An Extra-Ordinary Beginning (The Adventures of Eric and Ursula Book 1)

by A. D. Winch

  He stood by the doorway and beckoned Ursula in. Everything he had said was a lie, and for a second or two Ursula did not move. The situation did not feel right, she did not feel right, but Eric seemed to be making an effort. In the end, she nodded and approached him.

  “After you,” he said and invited her through the open doorway with an outstretched arm. “There is a light switch five metres in, could you turn it on, please? I don’t like the dark.”

  Cautiously Ursula entered the very dim passage. She wanted to impress Eric with her lack of fear and so walked tall without turning back. Every footstep she took seemed to reduce the faint beam of light entering the cellar. Before she had walked five metres, there was a loud slam like a bass drum being struck. The door shut, and she was plunged into darkness.

  Outside the door, Eric pulled the salami up, watched as the shelving unit closed against the wall and then walked out of the pantry and back to his room, whistling.

  Ursula waved her hand in front of her face. She could not see it. She shouted but knew no one would hear. Strangely, now that she was alone, she no longer felt scared. A wave of calm washed over her, and she waited patiently for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  Gradually her eyes began to make out shapes and, about twenty-five metres ahead, she could see white light in the outline of a rectangle. It was not bright, but it was enough to encourage her to go nearer. Gingerly, she placed a foot forward into the black and began to walk. Every few paces the corridor would turn slightly, and she brushed against the cool brick walls. The faint outline grew stronger, acting as a beacon and pulling her forwards. When she arrived at the light, she discovered it was around a door and came from the room beyond. Relying on touch, she moved her hands around the door until she found a stiff, metal handle. She pushed it down. The door squeaked on its hinges and slowly opened. Instantly the light went out, and Ursula stood, once more, in darkness.

  She pushed the door fully open and stepped through to the other side. A chilly blast of air pushed its way past her and down the corridor. Below she heard a low, whirring sound which dominated the whole room.

  “Hello,” she shouted out. “Eric!”

  Her words echoed in the blackness. This room was large - far larger than any of the rooms upstairs. Ursula couldn’t see how big but it was definitely bigger than any subway she had walked through.

  Cautiously she put a foot out. It came down on the edge of an irregular stair. She stepped down and then again. Taking only small, careful steps she negotiated the stairs. There was no handrail, and she sensed that there was nothing on either side of the stairs. With each step that she took she counted. At seventy-one, there was no stair. It seemed she had reached the ground or a platform or a floor. She stepped forward then took another step and then another.

  Suddenly her foot hung in the air; the floor had vanished, and she found herself off balance, unable to stop herself from toppling forward. Rather than fall like a stone she pushed off with her other foot, sprung away from the invisible platform and somersaulted in the air. She was still falling but, when she came out of the spin, she was falling feet first. Before she hit the ground, she hoped she would sense it and bend her knees to protect herself. She never had to. Unexpectedly, two petite but strong arms caught her.

  “I will take you back upstairs,” said Andrea matter-of-factly, as if nothing had happened.

  Keeping hold of Ursula, she walked back up more than seventy-one stairs, through the doorway where Ursula had seen the light and along the corridor to the thick concrete door. After placing Ursula back on the floor, she pushed something on the wall, and the door opened. Bright light streamed into the darkness and temporarily blinded Ursula. Andrea pushed her gently into the pantry.

  “The cellar is out of bounds,” said Andrea and closed the door between them.

  Back to Contents

  ***

  Chapter 9 – Back to the Desert

  KNOCK, KNOCK.

  The noise from the lion door knocker echoed through the house.

  KNOCK, KNOCK.

  Professor Schwarzkopf stirred from his sleep and tried to figure out what had woken him. A few seconds later he had his answer.

  KNOCK, KNOCK.

  “Henry! Martha!” he croaked.

  Nobody replied.

  KNOCK, KNOCK.

  He put out a wrinkled hand and fumbled for the reading lamp. Light filled the room. He fumbled some more, found his oval framed spectacles and put them on his pointed nose. The wind-up alarm clock, a retirement present, pointed to twelve minutes past three.

  “Who the blazes would call at this hour in the morning?” he said to himself, clearly irritated.

  “Henry! Martha! The door!” he shouted loudly.

  The exertion forced him into a coughing fit which took him a while to contain.

  KNOCK, KNOCK.

  “Don’t worry,” he grumbled, “I’ll go.”

  Professor Schwarzkopf lifted off the heavy sheets and got out of his empty four-poster bed. He was a man who had been shrunk by age. His striped pyjamas swamped his bony frame, and his veins could be seen clearly on his hands, feet and head. Whereas his body had shrivelled, his skin had not and gave him so many wrinkles that his face looked like a prune. Across his virtually bald scalp were a few remaining black hairs.

  Whenever anyone commented on his lack of grey he would reply, in no uncertain terms, “I came into the world a Schwarzkopf, and I will leave this world a Schwarzkopf.”

  It was a reply that normally killed the conversation dead.

  After putting on a pair of tartan slippers and matching dressing gown, he shuffled downstairs.

  Henry and Martha arrived at the front entrance at the same time.

  “Sorry, Professor,” they apologized, “we were asleep.”

  “So was I,” Professor Schwarzkopf grumbled. He put his spectacles on his head and his eye to the peephole.

  Two big men in dark suits stood on the brightly lit porch. One of them reached into his pocket and took out a plastic wallet which he thrust at the door. Professor Schwarzkopf looked briefly at the three blurred letters and stepped back from the peep hole. After a resigned sigh, he sent Henry and Martha back to bed and opened the door. Without a word, he led the two men into his study.

  The study was his favourite room in the house. A large, mahogany desk dominated the room and upon it was a small flagpole, flying the stars and stripes, and a plain, free-standing picture frame. Above the desk, hanging neatly on the emerald green wall, was an enlarged photograph of himself shaking hands with an ex, and now deceased, President. Neatly arranged on the other walls were other, smaller picture frames. Some held photos of him receiving awards, others held certificates or letters signed by important or powerful people, and the rest were designs for new and old inventions. Under these frames and around the desk were three red leather armchairs. Two were placed symmetrically in front of the desk and the larger one behind. Professor Schwarzkopf sat in this one and invited the two men to sit. They declined and stood between the chairs with their hands clasped behind their backs. The taller man opened his mouth to speak, but Professor Schwarzkopf cut him off.

  “Do you know how long I’ve lived in this country?” he asked picking up the flagpole.

  Before the men could reply, he slammed the ornament back on the desk and answered, “Sixty-two years!”

  He ran his fingers around the base of the flagpole.

  “And do you know when I bought this house here? In Vienna? In Fairfax County?”

  He looked at them with eyes as alert as when he had first arrived in America and he dared them to speak.

  “Forty-nine years ago! During which time I worked night and day doing exactly what was asked of me, and I helped turn this country into THE world power!” His voice was raised, and he looked like a head teacher telling off two naughty schoolboys, “And all I asked for in return, when I retired, was a little peace and quiet. So I could enjoy this house and try to turn it into a home. B
ut have I got it?”

  The two men looked at each other with wide, questioning eyes. They had been told to go to the Professor’s house, collect him, brief him and transport him. They had not been told what to do in the event of finding a cranky old man. Unable to think of an appropriate answer and unable to think of a way to shut the Professor up, that did not involve shooting him, they remained silent. Hoping that, like a hurricane, he would blow himself out.

  “No, I haven’t got it,” roared Professor Schwarzkopf. “Every few years some new jocks drag me out of my home and my peaceful retirement. Another problem to be solved, another national emergency, another job you cannot handle without my advice. Well, I won’t be here forever you know!”

  He paused; his lungs were empty, and he was forced into another coughing fit which turned his face red and made his veins pulsate.

  The two men looked at each other again, both wondering what it would do to their chances of promotion if the Professor died. It wouldn’t look good on their records; that was for sure. They stepped forward to help, but Professor Schwarzkopf put out a wrinkled hand to stop them approaching. From below the desk he picked up a metal bin and spat. A phlegmy globule flew through the air and landed in it with a moist splat. One of the men visibly retched.

  “The least you can do is show me some respect!” ordered Professor Schwarzkopf.

  Confused, the men replied, “Professor?”

  “Well, you could tell me what this is all about.”

  The slightly taller man spoke, “With all due respect, Professor, you haven’t...”

  Professor Schwarzkopf interrupted, “Don’t you ‘all due respects’ me. A small summary would have been enough, a sentence or two, even one word. So, in one word, tell me what this is all about.”

  “With all due...”

  “There you go again. One word, that’s all I ask.”

  There was silence. The two men looked at each other and the one who had been doing the speaking ummed and erred before saying, “Roswell.”

  Fear and excitement ran down Professor Schwarzkopf’s spine in equal measure, but his face remained unchanged and he continued to look annoyed.

  “That’s more like it. It wasn’t so hard, was it?” He paused before asking, “I take it I’m coming with you?”

  The men nodded slowly.

  “I thought as much. Why else would you disturb me in the middle of the night? There are two leather suitcases in the cupboard, in the hallway. They are packed with everything I may need. Please take them to your car. I will join you in fifteen minutes. Dismissed.”

  Unable to think of a reply, the two men left the study. Professor Schwarzkopf leant over the desk and held his head in his hands. In front of him, in the plain picture frame, a black and white photo of a young woman gazed up at him.

  “You’re never far away Ingrid,” he told her and, after kissing the photo, left.

  In the black, unmarked Cadillac, Professor Schwarzkopf only spoke twice. The first time he asked if he could open the windows as the car was stuffy. The driver responded by turning the AC on. His second question concerned where they were going.

  “We were going to Langley, but our orders have changed, and we’ve been told to take you straight to the airport. You will then board a private jet which will take you to Roswell, New Mexico.”

  For the rest of the journey, Professor Schwarzkopf stayed silent, lost in memories from many years ago.

  The near hurricane winds tossed the twin prop Boeing 247D around in the air like a rag doll. After a battle between the pilot and the gusts, which the pilot almost lost, the plane touched down on a military airfield just outside Washington D.C. He, a young Professor, stepped out from the plane with nine others, walked down the unsteady staircase and almost kissed the ground the moment he stood on it. The year was nineteen forty-five, and his plane was one of thirteen involved in Operation Paperclip. He felt remarkably fortunate to be there. World War II had just ended and by all rights he should have been dead.

  The Americans placed him in a small room, in a holding house, in a pleasant little town called Vienna.

  On entering the town, he read the sign aloud, “Welcome to Vienna, Fairfax County, Inhabitants 1016, Have a nice day.”

  Only a few of the other scientists on the bus could read English, and he had helped with translating when he was needed. He was the youngest scientist in the group and had learnt English at the Humboldt Universitat zu Berlin while studying Physics and Physiology. His English accent was weak, but his knowledge of the language was very strong.

  After a week of staring at mustard coloured walls, in a house he was not allowed to leave, he was visited one afternoon by two men. Major Jerry Marshall was a squat man with army regulation length hair and a head that retreated into his shoulders whenever he spoke. Agent Cavett was taller; his hair was slicked back with Bryl cream and his head remained aloof. His sharp chin pointed up while his eyes looked down, and all his movements were angular and calculated.

  Agent Cavett stood by the door with his arms crossed. Major Marshall pulled up the one chair in the room and motioned to him, the Professor, to sit on the bed opposite.

  Major Marshall was friendly but relentlessly questioned him about his work with Victor Schauberger. It went on all afternoon without any breaks. Agent Cavett took out a small notebook and a pen and wrote down all his answers.

  “Had he worked with Victor Schauberger? What had he worked on? Had he used liquid vortex propulsion or LVP? Did he understand the concepts behind it? Did he use LVP in a flying disc craft, otherwise known as a Foo Fighter? Had he done some of this work in Czechoslovakia, outside Prague? Did he and Schauberger send an unmanned flying disk craft measuring six feet in diameter to a height of forty-five thousand feet, in only three minutes, on nineteenth February nineteen forty-five?”

  During the interview, he puzzled over why they were asking him questions to which they already knew the answers. At the end, they discussed the physics behind LVP and how it could be used to accelerate objects. Then he was asked a question which would change his life, and thinking, forever.

  Major Marshall moved forward and asked, “Could you replicate this technology here?”

  Following a brief pause for thought, he answered, “If I had the right people to work with me..., yes, I could do the same work here.”

  The next day he was flown from Fairfax County to Roswell Army Airfield, 509th Division, New Mexico. For the next fifty years, the base was more of a home than the house he bought.

  Getting off the plane at Roswell was like walking into a wall of hot, dry heat. New Mexico was mostly a desert state and the earth was baked hard and barren. The land was made up of rocks, sand and little else. Pathetic looking bushes, barely green in colour, were scattered around; their roots desperately searching for water under the sun-cracked earth. Ragged mountains rose up around various parts of the state. Rivers, if they had not dried up, trickled rather than flowed. People, like greenery, were scarce and most of them who lived there worked for the army. In other words, it was perfect. A perfect place for conducting secret experiments in flight and hidden away from too many curious eyes.

  Within one week, Professor Schwarzkopf had the team he requested. Ted from Stanford, Archie from Yale and Ingrid from Europe. He worked closely with all of them but especially Ingrid, who he found much more open to his ideas than the others, and much more attractive.

  It was a hot July day in nineteen forty-seven. There was no wind in the sky and, according to the weather balloons, no sign of change. The flying disc, measuring a little over eight metres in diameter, was wheeled out of Hangar 84 and along the runway. It was followed by a select group of spectators. Major Jerry Marshall was there, along with more senior Army and Air Force officers. Bringing up the rear was a bear of a man who, at that point, he did not know. Only those who were needed had been invited.

  After twenty-one months of hard work, they were ready to launch a manned prototype. Ted and Archie had agreed to p
ilot the flying disk on its maiden flight. He could still remember their expectant faces as they sat in the centre of the metallic saucer. Ted scrawled ‘Roswell’s Foo Fighter’ around its centre, like on an Air Force plane, and then a plastic dome was bolted down over their heads.

  Archie started the flying disk and then he, the leader of the project - the professor – put on his awkward headpiece and counted down from ten. On five, the three legs supporting the saucer were retracted, and it hovered, swaying ever so slightly above the ground. On three, it began to spin, going faster and faster. On zero, it shot into the sky so quickly that half the people in the crowd thought it had vanished. He received only eight seconds of speech through his headphones.

  “Geez Professor, this thing goes some,” reported Ted.

  Followed by Archie exclaiming, “Oh my God! What is...”

  Then there was nothing, only static.

  At first he assumed that the two-way, radio headset had been unable to cope with the speed and distance and had shut down. A short time later he saw bits of debris raining down from the sky, towards the desert and around the military base. He didn’t need to see anymore to know that something terrible had happened. The saucer had exploded or, and this seemed a crazy idea at first, it had hit something.

  A few seconds later, weaving drunkenly through the bits of flying disk, they saw a craft that looked like a silver dart. As the bits of debris hit the desert, and sent plumes of sand into the air, the dart flew like a silent rocket, just above them, and into the distance. No plane could have matched its speed, but two P-80 Shooting Star fighters, which could fly at almost one thousand kilometres an hour, were scrambled. Parts of the disk continued to fall for a further two minutes, and he held Ingrid as close as he could. All he could think about was Ted and Archie, whom he knew had been killed. After the last visible piece had hit the barren terrain troops were sent to locate and retrieve all pieces of debris, and to hunt for any survivors. The bodies of Ted and Archie were never found.