GOLDEN REICH

by Mark Donahue

  “What is Operation Rebirth?”

  “It is a general strategy to perpetuate the Führer’s vision after the war and even after his death. And no, the Führer will not survive the war. If the Allies do not kill him, then the assassins within Germany will. There have already been over forty attempts on his life.”

  “I have heard of such attempts but had no idea there had been that many.”

  “What you hold, Colonel, is a basic plan. We need someone to fill in details to ensure the plan’s success. Without such details the plan is useless talk.”

  Rolle opened the report and read silently. After several minutes, he looked up at Becker with a look of disbelief on his face. “Whose idea was this plan? And do they have any idea what this strategy would do to our war effort?”

  “This plan was crafted by party loyalists, men who want to perpetuate the world vision of the Führer over the next hundred years, including the total elimination of the Jews.”

  Rolle did not immediately respond to Becker. Instead he looked out the office window. He saw the motionless body of the old woman and the boys who continued to dine on her rations.

  “Colonel Rolle, does your lack of a response indicate a lack of enthusiasm for this proposal?”

  “General, the need to perpetuate the Führer’s goals is clearly of primary importance, but the execution of this plan, while we are at war, could prove catastrophic.”

  “Colonel, to throw more resources at a war already lost is equally catastrophic and foolhardy. It would also deprive the world of benefitting from the Führer’s genius. Do you not believe we have a duty to see his vision expanded around the world?”

  “Yes of course, but this plan ensures we will lose the war sooner and perhaps valuable concessions from the Allies. There are so many questions that need to be answered before…”

  “Colonel, your questions are well founded and at this point unanswered. That is why you have been selected for this assignment. You are to be the chief architect of Operation Rebirth.”

  Rolle looked at the report in his hands one more time and then to the dead woman across the street.

  Chapter 3

  Arizona Desert—1980

  The faded blue van pulled into the highway rest area off Route 60 east of Phoenix. A tall rail-thin old man lingered in the idling vehicle for a few minutes. He needed to gather his strength. He knew that once he left its air-conditioned coolness, he would face hours of unrelenting heat and utter exhaustion.

  Finally, he switched off the ignition and gathered his army surplus backpack that was loaded with a canteen and his usual lunch. When he stepped out of the van onto the already simmering asphalt of the rest area parking lot, the old man took a breath, but the searing dry air instantly parched his throat. He coughed several times before a drink from his canteen allowed him to breathe again. But the cool water did not assuage the pain in his back. Nothing would.

  Ignoring the pain, he squinted against the late morning sun but opted not to wear his aviator wire-rimmed sunglasses that remained on the van’s front passenger seat. He was afraid that his already fading sight would miss something. He needed to see things clearly.

  When he had made the treks in the cool of winter over the years, it helped a bit, but they still beat the hell out of him. Yet there were times he had no choice but to enter the summer desert cauldron. This was one of those times.

  It wasn’t just the heat and the four-mile walk that was exhausting, it was also the weight of what he carried on the return trip. The old man, with skin the color and texture of a dried maple leaf, would hike across the Arizona desert for two miles, pick up his load, and lumber back to the van laboring against fatigue and heat. But now, the ever-expanding pain that had invaded his body over a year earlier made this trip even more arduous.

  Over three decades, he had made hundreds of hikes into the desert. There was a time when he recorded every single trip in his journal. But as the months rolled into years, he had gotten a little careless with his record keeping. The trips now just seemed to blend into a single fogged memory.

  As usual, he wore khaki pants from Sears, a dingy gray sweatshirt to protect him from the sun, old Nike running shoes, and a yellow Panama hat his wife had given him for Christmas. He checked his Timex and noted it was just after 11:00 a.m. when he set off north across the muted brown desert, under a clear cobalt sky.

  The path he followed had a slight two-degree rise that led to several plateaus nearly two miles into the distance. If he kept to his usual schedule, it would take about ninety minutes to reach his destination. It would take another half hour to gather up his load and have some lunch. He would rest for a few minutes before starting his return trip, which would take about two hours. His oft repeated routine was embedded in his brain, and he performed his task with military efficiency.

  Weaving through the cacti and low-lying scrub, he walked at a slow but steady pace. He made it to the undistinguished flat spot in the sand in just over ninety minutes. As usual he stopped a quarter mile from the site, took out a pair of binoculars, and looked around the desolate desert landscape. He looked for the glint of a car or pickup truck reflecting in the sun. He looked for men on horseback, motorcycles, or hikers. He even looked skyward to make sure there were no low-flying planes or helicopters. He looked for anything and everything. If he saw something, he would stop and wait until whatever he had seen disappeared before he retrieved his load. On that day he saw nothing.

  After he picked up his load, he stopped at the same place and ate the same lunch he had eaten on every trip: Two hard-boiled eggs, orange slices, rye bread, two slices of Velveeta cheese, and four Oreos. They were all wrapped around a dozen ice cubes and eaten in order. His dining area was under a covered rock ledge, overlooking a dry creek bed. The niche was seven feet high, twelve feet deep, and eight feet wide. He had discovered it thirty years earlier when trying to escape a torrential downpour that folks outside Arizona never thought took place in the desert. Since then he had used it as a halfway resting place to escape the unrelenting sun.

  The old man sipped water from his canteen, cracked open his first egg, and thought of his wife, who would be getting up at about that time after a particularly long night. The thought of her made him smile. He looked forward to getting back home and seeing her one more time. He figured his coming home might even surprise her.

  He sat Indian style against a rock at the back of the niche he had leaned against for most of a lifetime. He gazed out over the Arizona desert. It was a sight that still filled him with awe after all the years. He saw the heat rise like dancing, sensuous phantoms, distorting the monochromatic landscape behind them. He could smell the creosote bushes. He could hear the hum of insects. The familiarity that surrounded him was comforting. He felt a little better. Even the pain in his back seemed to dissipate just a bit.

  Sitting in the cool darkness of the covered niche, he realized this would be the last shade he would be in for the next two hours, and he rested a little longer than normal after lunch. He dreaded the long walk facing him. He wondered if the trip back in the hundred-degree heat was even worth it given the circumstances. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he just stayed right where he was.

  As he contemplated an answer to his own question, he lifted his canteen for a last swig of water after he had downed his final Oreo. That is when he saw it out of the corner of his eye.

  He had seen them many times before over the years but had always been warned away, and either sidestepped them or stood still until they crawled back under a rock or bush. This time, since he wasn’t wearing his hearing aid, he hadn’t heard its warning. It was now just four feet to his right and its tongue darted, as it tasted the air for scent. He saw it coiled and poised. He faintly heard its four-inch rattle. He knew his only hope was to remain as still as possible and pose no threat.

  The old man ever so slowly lowered the
canteen and tried to position it in a way to deflect a strike if it came. Staring into two unblinking black eyes, he remained motionless for over two minutes as rivulets of sweat ran down his arms and face. At last, it began to move sideways toward the back of the small cave, never taking its lifeless eyes off him. Watching it silently slither into the shadows, the old man exhaled in relief not knowing how long he had held his breath.

  Finally free to move, he kept his eyes focused over his shoulder into the darkness at the back of the small cave. At the same time, the surge of adrenalin that coursed through the old man’s body caused his heart to pound and made his senses razor sharp. Yet for some reason, he also realized he was no longer in pain. He felt invigorated. He felt young. Yet again, he had survived.

  With a self-satisfying half grin on his face, and a renewed energy to return home to his wife, he had just gathered up his backpack and canteen when he was hit. The first strike sank deep into his left cheek piercing the skin and stopped when it hit the enamel of his lower molar. Almost simultaneously, he was hit two more times, once in his left thigh and then the left arm. Knocked to his right by the force of the hammer-like blows, he moaned in pain as the combination of fang, poison, and shock hit his body like 400 amp electric current.

  Without a cognitive thought to do so, the old man began to crawl on his stomach toward daylight and the opening of the niche. As he did, he felt two of them squirm wildly beneath his weight. He spilled out of the cave entangled in his backpack and canteen strap.

  He careened down the embankment leading to the creek bed seven feet below the rock ledge. When he landed face first in the sunbaked dirt, he gasped for air. He did not understand that his lungs were already constricting from the venom and had been smashed empty by the force of his fall.

  He attempted to clear his mind and regain control of a body now out of control. He tried to rise but could only make it to his knees. As he sat on the red hot baked earth, he detected movement and felt searing pain in his left leg. He looked down and gagged in revulsion at the sight of the third one writhing, trying to free its left fang still embedded in his blood-soaked thigh. He stared at the snake in what appeared to be idle curiosity for several moments. Then nonchalantly he reached down, grabbed it by the back of the neck, and yanked it from his throbbing thigh.

  With his vision blurred by a nervous system gone haywire, he had placed his left hand too far down its neck. As soon as it was free from his leg, the rattler pivoted nearly 180 degrees and sank its one-inch fangs deep into the flesh that formed the V between his thumb and forefinger.

  With more instinct than thought, he picked up the heavy object that had fallen from his backpack in his right hand. He methodically brought it down and smashed the head of the snake and with it several bones in his left hand.

  Now feeling no pain, the old man gaped at the dead snake on the ground and the two bones that protruded from his hand. He tried his best to take stock of what had just happened, but his brain refused to think. He gasped for breath and spat up blood that spilled down his whiskered chin onto his dingy sweatshirt. Dizziness and nausea swept over him like a wave, but he fought it. He got on all fours and crawled over the hot gravel and retrieved his scattered belongings, including his yellow panama hat. In his right hand, he tightly held onto what had brought him to the desert.

  The old man called on all his remaining strength and staggered to his feet. He steadied himself and began to walk. It was time to get back home now, he thought. He desperately needed to see his wife. She would take care of him.

  Moving without seeing, he listed to his left with each step and within ten yards he fell to the ground again, this time onto razor-sharp cacti. But the numbness that was slowly overtaking his body now protected him from the pain. He began to convulse and choke on the vomit that rose in his throat. Still holding onto what he had come to the desert for, consciousness left him and was replaced by a peacefulness he had never known before. He had one final thought that led to a hoarse whisper, “Ain’t ’sposed to be this way.” A breath later, all the pain was gone.

  Chapter 4

  Manhattan, Upscale Strip Club—2006

  As Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” simmered in the background setting the stage for late-night sexual healing, thirty-three-year-old Jon Cole considered his many options for the night. Option one, and currently ahead in the polls, was the tall brunette who had slithered on stage and immediately focused on Jon’s $500 haircut, $2,000 Armani suit and $26,000 Patek Philippe gold watch. She was also armed with and charmed by the knowledge that Jon had that very afternoon closed a Wall Street mega-deal that had netted him a $22,000,000 commission. In fact, everyone at Jon’s table had shared in that deal, but Jon was The Whale. The Big Kahuna. The Man.

  Jon was also tan, slender, Rob Lowe good-looking, and kind of funny in a Midwestern sort of way. All these attributes made the brunette thankful that her shift allowed her to place her spectacular breasts only inches from Jon’s face.

  “Wow, what a set of tits,” one of Jon’s cohorts noticed, a statement so ridiculously obvious as to be both redundant and rhetorical at the same time.

  As he stared at the flawless brunette, Jon nevertheless continued to mentally weigh his options. “You should see her sister.”

  “You mean this is the ugly one?”

  “Let’s just say the sister…is more eager to please.”

  Finally making the only logical executive decision he could, Jon stood and whispered a suggestion into the brunette’s ear and slipped her a wad of cash.

  “But I don’t know where she is.”

  “She’s your sister, for heaven’s sake. Where are your family values?”

  “I’ll find her. You at the Sofitel?”

  “Room 1004. Here’s the key.”

  The brunette smiled, then blew a kiss to Jon as he moved toward the strip joint’s front door and waved his coworkers a fond farewell. He also, to the glee and expectation of all, picked up everyone’s tab.

  On his way out he thought he saw a familiar face among several large men stuffed shoulder to shoulder in a booth. Given other priorities, Jon decided that any further thought as to whom the familiar face might be would only divert his attention from focusing on the brunette and her red-haired sister. He deduced that he would soon know which one colored her hair and who didn’t...maybe…unless. That possibility made him walk a bit faster down West 44th.

  Back at Jon’s table, another coworker mused about Jon as he saw him exit the club. “Guy’s got it made. What’d he make last year, twenty-five extra-large?”

  “Yeah but he’ll double that this year. And he looks like a fucking movie star. Hope he at least has a small dick.”

  Overhearing the comment, the brunette said, “Sorry, boys.”

  “How the fuck did he pull off that equity deal? No one saw it but him.”

  “Other guys saw it but didn’t have the balls to go for it. You’re fucking with the feds on that deal. You mess up and get accused of stealing widow’s pensions, it’s ten years guest of Uncle.”

  Looking up at the still hard-working stripper, a third coworker proffered a logical and heartfelt question of her. “So, what’s your interest in an average-looking guy with a small dick and just two mil in the bank?”

  “I keep Thursdays open for my pity cases, but I’ll need an upfront deposit and a month’s notice.”

  The sound of his coworker’s laughter did not stop him from removing his wallet from his Brooks Brothers inside suit coat pocket.

  ----------------------

  At the other end of the club, the five men that Jon had seen on his way out crammed into a booth were engaged in what appeared to be earnest conversation. In the middle of the group was a tall man in his early thirties. He was Tom Patrick, former Princeton Tiger and New York Knicks power forward. Tom was at that moment all ears listening to a huge, squat man with bad acne and
worse breath wearing a dark blue sharkskin suit. The squat man was talking to him nearly nose-to-nose in a most sincere way. Tom was particularly focused on what the man was saying. That was because a second equally squat man in a black sharkskin suit, who apparently went to the same dermatologist as the first, sat on Tom’s left and had a Smith and Wesson .38 snub nose revolver stuck in Tom’s crotch. It was uncomfortably near his left ball.

  The man in blue voiced some heartfelt concerns. “You know, Tom, I’m a little worried you may not understand our deal.”

  “No, no, I understand our deal. Like I said, I’ll have your two hundred grand by next week, really.”

  “Tom, Tom, Tom, I knew you didn’t understand our deal. See, you owed us two hundred grand last week. This week you owe us two-hundred-twenty-five grand. Next week two-fifty. You see how this works now?”

  “Ah, interest. I did forget the interest. You know, you guys need to be careful because you might be close to breaking some usury laws that could land you in big trouble with the Feds. Just trying to help.”

  The man in the black, with the gun stuck in Tom’s crotch, thought he detected just a tad of sarcasm in Tom’s rejoinder and took exception. “You tryin’ to be funny, puke?” I’ll blow your ball sack off if you’re tryin’ to be funny.”

  “No, please.” Tom presented a newfound sincerity in his voice. “I’m just trying to bring some levity to the situation given my current lack of funds that leaves me temporarily, and I emphasize the word temporarily, unable to repay my debt that would eliminate the need to have you shoot off my best friend.”

  Looking back at the blue suit, the black suit asked, “What the fuck did he say?”

  “He said, since he can’t pay us, he’s going to help us reach out to some college boys who always need extra spending cash and explain to them that shaving points isn’t really cheating, it’s really just a way of making the games more exciting. It also insures that when we bet the spread, we win. Right, Tom? Because if that isn’t what you’re saying, Sal here is not only going to remove your nuts, he’s going to put a slug in each knee so you won’t be able to walk or fuck.”