Deep Star

by Jerry Ahern

  They poured hot, dark coffee into standard issue academic ceramic mugs. Paul sized up Morrell; solidly built, sporting a mustache and although he had a ready smile, his eyes glinted darkly. “Call me Jerry.” Paul felt a firm handshake and somehow... a familiarity. Morrell, somehow, reminded Paul of John Rourke. It wasn’t anything physical... they were different as day and night, but there was something about him.

  As they all took seats at the conference table, Morrell spoke, “Archaeology is giving us a window into the ‘real’ past of our world and our species. OOPArts have made us question our view of the old world, for a long time.”

  “You used the term OOPArt; what is that?” Paul said, still a bit confused, taking another sip of the dark brew. “And how does it relate to the issue at hand?”

  “It means an out-of-place artifact. The term was coined by American naturalist and cryptozoologist, Ivan T. Sanderson, for an object of historical, archaeological, or paleontological interest found in a very unusual or seemingly impossible context that could challenge conventional historical chronology by being ‘too advanced’ for the level of civilization that existed at the time; or showing ‘human presence’ well before humans were supposed to exist.”

  “Got an example?”

  Morrell smiled. “The titanium sheets Dr. Rourke found are OOPArts. Another is the Antikythera mechanism, a clockwork-like device that dates to about a thousand years before clocks were invented. Many consider it to be evidence of alien visitation, while some argue it is a product ‘not of man, but of the gods.’ Mainstream scientists consider the Antikythera mechanism to be a form of mechanical computer, based on the theories of astronomy and mathematics, and developed by the ancient Greeks. Its design and workmanship reflect a previously unknown, but not implausible, degree of sophistication.”

  Morrell continued, “Look, modern man’s history has been debated for years. When did he appear, how did he spread, and the most interesting is, how many families of man were there? Archaeology has found some answers but, quite frankly, those answers did not always jive with what we thought we know.”

  “For example, in China’s Tarim Basin, blue-eyed mummies with red and blonde hair, who lived between 2,000 to 4,000 years before the Night of the War, over 100 of them have been found. They had long noses, deep set eyes and other unmistakably Aryan features. That discovery really shook up conventional thinking concerning the spread of mankind, trade and a host of other issues.”

  Walls took over the conversation, “In 1912, near Lake Delavan, Wisconsin, bodies from a ‘lost race of giants’ were found in burial mounds... supposedly. The enormous size of the skeletons and elongated skulls found did not fit very neatly into the textbook standard. They were enormous; between seven and a half to ten feet and their skulls, ‘presumably those of men are much larger than the heads of any race which inhabit America today.’”

  Morrell nodded. “Have you ever heard of Tollund Man?”

  “Yes, a mummified body discovered about 1950, by two men cutting peat near the village of Tollund, Denmark.” Growing impatient, Paul said, “Fascinating I’m sure, but again, how does this apply to the issue at hand?”

  “Give me a few more minutes to explain,” Morrell said. “We haven’t scratched the surface yet.” Morrell smiled. “Simply put, Mr. Rubenstein... much of what we think we know about our own history, is wrong. Shared legends, aliens, the Nazca Lines; there are a thousand different mysteries we have never unraveled. And now we know, without a doubt, that there is an alien presence on the planet.”

  Morrell sat his elbows on the table and formed a steeple with his outstretched fingers. “Let’s say that the world governments knew and kept secret alien contact. Let’s say the aliens offered to help us if the world governments agreed to dismantle their nuclear weapons. Then, let’s say the governments reneged on the deal...”

  “And the Night of the War was their reward?” Paul asked. Morrell shrugged and nodded at the same time.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  John Rourke stared at the closed door for several minutes before attempting to get up. He eased his legs over the side of the examination table and slid off, holding onto the table for support. His head felt foggy, and fearing vertigo, he moved slowly and deliberately. Well, he thought, that was very interesting. Wonder what in the hell is going on. After a minute or so, the nausea disappeared and he took a couple of tentative steps. Convinced he was stable enough to explore, Rourke examined the room.

  Sterile metal met his gaze at all levels. Not stainless steel, he thought, this stuff is actually warm to the touch. Except for the examination table the room was devoid of furnishings of any kind. Suddenly, there was a whishing sound behind him; turning, he saw the alien creature step in as the door closed. Rourke slowly edged back against the far wall with his fists clenched and ready; the creature did not advance until John’s back touched the wall.

  The creature moved slowly to the examination table and laid a silver-colored headband on the table and stepped to the opposite side of the room. Pointing at the headband and then at John, the creature stood quietly, waiting for a long moment before repeating the gesture.

  John opened his hands and moved to the table and touched the headband, looked quizzically at the creature whose large out-of-proportion head gave what could have been seen as a slight nod. Rourke picked up the headband, raised it over his head and looked at the creature again. The single nod was repeated; John looked at the device uncertainly. It was about an inch from top to bottom and open at the back, and about a sixteenth of an inch thick.

  Well, he thought. Obviously I’m supposed to put this on voluntarily. This creature seems content for me to make the decision on my own without any coercion. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Well, let’s see... how about total control of my brain? But I’m already a captive. I’m butt naked and obviously no threat to it, except physically. It could ha ve just as easily placed this device on my head while I was out, but didn’t. Rourke made a quick decision and slid the headband into place on his own head. The effect was immediate.

  The pain, he mentally screamed and collapsed.

  Far above the surface of Earth, The Keeper stumbled; and for an instant, an intense pain flashed through him. Within seconds it passed, and with the exception of a sheen of sweat that covered his face and slight vertigo, he showed no other outward symptom from the attack. One word formed unbidden in his mind, John.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  After what had started out as a kidnapping, Beaux “Diddly” Delys and Tuviah Friedman had settled down and, instead of a confrontation, were actually having a conversation. “As I said, Mr. Delys, I work for an organization that hunts Nazis; more accurately, Neo-Nazis. Also as I said, I am not your enemy but I fear the enemy is at the gate. I am one of the Aqrab.” Friedman smiled. “We are not what you would call a... well known entity; we seek neither acknowledgement nor accolades. We are deadly serious in our mission. We concern ourselves with beginnings and endings; we are unafraid of either and embrace both conditions.”

  “We focus on protection, not necessarily of the individual but the essence of the Jewish people. Your client could possibly be a threat to that mission. Herr Croenberg appears to have recently faked his death. For what purpose, at this moment, we don’t know. We do know that he has resurfaced and immediately reached out to Mr. Rubenstein. My job is to determine if his attempt to contact Rubenstein might constitute a threat to Rubenstein, or the Rourkes. If so, my job is to eliminate that threat.”

  “I was made aware of Croenberg’s true identity only after he sent me on this job,” Beaux said. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Friedman. Croenberg did reach out to Rubenstein; I made Rubenstein aware of Croenberg’s wish to speak with him through an old friend of mine. That friend works directly for President Rourke and the Secret Service. There’s no way they would have allowed a meeting without making sure Mr. Rubenstein would be safe.”

  Friedman was silent; he sat
, looking deep into Delys eyes for a long moment. Slowly he raised the lighter again, relit the bowl of his pipe and puffed the Meerschaum several times before saying, “Then it is possible my people have misinterpreted the threat. Interesting…”

  “Have you contacted our government with your fears?” Delys asked.

  “No,” Friedman said. “That is not the way the Aqrab does things. We tend to have a more... unobtrusive method to our activities. However, if it is true we have misinterpreted this situation, that may become necessary.”

  Beaux nodded. “I am willing to help, if I can. How much can you tell me about what you think you have discovered?”

  “Mr. Delys, I mean no offense. I am aware of your background and frankly I don’t know how far to trust you. My other problem is if we are wrong about who is threatened, we’re not wrong about a threat existing. It is conceivable we identified the wrong target.”

  Beaux held up his hands. “Don’t trust me, I don’t care. Let me put you into contact with my friend, have a conversation and the two of you work it out.”

  After several puffs on the Meerschaum, he nodded. “I believe that will be acceptable. How soon could I speak to your friend?”

  Delys pulled his cell phone, dialed a number and handed it to Friedman. “How about right now?”

  Tim Shaw saw Delys’ name on his caller ID and answered, “Yes, Beaux. What do you need?”

  “Mr. Shaw, I’m afraid it is not Mr. Delys. My name is Tuviah Friedman and I believe I have information you would find interesting. It concerns Mr. Croenberg and Mr. Rubenstein; do I have your attention?”

  Shaw said, “You do, Mr. Friedman.” He scribbled a note and slid it across the desk to another agent. “Get a location on the caller, NOW!!!” was all it said. “Is Mr. Delys alright? Can I speak to him... please?”

  Friedman handed the phone to Delys. “Tim, Beaux here.”

  “You okay?”

  “Well things were looking like there could have been a problem, but they’re okay right now. Tim, I think you need to meet with this guy and the sooner the better.”

  “Any idea what this is about?”

  “Not much of one but this guy is not independent. He works for something called the Aqrab. Ever heard of them?”

  Shaw signaled “hurry up” to the agent. “Yes, yes I have.” The agent handed Shaw a note with an address. Shaw said, “Where does he want to meet?”

  “Up to you.”

  “Any idea where you’re located?”

  “Let me let you talk with him,” Delys said and handed the phone back.

  “Yes Mr. Shaw, this is Tuviah.”

  “If we’re going to be on a first name basis, you can call me Tim. If you will give me an address, I’ll come to you; provided you give me your assurance that Beaux Delys is not in danger.”

  “I am certain that by now you have my location. Mr. Delys is in no danger and is free to leave with you. Shall I expect you in...” pulling an ancient gold pocket watch from his vest and opening it, Friedman said, “Shall I expect you in thirty minutes?”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Plan A, to attack the government building during a speech by President Wolfgang Mann, was not going to work. Mann’s Press Secretary just announced: “The President has cancelled the speech in view of a ‘global emergency’ and instead is meeting with his cabinet on matters of national security.”

  Burkholter, listening on the car radio, cursed. Pulling the citizen’s band radio’s microphone from the holder on the dash board, he keyed it and said, “Implement Plan B,” and hung it back up.

  Six civilian cargo vans of different color and signage moved from the government building six blocks away and converged on Bellevue, the Executive Mansion. Within minutes they were staged on side streets, equal distance from the residence and within three minutes driving time from it.

  The rocket pod launchers in each van had been checked, double checked and triple checked. The drivers flipped switches on their dashes to the armed position, and picked up remote controls that would open the side doors automatically, allowing the unleashing of a hell-fire of nine 2.75 inch rockets at the target. First, the high explosive rounds would blast through the exterior of the brick and decorative stone building, opening a pathway for anti-personnel rounds and lastly, the incendiary rounds.

  As the concussion and hail of shrapnel combined with the steel ball bearings and fléchettes, human flesh would be cooked in the flaming inferno. While the rockets were flying, the machine gunners would unleash a spray of .762 slugs at the residence and at any resistance that might be mounted by security.

  The sheer devastation of the attack, designed to collapse the entire building and roast its occupants, would create terror. During that confusion and terror of the attack, the cargo vans would simply follow the traffic flow out of the area. Total elapsed time for the attack... less than three minutes and the President of New Germany would be dead, along with his wife Sarah.

  Horst Burkholter would have his “total overkill and absolute revenge.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  A news alert announced the scheduling of a press conference by President Mann on a nation security condition at 6:00 P.M. this evening. The pretty Press Secretary, a diminutive blond, was fielding questions from the press corps’ representatives of New Germany’s news agencies.

  “Can you tell us what the security condition involves?” The question came from in back of the room.

  “At this time, all I can tell you is that there are concerns about the disease outbreak in Hawaii. While we have not had any instances here, the President wants to be prudent and address potential concerns should the disease manifest here. These are purely reasonable concerns and more prophylactic than crisis in nature. The President is meeting with his cabinet this afternoon and following that meeting, will make the announcement.”

  “Word has reached us that the First Lady might be ill,” said the anchor from NGTV. “Any relationship to this situation?”

  The Press Secretary smiled. “None at all. I have spoken with the First Lady and she is resting well. As you know, there have been issues in Hawaii... Let me address that also, because there is a relationship there. Mrs. Mann’s grandchildren, niece and nephew, were victims of a heinous kidnapping.” The floor buzzed.

  Holding her hand to quiet the reporters, the Secretary continued, “All of the children have been successfully rescued and the perpetrators apprehended. The children have been checked by Hawaiian medical teams and declared totally fine. Admittedly, this caused strain and worry for the First Lady. She is resting quietly and looking forward to seeing them in the very near future.”

  “Any word on John Rourke?” came the follow up question.

  Surprised by the question, the Secretary shifted through her notes to gain composure before answering.

  Smiling, she said, “Dr. Rourke, according to latest information, is on an archeological expedition to Mount Rushmore in what was South Dakota. It appears the expedition, which was launched by the American Government to retrieve national treasures that had been secured in the monument just before the Night of the War, has been successful. Unfortunately, we have not been contacted by Dr. Rourke, seems a weather condition in the area has caused some communications problems. We have been assured there are no reasons for concern.”

  “Is the President meeting with the Cabinet now?”

  She checked her watch. “As a matter of fact, that meeting is scheduled to start in the next twenty minutes. That’s all for today, thank you.”

  She turned and left the podium, headed directly to the President’s office, and knocking once, she entered. “Sir, I wanted to let you know we just had a question about Dr. Rourke.”

  Wolfgang Mann frowned. “Hate to hear that, I guess I better get in touch with President Rourke. We may need to get ahead of this sooner than we thought. Thank you.”

  She nodded and closing the door wondered, What do we tell the world if he is really gone?

&nb
sp; Chapter Thirty-Nine

  When the local TV station announced the Presidential press conference, Burkholter smiled. Turning to Vale he said, “If the conference is scheduled for 6:00 this evening, we will attack Bellevue at 4:30. They will still be meeting and we know where they’ll be.”

  Vale returned the smile, stood and said, “Good luck my friend. It is a beautiful day for revenge.” He gave the Nazi salute and said, “Heil Hitler,” and left the run-down, single-story home Burkholter used for his headquarters. Checking his watch, he headed to the airport, two hours to catch a flight and be out of New Germany before all hell broke loose.

  Burkholter made three phone calls, giving a single word to each that would activate the mission. He smiled; he would be driving one of the vans himself. Aloud he said, “Today... today we will fire the first shots in the battle to reinstitute the Reich.” He was too stupid to feel anxiety, only an adrenal rush.

  The meeting had started on time, and for two hours, Wolfgang Mann sat quietly taking in information; it seemed like days. Checking his watch, he realized he still had almost two hours left before the press conference. Clearing his thoughts, he said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your inputs.” Holding up his watch, he continued, “I believe that we should now focus on what I’m going to say to our citizens. I would like to wrap this up by 5:30 and get a moment of peace before I broadcast our findings.”

  “I’d like for our Chairman of Emergency Services, to lay out what steps we will be advising our citizens of; that will be the most important part of the broadcast.” Willie Schultz, PhD, MD, stood and passed out two sheets of paper. He spoke for almost thirty minutes, uninterrupted. At the end of Schultz’s presentation, President Mann rose from his seat and walked to the podium.

  The first rocket slammed into the Presidential residence, tearing through the brick and stone veneer and exploded in the main lobby. Suddenly the electricity was off, smoke was filling the air. For a second there was total silence, then another explosion and the silence was slashed by shouts and screams competing for dominance in the pandemonium. More explosions could be heard, and felt, on all sides of the building. Sheet rock dropped from the ceiling, the chandeliers rocked and crashed to the floor. Shrapnel whistled through the air, tearing chunks from the walls, ripping through bodies and sending blood in ghoulish sprays.