by Jerry Ahern
“You said you have seven pods, we have seen only one,” Burkholter said.
“Six vehicles to match this one are waiting for you in the capital city. The rocket pods can be triggered by the driver who will be able, within a few degrees, to adjust their trajectory. Whichever location we settle on for the attack, the logistics are the same. Each vehicle will need a driver and a machine gunner to wreak havoc and assist in the getaway. Now, do you have ten other competent and dedicated helpers that can assist?”
Chapter Thirty
There had been final pressure checks to ensure the integrity of the UFO’s hull was still intact. As no ejection system had been integrated into the craft, it was deemed unnecessary as was the parachute Thorne had left behind. “If something happens, I will be focused on saving the craft and me. I could never get outta the hatch in time,” he explained to Dr. Dalton.
After thirty minutes of normal flight acrobatics, during which Thorne had maintained contact with the flight control panel, he was ready. Speed trials came next and he climbed to 47,000 feet to ensure he was above all military and civilian traffic, then opened the craft up to three-quarters speed. A commercial airliner would have taken between seven to eight hours, depending on head winds, to make the flight from Honolulu to the devastated coastline where Reno, Nevada, had once stood. Now the city was called Port Reno. He made it in less than an hour.
“Research 1 to tower.”
“Go ahead, Research 1.”
“Research 1, control and speed checks completed. You guys have all of the telemetry I presume.”
“Roger, Research 1. You are cleared for the next phase.”
“Roger, Research 1 climbing.”
Thorne increased speed by twenty-five percent and set the vehicle on a new course and heading … up. Seconds later, the last of the haze from Earth’s atmosphere faded and the inky black of space swallowed the ship. With the sun behind him, the only light came from stars, now no longer filtered by the atmosphere, the stars no longer blinked. Watching the view screen, Thorne said simply, “Oh my God.”
He had launched into space, the first man to do so in almost seven hundred years.
Chapter Thirty-One
Zima was tired, and his team wasn’t in any better shape. Michael Rourke watched the view screen on the telecomm. “Jose, when was the last time you and your people really slept?”
Zima looked up then glanced at his watch and made a calculation. “Not sure, close to thirty-six hours I’d guess.”
Michael shook his head and said, “Thanks for the effort; what can you tell us?”
Zima wiped his face with both hands before answering, “Mr. President, this has been a very intense time. First of all, I hate to say not all of the material retrieved from the Hall of Records was saved. Frankly, we’re not even sure yet what was lost. The specific information you were tasking us with was saved, but I need some time to prepare a briefing for you on the findings.”
“I need it as soon as you can, Jose.”
“I understand, Mr. President, but I need a few more hours at least.”
Michael checked his watch; it was already almost 11:00 P.M. “Okay, Jose... let’s do this. Let’s set up for nine o’clock in the morning. That will give you and your people time to finish and get a little shuteye.” With a smile, Michael added, “Don’t want you dozing off while you’re briefing us.”
Zima nodded. “Thanks Mr. President, it is appreciated. See you at 0900.”
Zima looked a little better, but not much, when Michael saw his face on the screen. “Morning, Mr. President. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Jose,” Michael said.
Zima turned to one of his technicians. “Leonard, are you ready for the first display?” Off screen, a man nodded and flipped a switch. A single document sprang into view on the wide screen. Zima said, “Sir, this is incontrovertible proof that long ago, centuries in fact, contact with the aliens was established, and my concern is this paints a significantly different view of them than what we have currently.”
“What do you mean?” Michael asked.
“Those initial contacts appear not only peaceful but productive,” Zima said. “It appears to us that our current view of the aliens is not at all in alignment with those earlier contacts.”
“Based on what?”
“Luckily, we salvaged a lot from Rushmore. Let me give you a quick overview then we can drill down on specifics. We recovered volumes of information concerning the contacts as far back as the late 1800s and into the 1940s, 50s and 60s,” Zima said. “We have transcribed a lot of this information but I think you need to listen to the people involved in those early contacts and what they recorded at the time, in their own words. Leonard, are you ready with the sound track?”
Again, Leonard nodded and flipped another switch; scratchy noise came from the computer but soon settled into a very well-modulated recording. Michael listened for several minutes before saying, “Then it is true.”
Jose Zima looked at Michael. “Sir, we were correct in most of our thoughts. There was a conspiracy of hiding the truth that goes back several administrations for several governments across the ancient globe. They included America, Germany, England, Russia and the Chinese. The whole concept of ‘coming clean’ and announcing contact with an alien race was scrapped and, from that time forward, kept from the public. When war finally came, most records—even entire facilities—disappeared and were replaced with half-truths, down-right lies and conspiracy theories. That is where everything was left—until now; and frankly, the veil of secrecy has been obliterated.
“We found the copy of the original report concerning the alien contact with the German government in 1933. The story of it, having been smuggled out of pre-war Germany by one of our operatives, was true. We also found the original, never declassified report on the Roswell incident and photographs of ‘artifacts’ from the crash. Now here’s the kicker. We found a copy of the formal agreement between an alien race and the U.S. Government held at Holliman Air Force Base in 1954.
“The terms of this agreement allow for an exchange of anti-gravity technology, new metals, alloys, and environmental technologies to assist the earth with free energy and medical application regarding the human body. In exchange the aliens were allowed to study human development, both in the emotional and consciousness makeup, and to reside here on earth. In addition to that document, there were copies of the original exchange material. These had been moved from the Blue Moon NSA facility to the Hall of Records around the Night of the War, to protect them.
“It was a good thing Rourke kept those old microform machines. We were able to read both the film and paper versions and they contained micro reproductions of a great many documents. Most not relevant to this subject, but even those have been invaluable in documenting some gaps in our historical knowledge. Those images were reduced to about one twenty-fifth of the original document size, or smaller.
“There were reels of microfilm, aperture cards and the flat sheets used for microfiche, and some of the old micro cards. Those were similar to microfiche, but printed on cardboard rather than photographic film. In any event, we were able to read the information, thanks to you having examples of that old technology.
“The wire recorders, especially the Protona’s Minifon miniature recorder, gave us a tremendous amount of information. While we lost some sound quality due to the nearly hair-thin wire, it had the advantage in that it was a much more compact storage medium than tape. Most of the old magnetic tape recordings degraded beyond recovery. Almost all of that information is lost forever. Frankly, it wasn’t a surprise, but we were hoping they would have lasted.
“Here’s the big find... the President’s Book of Secrets. We have it; actually, we have them. There were several volumes ranging from the first. Velum was used for all of them. Each volume contains the private thoughts of between five to eight of the presidents, depending on world events and how verbose a particular president was. It is no longer just an u
rban legend.
“We confirm alien contact was made; no question about that any longer. Unfortunately, we can also confirm that the human race is in breach of contract.”
Michael frowned. “What are you talking about... a breach of contract?”
“Yes Sir... a breach of contract. As I’m sure you know a breach of contract occurs when a legally binding agreement, or bargained-for exchange, is not honored by one or more of the parties to the contract. This can be for non-performance or interference with the other party’s performance. If the party does not fulfill his contractual promise, or has given information to the other party that he will not perform his duty as mentioned in the contract, or if by his action and conduct he seems to be unable to perform the contract, he is said to breach the contract.”
“And the human race had a contract with the aliens?”
“Yes Sir, several.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
New Germany’s executive mansion is called Bellevue. It is a three story, three-winged, classic modern building occupying not less than fifty thousand square feet. Located in the capital city of New Brandenburg, it sits on a twelve-acre plot of land circled by a traffic “roundabout” common in the older cities of Europe. Six streets converge and circle the residence.
The main section faces north and holds the Presidential office, several conference rooms, the communications room, and offices for the Chief of Staff, Presidential Security and the Press Secretary. The East Wing serves as office space for the President’s Press Room, a multitude of secondary officials such as the Presidential Security Team, Transportation Director and various others, and a small kitchen/cafeteria for workers. It is small, only as compared to the main kitchen.
The West Wing holds the Presidential residence, the main kitchen, a state dining room and a variety of other state functionary rooms, including several for the kitchen and serving staff. One hundred feet beneath Bellevue is the War Room and the emergency Presidential Bunker accessible by a high-speed elevator with a security system.
Horst Burkholter and Helmut Freed had spent three weeks developing two assault plans. Should Plan A—hitting the President and First Lady at the speaking engagement—not be practical for whatever reason, Plan B was to assault Bellevue upon their return.
It was a simple plan. “Simple is always better,” Freed had said, numerous times. “The hit will be devastating, multidirectional and the getaway routes simple.” Six nondescript cargo vans, of different color and signage, were prepositioned near the Government Building six blocks away. Within each was a driver who would trigger a rocket pod launcher that held nine 2.75 inch rockets, mounted to fire out a side door, and a .762 machine gun mounted on a tripod operated by a second shooter.
The machine gunner would open access doors on both sides of the cargo section just before the attack, to allow back blast from the rockets to escape. The cargo hold was only about fourteen inches wider than the rocket pod. The distance from the traffic lane to the buildings, in both cases, was well within the three-thousand foot accuracy range for the rockets.
Vale had said, “Each pod is loaded with high explosive rounds that will be fired first, followed by anti-personnel rounds that will unleash a hail of shrapnel in the form of both steel ball bearings and fléchettes. The ball bearings will tear through people, and the effect will be double should they impact hard surfaces and rebound. The fléchettes are hundreds of small metal needles with flattened stabilizing fins. They will shred human flesh like a chainsaw. The remaining rockets are incendiary; they’ll create a flaming inferno inside the shattered structure.”
Vale added, “The devastation from so many rockets hitting either building, coupled with a fusillade of shrapnel and .762 rounds to enhance the confusion and terror as we make our escape, might be considered overkill.”
Burkholter smiled. “But that is the plan. I want total overkill and absolute revenge.”
The attack had been practiced and simulated numerous times, the only question that remained is would the attack be on the Government Building or Bellevue?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Michael Rourke and Tim Shaw walked slowly up the pathway to Paul Rubenstein’s home. When he answered the door, Paul was surprised that the normal entourage of agents had not accompanied the President. “Good morning, Paul,” Michael said. “Can you step outside for a minute? We need to talk... privately.” The three men walked back to Shaw’s sedan and climbed in. Michael turned around from the passenger seat and looked at Paul. “The kids okay?”
Paul nodded. “It was a long night but yes. They vacillate between stony silence and rapid fire retelling us what happened.”
“Pretty much the same thing went on at Emma’s,” Shaw said.
“We haven’t talked this morning, how is she doing?” Paul asked.
“That’s why we’re here, Paul,” Michael said, handing a sheet of paper to Paul. “I need you to see her and let her know about this.”
Quickly Paul scanned the report; he pushed his wire framed glasses up on his nose then turned to look out the window. “So, this has been confirmed, Michael? Has it been released to the media?”
Rourke nodded. “Yes, it is confirmed, but no, it has not been released and won’t be until we find out more. I have everyone on this but right now, this is family business. With your permission, I need to let Annie know. I’m asking you to do the same with Emma.”
“Why are we just learning about this?”
Shaw said, “I recommended this plan to Michael, Paul. With the kidnapping I felt there was enough pressure on all of you. Second, there was and is nothing any of the family can do right now about John. If you’re going to blame anyone, be mad at me.”
Paul nodded. “That makes sense but what do we do about it now?”
Michael spoke up, “We have all of our resources pouring through the satellite feeds from Mount Rushmore trying to find out what happened and where Dad might be. Will you do what I’m asking?”
“Yes,” Paul said. “But I want to be there when you tell Annie; she’s your sister but she’s my wife.”
Shaw looked at Michael. “Agreed, then you and I will tell Emma?”
“Yes, does Sarah know?”
Michael shook his head.
After talking to Annie, Michael called for his security detail parked a couple of blocks away, and returned to the Capitol. Paul, Annie and Shaw bundled the kids up and drove to Emma’s. An hour and a half later, Rubenstein sat alone on the patio of John Rourke’s home. It had gone as expected; not well.
No sooner had her children been saved... to find out her husband was missing... and she might be a widow. No, not well at all.
Annie took all of the children back to her home. Tim Shaw was sitting on the couch, his arm wrapped around Emma’s shoulder. Emma... Emma just sat, staring.
Sitting alone on the patio, Paul could have heard the waves breaking on shore; had he been listening. He wasn’t. He was lost in memories... memories that begin over six centuries ago with the crash of an airliner and his first meeting with John Thomas Rourke. Ever since, he had followed Rourke through danger after danger, trial after trail... And now he was gone? Dead?
Paul pushed his wire framed glasses back in place on his nose. It can’t be true, he can’t be gone, he thought. But it was true. Pulling his phone, Paul dialed Randall Walls’ number... “We need to talk, right now. I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.” Maybe, just maybe the “patterns” he and Walls had been monitoring during the operation at Rushmore... maybe they could help.
Doctors at all of the medical centers were growing more and more concerned. The outbreak of the genetically modified hantavirus was spreading. The early symptoms included fatigue, fever, and muscle aches, especially in the large muscle groups... thighs, hips, back, and sometimes shoulders. Complaints of headaches, dizziness, chills, and abdominal problems, such as nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and abdominal pain coupled with coughing and shortness of breath, had packed the emergency rooms.<
br />
Where the original hantavirus had a mortality rate of thirty-nine percent, this one was higher, much higher. It was more virulent and aggressive, with symptoms starting in as little as a few hours after exposure and death seemed to follow in twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Hospital morgues had filled up in two days. Emergency morgues were established soon after that. The problem was no longer new patients reporting at a higher level than anyone expected; body disposal was now critical.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Paul had barely entered when his cell phone chirped.
“This is Paul,” he said, stepping back into the hallway.
“Paul, this is Randall Walls. I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible.”
“Randall, this really isn’t a good time,” Paul said. “I’m at the hospital and they are getting ready to release the kids. My mother-in-law just arrived; can it wait a couple of days?”
Walls was silent for a moment. “Paul, this is important. Could you do it this evening? I wouldn’t press but... this is important.”
Paul took a deep, exasperated breath, glanced at his watch and said, “It better be. Okay, let me get the family settled and I’ll call you back. We can probably meet around six if that is good for you.”
“I’ll wait on your call,” Walls said and broke the connection.
Walls was bent over in conversation with a man Paul didn’t recognize. They stood and Walls said, “I want you to meet a friend of mine, Dr. Jerome Morrell. He’s a professor of archaeology and an adjunct English instructor at the Institute. He also has some expertise that is a little unusual... crypto-archaeology. He has explored many of the more ‘unconventional’ theories, conspiracies and interesting ideas. Coffee’s ready if you’re interested.”
