, the beautiful young daughter of his half-brother, Phillip, to dance for him and for his guests.
Herod’s lust for his niece was obvious to everyone who knew him. It had all but consumed him since his marriage to her mother, a marriage that was as illegitimate as his lust, but Herod enjoyed flaunting his appetites. Unlike Herodias, he cared little for the opinions of his guests, though their judgments about his marriage were a central part of Dagon’s intricate game of chess this night. It had been a simple but well-thought move for him to stir a psychotic need for vengeance in Herodias’ heart, a heart well predisposed to such suggestions. Her hatred for the Prophet John, the one they call, The Baptist, was easily leveraged. Dagon had only to whisper, “How dare the Baptist challenge your marriage, calling it adultery, and in public.”
It was not Herodias’ vengeance, nor Herod’s pleasures, however, that were of importance to Dagon. He was much more interested in gaining spiritual power. He had need of the kind of power from above that was given to The Baptist. He’d tried manipulating the prophet, but failed, managing only to prod him into questioning his cousin’s motives.
Jesus, Son of God.
Now, that was the real prize, but He was protected by angelic forces that were much too powerful for Dagon. So, he was left to find other methods. To his good fortune, he found the malleability of Herod’s perverted lusts, and Herodias’ psychotic fear of public opinion. Together, these two flawed souls created a weakness of character that would make his demonic work easy. So, on this night of celebration, he sat back and enjoyed the fruit of his efforts.
When the wine had flowed in adequate volume, he whispered to Herod, “It’s your birthday. Surely Salome would not deny you a glimpse of her beauty. Surely she will dance if you ask.”
~
Chapter One
The Calling
Green Turtle Cay, Abaco, Bahamas, Present Day
“Rick!” The voice drifted to Rick’s hearing, sounding distant, barely audible, coming from somewhere beyond the heavy shroud that marked the boundary of his dream.
The sound of it drew him blindly through a thick veil of smoke, permeated by the din of combat and the smell of burning flesh. The dream was a manifestation of his PTSD, one of many scars left by two tours in Afghanistan. Winston Churchill wisely called that place The Graveyard of Empires. In Rick’s view and experience, the title proved an accurate epithet.
“Rick!” the ethereal voice called again, closer this time.
There was a familiar, rich timbre to it that began to dispel the smoke, the smell, and the din of combat. It repeated, “Rick!” This time the voice was very close, drawing him upward to consciousness, and reality.
Rick blinked, trying to focus on a wavering distortion of light that was Arthur Jones. Arthur stood in the narrow companionway at the entrance to Rick’s cabin. He was tall, black, bearded, wearing scruffy cargo shorts, and a richly flowered tropical shirt, opened in front, exposing a glittering gold cross that dangled at the center of his chest. He looked down at his friend, Rick Townsend, lying nearly naked on the disheveled, king-size bed that mostly consumed the master cabin of Rick’s eighty-one-foot yacht, MY Treasure. He’d been drinking. It was obvious in the bleary look he returned.
“Drunk again,” Arthur charged in a tone of disgust.
Rick retorted sarcastically, “Yeah. Me too.”
His tongue was thick and lazy from the residual effects of last night’s consumption of rum.
King Arthur Jones was Rick’s only friend on the island of Green Turtle Cay. In fact, Arthur was his best friend in all the world. He was loyal, honest, and dependable, filled with all the noble traits that his royal birth-name implied. Rick loved him like a brother, and, in his heart, he truly appreciated Arthur’s concern for his well-being. Beyond their friendship, he was also thankful to have Arthur as his business partner, though Arthur was quick to point out that, “business” was hardly an appropriate term for what they did, considering the flood of negative cash-flow over the past year.
“You’ve got mail,” Arthur announced, turning away, and adding, over his shoulder, “See you on deck. I’ll pour coffee.”
Rick moved slowly, cautiously maneuvering his way into the master cabin’s well-appointed bathroom, where he relieved himself, splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, none of which helped very much with his hangover. When he finished, he made his way to the short, spiral staircase that led up to the yacht’s plush main salon, and from there, out to the covered afterdeck, where Arthur waited with a carafe of fresh, hot coffee.
The bright Caribbean sun assaulted Rick’s eyes, forcing him to slip on a pair of expensive, wrap-around sunglasses. Behind the high-tech filtered lenses, the sun’s painful glare softened enough to reveal the wharf of New Plymouth in a gentler light. A row of freshly painted buildings stretched before him in a parade of pastels. The pink, turquoise, blue, and white bu ildings mirrored the colorful waters that surrounded the island. Rick exhaled slowly as he sat down. He felt safe here, hidden away among the Abacos, secluded on his yacht in this small harbor. Green Turtle Cay was isolated from the madness of the greater world beyond.
As he sat at the large, round table that occupied the yacht’s shaded afterdeck, the position of the sun told him it was well past ten. But that observation only accounted for the smallest part of Earth’s total chronology, the rest was a mystery to him. He sipped the rich, dark-roast coffee in front of him, cleared his throat, and asked Arthur, “What day is it?”
Arthur laughed in a rich baritone that could be heard all the way to New Plymouth’s wharf. He said, “You really need to return t’da land a da livin’, Rick.”
He paused, then added, “It’s Tuesday, Mon. Would you like t’know da month?” He laughed again and then, without waiting for Rick’s response, “It’s Tuesday, March da first, an’ a letter’s come for you, special-D.”
He held out a large envelope bearing the bright orange and purple colors of the FedEx logo. The label contained Rick’s name, in care of Arthur’s street address in New Plymouth. Using Arthur’s address was convenient for their shared interests, and cheaper than renting a post office box.
Rick leaned forward and took the envelope. He winced from an explosion of pain in his head, noting that the return address was Halifax, Nova Scotia. Arthur handed over the envelope without acknowledging Rick’s suffering, except to say, “You really need ta snap outta dis, Rick. A whole year of dis kinda dissipation be enough now. We need ta get back ta work, ya hear?”
Rick took another sip of coffee, swallowing Arthur’s often repeated advice with the hot elixir. Secretly, behind the vagueness of his sunglasses, Rick hoped Arthur’s admonishment would trigger some level of personal motivation. A guilty remembrance of some incomplete task, an important upcoming event, or a neglected social obligation, but nothing came to mind. Nonetheless, Arthur was right, it was well past time to get back to work.
He looked over the unexpected envelope before opening it, then extracted a formal letter, printed on expensive letterhead from a law firm, Matthews and Blair, LLP, in Halifax. Rick groaned, thinking the letter might be notification of yet another annoyance lawsuit, another challenge to his hard-fought salvage rights.
Attached to the letter was an eight by ten glossy photo. Rick removed the paper clip binding the two and studied the photo, discarding the letter for Arthur, who read aloud:
“Dear Sir: We are interested in retaining your services for the purpose of identifying and recovering a particular treasure that has eluded all attempts over many years. An important, missing key to the mystery of this treasure has recently been rediscovered, (photo attached), an artifact known as ‘The Ninety-Foot-Stone.’ Unfortunately, no one has yet been able to accurately decipher the message of the rune characters engraved upon it.”
Rick turned the photo so Arthur could see the strange characters carved into the surface of a flat stone of indeterminate size. Once he’d taken a moment to study the photo, Arthur read on, “We are hopeful that you will be interested in helping us to translate the runes and identify the treasure which we believe they refer to. We are convinced that your unique treasure hunting skills can help us to find and recover a vast treasure we believe is buried in the location where this stone was originally found, a location that has been lost for more than a century now.
“We are prepared to offer you a substantial retainer and a generous bonus upon successful recovery. Please be advised that an advance for expenses awaits you at the FedEx offices, on Grand Bahama, along with airline tickets to Halifax reserved in your name. We look forward to meeting with you in Halifax on Monday. Please call the number above if you have questions or concerns.”
The letter was signed, “Best Regards, Lloyd Matthew’s, Esq.”
“Sounds interestin’,” Arthur allowed, putting it out as bait.
He took the photo from Rick’s hand and studied the rune characters.
“It’s the Money Pit,” Rick concluded. There was a subtle note of scorn in his voice.
“Da what?”
Rick looked at Arthur as if he had nine heads and explained, “The Oak Island pit. It’s a joke among serious treasure hunters.”
“A joke?”
“Yeah. People have been digging there for more than two centuries, mostly amateur hacks. No one’s ever found any treasure, and today the place is so torn up from the digging that no one knows the original location of the pit where this stone was found.” Rick paused, pointing to the photo. “The only significant find ever made, other than a tiny scrap of parchment and some shavings of gold, was this stone. It disappeared a century ago without one bit of archaeology to support it. Most professionals say the stone was a fake planted in the nineteenth century to promote investment, a ruse to sucker people into dumping their money into the pit. Thus, the name, The Money Pit.”
Arthur studied the photo. Rick sipped more coffee and added, “The ruse is based on a story about a sketchy treasure that most likely never existed.”
Arthur asked, “What treasure?”
“Who the hell knows. Pirate treasure, Shakespeare’s original manuscripts, the Ark of the Covenant, maybe the Holy Grail. None of the hacks that have worked the site have ever bothered to ask that question or do the necessary research to find the answer. People have spent their lives and millions of dollars trying to recover what they assume is a vast treasure at the bottom of a lost, two-hundred-foot-deep pit. Trouble is, no one’s ever been able to get down there.”
Arthur was confused.
“Why not?”
“Because the original subterranean construction was booby-trapped. It was a complex system of platforms, more than ten stories deep. The construction included a series of ingenious pressure locks with flood tunnels that would trigger when they were breached. The flooding has prevented anyone from reaching the bottom. The design intent has been very effective. More than two hundred years, millions of dollars and six lives later, no one has ever reached the imagined prize.” He paused then and added, “Assuming there is a prize.”
“Sounds diabolical,” Arthur commented, adding, “maybe it’s not a treasure at all.”
Rick snapped his fingers and pointed at Arthur, saying, “See. You’re already smarter than anyone who’s invested in that pit.”
He became pensive then, unable to prevent himself from wondering about what might lie at the bottom. He said, thoughtfully, “Maybe there never was a treasure, only some dark secret from the past. Evidence of some looney royal’s heinous crime, like Jack the Ripper. Or maybe a deadly compound created by some mad medieval alchemist, or the dark knowledge required to make it, something like the philosopher’s stone.” He paused in thought, then concluded, “The mystery of Oak Island has always been intriguing to me, but not so much that I want to get involved.”
Rick gulped down the rest of his coffee and stared across the harbor to the brightly colored village of New Plymouth.
“Should I help pack?” Arthur suggested, still hopeful.
Rick looked surprised. He answered emphatically, “I’m not going, Arthur. It’s a wild goose chase.”
Arthur protested, “Rick, you need to get to work on sometin’, any t’ing’s better dan dis.”
“You’re probably right,” Rick agreed, “but there’s better wild goose chases than Oak Island.” He paused, thoughtful. “Maybe we should get back to work on the El Dorado, or The Queen’s Dowry.”
The suggestions were references to lost treasures Rick had already done a quantity of research on, things he’d looked into before striking it rich and dropping out in the Bahamas.
“But those things are expenses, Rick,” Arthur held up the letter, waving it in front of Rick’s face for emphasis and said, “Dis one would bring a fresh stream a cash.”
There was no arguing Arthur’s logic. In fact, there was no arguing with Arthur at all. Once he’d made up his mind on something, he could be relentless, to the point that Rick sometimes called him The Nagavator. In Rick’s mind Arthur’s nagging was tantamount to C.S. Lewis’ view of the worst kind of tyranny, “one exercised for the good of its victims.”
As he thought about the offer, he realized that flying to Nova Scotia was his best way to escape the torture of listening to Arthur nag on and on about his dissipation. Nonetheless, Arthur’s motivation was not strictly about cash-flow. It was more about getting Rick off his ass and off the bottle.
