by Jerry Ahern
Vale was tall, slender and muscular, and spoke with a slight, indiscernible accent. “I believe we are on similar missions. Please Captain, remove your hand from your jacket—empty please. I have no desire to compromise you or your plans; in fact, I would like to place myself and my organization at your disposal. I ask only that you hear me out.”
Dodd slowly withdrew his hand. “Gentlemen, I believe we can be allies. Captain Dodd, I hope to convince you that the Neo-Nazi movement could be utilized, if given sufficient encouragement, to create havoc.” Dodd listened; havoc was what his Creator was interested in.
“There are a variety of possibilities,” Dodd said. “You must understand the short time frame we face. I’m afraid my ‘Principal’ is interested in a plan with more...” He stopped and thought for a moment then said, “More immediate impact. I believe we will have to add something to the mix in order to accelerate our operation.” He reached down and picked up the briefcase at his feet and removed a large glass jar with a screw-on lid. “Gentlemen meet our new ally.”
Inside the jar was the largest, ugliest insect Greene had ever seen. “A bug? Admittedly a big bug, but it is still just a bug,” Greene said.
Greene muttered to the other two men while studying the jar, “I’m not familiar with the species.”
Vale smiled, “Nor is anyone else. Mr. Greene, this specimen is capable of moving our agenda further and faster than any political or financial plan. This ‘bug’ as you call it will make the plagues of Moses pale by comparison.”
Chapter Three
Bullets ricocheted in all directions—9mm jacketed hollow point rounds stitched across the driver’s side of the silver sports car. Even behind the bullet proof glass and Kevlar panels in the door, Otto Croenberg involuntarily ducked as he swerved hard to the left. Checking the odometer, he was still over a kilometer away from his goal. He reached over to the passenger seat; his bag was still in position. Violently down shifting and jerking the emergency brake, he wrenched the wheel hard to the left—dry skidding down the narrow asphalt drive.
Caught by surprise, the nearest sedan had slammed on its brakes to avoid the collision, fishtailing into the sharp turn. The second sedan flashed through the gap on the right, the driver sending a full magazine of 9mm rounds slamming into the rear windscreen and along the right side of the car. Almost immediately the man realized he had been suckered. Cursing, he dropped the automatic pistol in his lap and tried to compensate. With its brakes squealing and tires smoking, the sedan shot 100 yards past the turn off. By the time he was able to turn around, the sports car and other sedan were out of sight down the drive.
The first sedan tried to regain its lost ground and closed on the sports car; gunfire erupting again from the passenger window. The sports car accelerated away, taking advantage of the down slope of the drive; the still waters of the lake less than ten car lengths away. Nanoseconds later it went airborne, flying nearly fifty feet before slamming into the waves and throwing water high into the sky. Landing nose first, it began to sink immediately—seconds before the explosion threw water and flames into the sky. Burning petrol blazed on the waves as the sedan braked and the trailing sedan pulled up alongside.
“Niemand könnte das überleben, no one can survive that,” the driver exclaimed.
“Ja, I agree, no one could survive that,” the passenger said. “It would be better if we could obtain the body.”
“Ja, it would,” the driver said. He could hear the sirens of the lake patrol closing on the area. “No time, ve must go.”
Chapter Four
Thirty minutes earlier, Otto Croenberg, the soon to be ex-President of the German Republic had been angry... angry, disgusted, and frustrated. His political career, a whirl wind affair, was over. If I’m not careful, he thought, so is my life. Taking the last sip from his coffee cup, he swallowed the now cold and bitter brew, sat the cup down and stood. Looking around the office for the last time, he said to the walls, “Now the specter has raised its ugly head once again.” Checking his image in the full length mirror in the corner, he adjusted his tie, picked up the small duffle bag, and strode purposefully out of the office; the door standing open behind him. The clock was ticking on his plan and on his life.
He had ruled Eden City as a quasi, if benevolent, dictator. It had taken several years to accomplish the free election part of his agreement with Rourke. A foundation of his election platform had been for the nationalist aspect of “Rückkehr zum Vaterland,” returning to the Fatherland. Since his citizenry identified themselves as German, why not regain their footing on the European continent.
Just over sixty, he had been re-elected to another term; but Croenberg was about to walk out of his New Munich office for the last time. After holding the office of President for the German Republic for three terms and just winning reelection, he had just been derailed. Fifteen minutes earlier, Croenberg had been handed his walking papers—his political career was over. A new Nazi Party’s radical agenda, hidden from the public and Croenberg, had just emerged. Once again it was a virulent and hateful aggressive agenda; they had simply been waiting for the “right time.” The party leadership had determined that Croenberg’s leadership had “moved the German Republic to a position of acceptance and responsibility on the world scene, but that position needed to be consolidated and pushed to the next level.”
Almost single handedly, he had been responsible for the relocation of the population of the “old” Eden City from its original location on America’s east coast, to Europe. Eden City had, at one time, been founded by members of the Eden Project when they returned from their 500 year space mission. They had been called the “last great hope for civilization.” Under the leadership of the original Captain Dodd, it had splintered away from American ideals and embraced a nationalistic twist that would manifest itself as a harbinger for Neo-Nazism.
With the help of John Rourke, he had forged a spirit of cooperation and friendship with the American authorities. That had facilitated the move back to Europe, which in turn had allowed the U.S. to regain what had previously been nearly the entire southeast part of America. Over eighty-five percent of the Eden population, slightly over 400,000 souls at that time, agreed to the move—the others swore allegiance to U.S.II.
The move had been accomplished in less than eighteen months. It had allowed a struggling area of the former Fatherland to prosper and it seemed that a new era of positive foreign relations had been forged. In exchange for assistance, control of the eastern American seaboard, and what was left of the Canadian Maritime provinces, was ceded back to U.S.II. Eden City had retained control of the southern tip of Greenland, the few surviving Caribbean nations and northern Brazil. Munich had been chosen as the capital and renamed Eden City.
During the Night of the War, Munich had received little property damage—simply a loss of population due to the neuron “dirty” bombs. It had survived and gradually rebuilt itself. Now, Croenberg realized he must survive and gradually rebuild himself. His citizens had practiced their nationalism in a true and unfettered manner and, for almost twelve years, it had been an unprecedented period of growth and harmony. Through his leadership, the German Republic had been reborn, territory added to the original holdings and now the Republic prospered economically, now boasting almost 1.5 million citizens. It had literally been a win-win-win situation.
In his first meetings with the Rourkes, Otto Croenberg had explored the possibilities of a “temporary” alliance between Croenberg and the Trans-Global Alliance. Croenberg, then in his fifties, was tall and vigorous with gray-blue eyes and a shaven head that occasionally revealed a pulsating vein. At that time, he was also described as a “ruthless and a cold-blooded killer, but only when necessary. No pathological blood lust like say, Karamatsov.”
Never one to subscribe to “party propaganda,” Croenberg had once agreed there was no proof of racial superiority by any race. He knew there were no differences between whites, Jews, blacks or Chinese, in any basic sens
e. When John Rourke had offered him the leadership of Eden City if he’d forego the Nazi philosophy and agree to free elections in order to stay in power, he accepted.
He had no question that his life was now in jeopardy. One thing the Neo-Nazi movement had in common with its Nazi roots is that neither tolerated opposition. He knew that a dead former President was simply a momentary blip on the news channels. A live former President would be a constant thorn in the sides of his adversaries.
As he walked across the parking garage to his vehicle, he was aware of the bulge in his right sleeve. Otto still carried a small 7.65mm semi-automatic pistol mounted to a muscle-group activated slide mechanism on his right arm; he was never without that backup piece. While his primary language was German, his English was quite good; and though normally accented, it could be perfect when the need arose and he was adept at disguise. He knew he must disappear and decided he had less than eight hours to effect that disappearance and plug the hole so he would not be sought after. It was time to commit suicide and he was ready.
He laid the small duffle bag on the passenger seat and undid the top and opened it; the quick scan told him everything was still in place. He had started this plan three years ago when he first suspected that the Progressives within the party were positioning themselves for the move they had just completed. But, he knew it was essential to his survival to re-establish contact with the Rourke family, even though Michael Rourke had once described him also as “evil.” He had once told Michael, “I have always believed that the true test of genius is the ability to take advantage of opportunity, then capitalize on the present rather than vainly plan for a future which may never come.” When he finally met John Rourke, a sort of truce between Croenberg and the Rourkes had begun.
He felt Paul Rubenstein was the linchpin to his plan. His relationship with Paul Rubenstein, who he had simply referred to as “the Jew” in those early days, had changed during their shared adventures. Paul had called Otto “the Nazi” but a begrudging friendship had slowly been forged, with “the Jew” becoming “Herr Rubenstein.” He had a bond with the Rourkes and it was likely they were his only salvation; provided he survived his suicide.
Snapping his seat belt, he glanced in his rear view mirror and spotted the two black sedans. As he pulled out of the garage they followed him. Hmmm, he thought. The game is already afoot. The tinted windscreen prevented him from identifying the vehicles’ occupants but he knew they were a hit squad. He focused on his immediate situation. His route would carry him through Munich and into the countryside. That will be where the attack will happen, he thought to himself.
His primary questions were simple. Can I survive the attacks? he thought. Can I make it to my target in time and intact enough to commit suicide ... correctly?
Chapter Five
There were still several kilometers left to get to the Fünfseenland; from the running gun battle, it might as well have been several hundred. Of the five lakes in the Fünfseenland, Starnberger was the second largest lake in Bavaria at 20 kilometers long, 5 kilometers wide and up to 127 meters deep. It was bordered by moraine hills with higher mountains of Benediktenwand and the Wetterstein mountain range in the background. He could have reached it via the subterranean train, but that would not allow him to implement phase two of his plan.
Starnberger, like Ammersee, Wörthsee, Pilsensee and Wesslinger Lakes had been formed by ice-age glaciers. The alpine panorama of the Starnberger Sea offered an unforgettable sight, with numerous meadows and beaches, perfect for relaxation and enjoying one’s self; his focus however, was not on relaxation or enjoyment... it was survival. He had picked the details of his plan with cold calculation; he would have only one chance... and it wasn’t much of a chance to live. He watched the two sedans make their move, closing the distance. It won’t be long now, he thought.
Moments later, Croenberg’s car plowed through the rail at over seventy kilometers per hour, sailed over fifty yards in a down sloped arch and exploded shortly after impact. Otto Croenberg, former president of the German Republic, died in a flash of thunder—the chilling cold waters of the lake swallowing what was left of his mangled vehicle.
Chapter Six
The analysis of the recovered UFO found at the Waiāhole Ditch and Tunnel System, piloted by Captain Dodd during the attack on Honolulu, was not going well. Technicians at Hickam Air Force Base were stumped. Once access had been gained to the interior of the craft, they discovered that the cabin was small by aircraft standards. It was as if the pilot had to “wear” the craft to fly it. The pilot’s “chair” was on a locking swivel; the pilot would enter the craft, sit down then spin the chair ninety degrees and lock the seat. The place where the control panel should sit was blank, no dials and no gauges, just two panels located on either side.
General Francis Sullivan, Deputy Air Force Chief of Staff, shook his head. Looking to his left he asked, “Well Colonel, we know this thing flies... can you figure out how to fly it?”
Colonel Rodney Thorne, chief flight instructor and test pilot, turned to the senior Flight Surgeon, “All I have is a hypothesis. I can’t find any physical interface between the pilot and the craft in the conventional concept. I think there must be either a direct or indirect connection between the pilot’s brain and the craft. I don’t see any other way to maneuver the craft during the flight characteristics we have witnessed.”
“I tend to agree with the Colonel’s analysis,” Dr. B.J. Dalton, Senior Flight Surgeon said to the Air Force Chief of Staff. “Sensory areas receive and process information that is interpreted by the brain and the brain tells the body what to do and how to do it. I think in this process the cerebral cortex is tapped and controls the craft; I’m not sure how you would actually classify the process. Telepathy is a possibility but I suspect it is actually a mix of mechanical and possibly some sort of paranormal connection or conduit. It is probable we have some similar technology but there is obviously a part missing from this equation. Possibly there is a helmet we haven’t discovered, I don’t know, but there has to be some method of making the connection between the pilot’s brain and the craft. I just don’t know what that method is.”
Mid-Wake’s senior metallurgist, Isaac Johnson, joined the discussion. “I’m afraid I can’t add much to this discussion. I do not have a clue what this thing is made of. I can tell you it did not roll off the assembly line at General Motors. The samples we recovered from the crash sites of the other UFOs during the air battle above Honolulu do not resemble anything on our Periodic Tables. Whatever this material is, it did not come from Earth.” Johnson leaned back in his chair. “Sorry guys, I just don’t know what to tell you.”
The Chief of Staff asked, “Colonel, do you think you can fly this thing?”
Thorne rubbed his chin, “Can it be flown? Yes. Could I fly it? Probably. The problem is one of the super brains is going to have to tell me how to turn the damn thing on and take off. Frankly, I don’t have a clue.”
“Wait a minute,” Dalton said and started thumbing through a stack of files. “Here it is. This is a report of an incident involving Captain Dodd’s clone that was captured during the Fight in the Forest and Akiro Kuriname who was captured after the recent incident with President Michael Rourke. When Dodd died unexpectedly while being interrogated, John Rourke thought there might be some connection between a tattoo Dodd had and his death. When Kuriname was captured after the attack on the President, John Rourke surgically—and that term is only loosely accurate—removed a similar tattoo from him. Kuriname survived and is doing well. Could the connection between the pilot and the ship be the tattoo?”
Heads shook around the table, Johnson said, “Hell if I know. I could speculate and say yes but I have no idea how it would work.”
Colonel Thorne said after a moment, “That technology exceeds anything we are familiar with. Hypothetically, why not? That might be the answer. However, if it is, the ship will not fly again. I’m not willing to subject myself to an alien mind link i
n the interest of national security.” Thorne took a sip of black coffee, “Look, flight is flight regardless of the technology and avionics. This craft has superior capabilities but that does not make it a super weapon, just a superior one. I believe these capabilities are finite; extreme by our sciences but not infinite.”
“I suggest you get to work on how to turn it on. Get it turned on and I’ll figure out how to control this thing and make it fly. We don’t have anything in our arsenal that has its flight characteristics or weapons capabilities. One ship may not be enough to stop an invasion but it could be a hell of a surprise for the invaders. It could buy us a little time.”
Chapter Seven
Croenberg unbuckled his seatbelt and grabbed the bag next to him, wrapping a tether cord around his left wrist. Opening the vehicle console he pulled the small underwater rebreather pack, slipped on the dive mask and tightly gripped the mouth piece with his teeth. Attached to the rebreather was a small transmitter; Croenberg flipped the switch from standby to armed.
As he came up on his target, he swerved slightly to get the maximum lift from the slight rise at the water line. He flipped the switch a second time and aimed for the split rail fence. The impact of the water jarred his senses as he dove out of the car door and swam for his life—straight down. The car was less than half submerged when it detonated. With his hands over his ears, he rode out the concussive wave that slammed into him. The Kevlar padding within his suit coat dispersed most of the shook wave and kept the concussion from scrambling his internal organs; he tasted blood as he dove deeper still before leveling out.
Shedding his suit coat and shoes, he began the mile-long underwater swim. The near freezing waters of the lake made it difficult but his closed circuit rebreather unit worked as required, producing no tell-tell bubbles on the surface. Fifteen minutes later he surfaced, got his bearings, and submerged again; the CCR gauge showed almost two hours of oxygen remaining in the small cylinder. Strong kicks and powerful strokes propelled him underwater toward the backside of Roseninsel, the only island in the lake. Rising slowly, he gently broke the surface; with his face still half submerged he scanned the beach—empty.
