Jewel of Hiram (The Chronicles of Crash Carter Book 1)

by Frank Felton

  Three hours later, a crowd gathered on the lonely hillside where centuries earlier the San Francisco Xavier de Horcasitas mission stood. A slight breeze kicked up, throwing a blanket of dust over those assembled. They were here to scatter Hank Benson’s ashes on this hill that overlooked the land he loved so much. An airplane hangar off to the south stood proudly atop a smaller hill, connected by a long gravel road which ran atop a terrace connecting it to the main highway.

  Hank would have good company in his final resting place. Under this dirt lied the bones of dozens of men; Spanish missioners and Indian chiefs, and possibly those of old Snively himself. It was a storied piece of land, and Hank would be proud that many of his friends would again today have the opportunity to see it.

  An old man stood at the back of the crowd, with a walking cane, held slightly askew. Between his two hands he balanced his weight forward on the cane. He wore a Veteran’s of Foreign Wars flight cap. He was a tall and slender man, with thick glasses, and a steel gaze. His lean physical build no doubt contributed to his long life, having avoided serious illness and other plaques which curse mankind.

  He was, until recently, healthy as a horse, but that health was now failing rapidly. Even today, he struggled to remain upright. He stood warily; eyes caged forward intently. Since news of Hank’s passing hit him, he felt that he had little left to live for. That feeble old warrior was me, R. Cyrus McCormack.

  I had listened, only hours earlier, to Troy Benson pour out his heart to honor his grandfather. I kept up with his days in the military, but I never met the kid before today. I doubt he knew much about me. As the ceremony ended, with Hank’s ashes scattered, I would have the honor of one handshake with young Troy. Not a single word was spoken. To him, I was just another old man come to honor his grandfather.

  When the ceremony ended, I went on about my way.

  Sometimes the secrets of the world are within our grasp. We shake its hand and look it in the eye, yet we fail to recognize it. The boy reminded me of myself a bit, a few years after I returned home from World War II. There was no arrogance in his eyes, nor was there any fear. He was wounded, but not defeated. He had just a few ambitions, but no further anger or ulterior motives; just an understandable amount of sadness.

  Tragedy changes a man’s demeanor, as does war. You talk a little differently. You carry yourself otherwise as well. Conceit is replaced by a more subtle projection of strength; a calm humility which gives credence to your own mortality. These changes manifested in Troy Benson. He was a tabula rasa; the same blank slate Sam Houston observed when he handed the keys to Aiden Benson. It was upon this empty canvass the Lord would soon draw a masterpiece.

  Underneath the façade, cradled in a newfound sense of direction, grew virtue.

  ~~~

  Over the years since he left Thorndale as a teenager, Troy Benson put less and less stock into what others thought or how the world viewed him. While certainly in no danger of becoming a nihilist, it became apparent to him today, that he cared far more than he realized. There was renewed sense of meaning that began to creep up from deep down. In today’s mourning, there came a ray of hope that despite his missteps, he could become good again.

  A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. – Lao Tzu

  Back to the basics; one foot in front of the other.

  Hank Benson had not only passed on his land, he passed on an overwhelmingly responsibility. That duty was already making its presence felt. The internal strength and fortitude Troy displayed today were the direct result of a growing new aura.

  He was no longer worried.

  Despite his own overly harsh, perfectionist attributes, people in this community felt a deep and enduring respect for his decisions; his decision to serve country, his decision to come to the aid of the helpless, and to face his reckoning head-on when the tables turned. He displayed the same qualities shared by generations of pioneers, settlers, and tenant farmers from this land whence he came. These rugged individualists rarely gave up hope.

  They were as proud of Troy’s achievements as his own grandfather, yet, just as Hank, they rarely acknowledged it. By age 24 he’d achieved far beyond what many in this small town ever endeavored throughout their entire lives. It was his lot in life, and they lived through him, as a doppelganger, through his victories and defeats. It didn’t matter whether he was downtrodden or on the come. The ray of light that shone to him and through him was not an arriving train; it was a light at the end of a tunnel.

  Just as spring follows winter, there began a thaw in the icy cold war of Troy Benson’s mind. His newfound levity gave him pause, and a weight lifted from his shoulders. In the throes of redemption, a new weight saddled him. Now becoming self-aware of the simple things he’d neglected, his subconscious mind had but one reply;

  Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

  ~~~

  I sensed the end was near.

  My feeble body summoned strength for one last mission. In the distance, I could see the grey roof tiles of the old farm house sticking out through the grove of pecan trees. I’d never brought my piece of the Jewel of Hiram to this land. It was an understanding of Hank and I that the two should never meet. Hank was gone; his ashes still blew in the wind. My longing to see The Jewel reunited could no longer be contained.

  I knew he had it buried around here somewhere.

  It took me nearly an hour to make the short trek. I was welcomed by his dog, Suzie. She was probably the fifth or sixth animal he named the same, a mix of Collie and some type of Shepherd. A herd of cattle grazed across the bottomland. The grass was a luscious green. I felt that cool breeze coming off the Gabriel. It brought me back half a century to my days with the Benson Construction Company. I could almost hear grasshoppers hitting the water, and smell the aroma of mesquite smoke from the old wood stove.

  I recalled a Bible passage from Ezekiel that describes this land to perfect tune: I will feed them with good pasture, and on the mountain heights of Israel shall be grazing their land. A heavy scent of pollen filled the air. The cabin was little changed. It was a beautiful oasis in the middle of nowhere; far from the prying eyes of passersby. Hank had upgraded a few things. He had satellite TV now, a new iron fence, and the lawn was sodded with pristine carpet grass.

  I sat down at an old wooden picnic table. Carvings from men of ages past ingrained the weathered lumber. My journey to the past brought back old friends. Then I found it:

  “Pencil Dick, 75 lb yellow – 9/14/54 Hank and Mac”

  I can still see Hank leaning over that table, half drunk, as Pencil Dick hung on the scales inside the cabin. He carved the memorial into the table as his men frolicked and drank, ready to feast on the prize he and I hauled in that day. It was one of my fondest memories.

  I stood up, and steadied myself against a pecan tree. I remember this tree. Hank had planted it a few years before we’d met. It was by now halfway grown.

  Then I felt a quiver in my leg. It was the Jewel. It had begun to resonate.

  I removed the Jewel from my pocket, and found it glowing. I’ve been left wanting for what happened next. I had a good idea what would now come to pass. In all I’ve seen, I still could not truly be prepared and might well cower in fear in the presence of the Almighty.

  I took a few steps back and got down on my knees. The ground shook. The branches of the tree in front of me began to sway. Clouds appeared from nowhere to settle over the farm. Darkness crept in and snuffed out the light of the sun.

  I held up the Jewel, as an offering, and its glowing intensified.

  The rumbling grew to a roar as an oncoming freight train. Pots and pans in the old cabin rattled from their perch, and crashed to the ground in a commotion. A piercing sound entered my ears as the tree before me fractured in twain. The deafening roar of the earthquake caused all other sounds to evaporate. The tree fell to the Earth.

  A bolt of lightning cascaded down the atmosphere, lighting up the sky in a flash of brilliance. The impendi
ng crackle of thunder found its way directly to me, as the bolt impacted the ground where the pecan tree had stood. I was knocked backwards from my knees, and the Jewel fell from my hand.

  With the tree felled, the ground continued to shake, and I saw another glow rise up from the ground. It was the second piece of the Jewel of Hiram. In an instant, an explosion of light ensued as the two pieces came together. The intense flash turned night into day. I covered my face at the blinding brightness, certain that this was the end.

  And he who sits on the throne will shelter them with his presence. – Revelation 7:15

  And then, there was dead silence. The clouds receded. The storm was gone.

  I slowly regained my focus.

  In front of me, The Jewel hovered over the ground. A ring of majestic light encompassed it. I could see the faint outline of wings, the markings of my Heavenly associates, as they held it gently. They descended beneath the ground. As they disappeared, the ground itself began to glow.

  I prepared to take shelter as the ground began to growl once more. I stood in awe as the fallen tree began to quiver. Its hewn pieces began to reassemble themselves. Limb by limb, leaf by leaf, the old pecan tree became whole again, and before my very eyes, returned to the soil from whence it came.

  Everything was back as it had been, except for one thing. The Jewel was no longer mine. I heard the voice, as clear as I’d ever heard it.

  “My servant. Depart in peace.”

  My newfound energy was gone. My head became light; my eyes began to see stars. The lethargy returned. I was unable to stand. I lost consciousness.

  ~~~

  I would awake sometime later in a hospital bed, clinging to life.

  The Jewel’s reunification sent shockwaves throughout the universe. For the moment it lies safely buried, and I am the only one who knows the secret. Just as a nuclear detonation, a raw display of power such as I witnessed does not go undetected. It awakened forces of evil asleep for thousands of years. They would become hell-bent on gaining this prize to use its powers for death and destruction.

  Some of these forces might be right in front of you; gaining your confidence with a handshake and a smile. Troy Benson will soon learn this the hard way. He now owns the very ground in which the Jewel rests. As such, just as with Hank, there will be precious few people in this world he can trust. It is just a matter of time before he is under a full scale assault. It is now his burden to carry, yet he knows it not.

  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. – Psalm 23

  One, in particular, will soon knock at the door.

  31. Drake Raines

  In the late 1960s, KGB head Yuri Andropov tasked the Soviet bloc's disinformation machinery with turning the rest of the world against the U.S. by reviving anti-Semitism. Andropov knew that the U.S. would stand with Israel and that he could convince the European leftists and the Islamic world that America was dominated by Jews. - Lt. Gen. Ion Mihai Pacepa

  Regardless of how the world got to this point, suffice to say the Middle East will continue to be an arena of conflict for generations; be it the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the U.S.-Iran showdown over nuclear weapons, Iraq, Afghanistan, the Russian incursion into the Caucasus, or the unrest in Egypt and Libya in 2012.

  Much anti-Western sentiment in the Middle East can be traced back to the aftermath of World War II and the ensuing Cold War. It is at least partly attributable to a deliberate propaganda campaign undertaken by the Soviet Union. Holy Wars, just as any conflict, are shaped by policies and tactics. America has historically supported Israel since the founding of the modern Jewish state in 1948.

  With contrasting social ideologies, the Soviet Union became a nemesis of the United States. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. As such, the Soviet Union sought to foment anger against the United States from the Muslim world, which naturally disavows Israel and western Christians due to religious differences.

  This is not to say U.S. foreign policy did not play into the hands of the Soviet game. The Soviets already formed a natural alliance with the Iranians, primarily due to Sunni-led tribal factions of the Northern Caucasus being adversaries of both the Soviets and the Shia-led governments of Iran and Syria.

  The people of the Northern Caucasus for years have been treated in Russia as a dangerous and even criminal community. The anti-Sunni character of the clerical Shia government of Iran that had deposed the pro-U.S. Shah Pahlevi became a natural ally of Russia after 1979. - George H. Wittman

  In such games of shadows, there are many foils. People, in general, are quite easy to manipulate, and even easier en masse. A teacher once told me the definition of Holy War is basically any situation that has no good outcome, a tongue-in-cheek observation based on the seeming recalcitrance of religious fervor throughout history. Three thousand years have passed, and here we are. The major religions which sprouted from the Dome of the Rock, supposed portal to Heaven, continue to be the source of major conflict which now surrounds it.

  ~~~

  Bordering the Middle East lies the Anatolian plateau in Turkey. It is home to a complex geography of beauties and wonders. It ranges from Cappadocia in the center to the mountains of Ararat, then south to the Mediterranean, and west to the sensual straits of the Dardanelles which define the far border of Europe. Anatolia has a long history in the annals of civilization.

  Anatolia is Greek for “east”. Incidentally, the eastern side of this plateau is home to dissidents from numerous sects displaced through centuries of infighting. The cradle of civilization is more aptly today a crossroads of conflict. It is a juncture of borders with Iraq, Syria, and Iran.

  The People’s Mujahedeen of Iran, better known as the MEK (Mojahedin-e-Khalq) had been active in Iran since the Iranian Revolution of 1979. It was devoted to Marxism at one time, and free markets another. As typical of disparate groups, it struggled to find its bearing. Its elements splintered into numerous factions, all operating under the same general umbrella of opposition to the Iranian government. Over the years, the MEK launched a guerilla resistance against the theocratic regime of the Ayatollah, and created an underground society of freedom fighters.

  Mujahedeen is an Islamic term similar to jihad, meaning struggle. There are dozens of unconnected mujahedeen groups throughout the Middle East. The United States assisted Mujahedeen fighters in Afghanistan for a decade beginning in 1979 in an attempt to thwart the Soviet Union. The Mujahedeen, assisted by Osama bin Laden himself, eventually repelled the Soviet incursion, in no small part because of Stinger missiles used to shoot down helicopters.

  These missiles were supplied by the United States. The Mujahadeen in Afghanistan eventually gave way to the Taliban, which ushered in a society aptly demonstrated in The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. After 9/11, the United States would return to fight against the same people it had assisted against the Soviets. The United States should have learned a lesson, but as political cycles twist and turn, memories fade.

  In Iran, after the 1979 Revolution, the MEK was largely dispersed, fleeing for its very life. Members were pursued and executed on the spot, without trial or opportunity for protest. Its fighters fled Iran for neighboring Iraq, where they set up a base of operations.

  A young Iraqi General had recently seized power in Iraq. He would soon invade Iran. With the support of the United States, France, China, and many other nations, he not only invaded Iran, but utilized chemical weapons to suppress a Kurdish insurgency to the north. Again, the enemy’s enemy is your friend, so it is really no irony that these same actions were used as justification against the General in 1991 and 2003. In those years, the same nations above supported wars to bring forth his ouster.

  The General’s name was Saddam Hussein.

  The real reason for Coalition action is often swept aside. It was the same primary grievance of the Japanese Empire in 1941 against America, who cut off the former’s oil supply. It led to the bombing of Pearl Harbor. This time, Japan and the United States were on the
same side. C’est la vie.

  Nonetheless, in 1979, the interests of Saddam Hussein and the MEK were temporarily aligned. Because of these entangled alliances, the MEK was granted asylum by Saddam in 1980. They were given free reign over a small slice of Iraq, in return for paying to him a handsome royalty. They operated freely until the Coalition invasion of Iraq in 2003. During the invasion, members of the MEK were detained, almost indefinitely, by U.S. Special Forces. They had been branded a terrorist organization, and while not combatants in this war, they were held for many years without any formal charges. The Coalition simply did not know what to do with them.

  One of the more interesting members detained was an American expatriate named Drake Raines. He was a person of interest to the CIA. Years earlier he rejected a fortuitous life in the United States, and in the late 90’s, moved to the Middle East in search of a cure for his ideological woes. While technically still an American citizen, he symbolically renounced his citizenship sometime in 1997 and joined the MEK, casting himself a revolutionary.

  Raines was the apex of high intelligence, registering an IQ of 165. He grew up in the effete Marin County suburb of San Francisco, the son of 1960’s hippies who were second-tier college professors and connoisseurs of the counterculture. They drowned young Drake in dogma, but the overtness of his parents desire to spout Kinsey, Marx, and Marcuse turned him off to such liberal leanings.

  He instead branched into the hard sciences once his true genius began to blossom at Berkeley. He earned a Rhodes Scholar, having a gift for both chemistry and physics. He culminated his education with a Ph.D. in Materials Engineering from M.I.T. in 1986. He accomplished all of this by the tender age of 24. In a continued departure from his parent’s lifestyle, he forsook academia and committed the near-excommunicable offense of becoming a defense contractor.

  He found his true genius in the most sought-after new military technology; designing low-observable stealth materials for the newest Department of Defense approach to airpower. The magnificent abilities of his mind rivaled Fermi and Einstein. He capitalized on the fervor of the F-117 Nighthawk within the Pentagon, the mis-designated “fighter” whose only real mission was bombing. Its first generation stealth technology was combat-verified by its pursuant success in Desert Storm, flying night strikes over Baghdad without a loss.