Area 51_Redemption

by Bob Mayer

  He stopped abruptly and shone the light on the wall to the left. It took him a few minutes of searching before he found a small, round spot that showed the slightest bit of wear. He put the medallion on the spot.

  A third hidden door backed up and slid to the side. The chamber beyond was lit by a single Tesla bulb. As Nosferatu entered he heard the distinctive sound of a round being chambered in a gun.

  “I come in peace,” he said, dropping the penlight and holding up his hands. The chamber was ten meters by five. The walls were lined with wooden racks stuffed with scrolls; a scriptorium. Some of the wooden racks displayed signs of having been exposed to flame. A broad wooden table was in the center, underneath the light. Several old scrolls were rolled open on it, small stones weighing the thick paper down.

  From a dark corner a man in brown robe, a cowl leaving his face in the shadow, stepped forward, a Desert Eagle .50 pistol in his hand. He took a position on the other side of the table.

  “That is a big and modern gun,” Nosferatu said.

  “Our ways our ancient,” the man said, “but we’ve had to modernize a few things.” He had a strange accent.

  “Sensible,” Nosferatu allowed. “And I suppose you are Brynn? Keeper of the Records? Watcher of Avalon?”

  “You have a medallion, but you are no Watcher. The penalty for intruding is death. And you have a Watcher medallion in hand. No Watcher would give his or hers up if they were living. So you killed to get it.”

  “Ah, good points,” Nosferatu said. “Except look more closely at the medallion.” He put it on the table and slid it across the table.

  The Watcher spared it a quick glance, the muzzle of the gun still locked on Nosferatu. “A Myrddin.”

  “Yes.”

  “But still one of our order.”

  “Really?” Nosferatu. “Ever since Merlin, or Myrddin, or whatever you wish to call him, separated and committed what you would call treason, you still consider them brethren? After all these years?”

  “Merlin recanted.”

  “Yes, yes,” Nosferatu said. “And gave his life hiding Excalibur at the roof of the world. I believe his body still lies on Everest, although Excalibur doesn’t.”

  “Who are you? How do you know these things?”

  “Could you lower your weapon, please?” Nosferatu spread his empty hands wide. “As I said, I come in peace. And perhaps to give you some assistance.”

  He did not lower the gun. “Who are you?”

  Nosferatu sighed. “Who am I? I have been asked that—“ in mid-sentence, he leapt.

  The gun roared, the sound echoing in the chamber, the bullet slamming into stone and ricocheting.

  Nosferatu was behind the Watcher one arm around his throat, the other clenching the gun arm. Tightening the grip until the gun dropped. He leaned close, his breath on the Watcher’s neck. “I cannot abide rudeness in a man. Or woman for that matter. I asked politely.”

  The Watcher struggled vainly.

  “I could drink you now,” Nosferatu continued.

  The man stopped struggling.

  “But, I will not.” Nosferatu let go, scooping up the gun and stepping away. “I desire information more than blood. Something my better half begrudges me.”

  “Vampyr!” the Watcher said. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Please. Don’t insult me. I am Nosferatu—“ he paused, about to go on his First Age spiel, but decided against it. “And you are Brynn?”

  The man nodded. “I am Brynn. Watcher of Avalon.” He pulled his hood back, revealing a young, blonde-haired, blue-eyed man.

  “How long have you been here?” Nosferatu asked, indicating for him to sit.

  “Six months.”

  “Ah.” Nosferatu say, putting the gun in the middle of the table between them. He indicated the scorch marks. “What happened?”

  “There was a fight. Some scrolls were lost but the fire didn’t catch on the wood. They built it well in the old days.”

  “A fight between who?”

  “An intruder and my predecessor. I do not know who the intruder was. African is all I was told.”

  Nosferatu considered that, but moved on to the pressing issues. “Merlin’s Watchers. The Myrddin. Where are they headquartered?”

  The young man’s eyes shifted ever so slightly.

  Nosferatu pointed up at the light. “How is that powered? I don’t hear a generator.”

  “We have a Tesla battery,” Brynn said.

  “Shouldn’t you call yourself wedjat of Avalon?” Nosferatu asked. “The old tongue, from when I was born in the First Age of Egypt.”

  “Few know what wedjat means.”

  “One who makes it to this chamber would.” Nosferatu waved off the question. He looked around. “Much history has passed through here and is recorded in the scrolls. Joseph of Arimethea brought the Grail to this very place after Jerusalem fell.”

  “Indeed.”

  Nosferatu looked into those blue eyes. “The real question I must ask you is a simple one. How much pain are you willing to experience before you tell me the truth?”

  Brynn grabbed for the gun. Nosferatu brought his fist down on the hand. Bones cracked as it slammed into the wood. Nosferatu gripped it, grinding the broken bones as Brynn screamed.

  “This?” Nosferatu said. “This is nothing. You would not believe the array of torture humans have conjured up that I have witnessed over my many years. Very inventive.” With his free hand he pointed up. “On top of the Tor, the last Abbot of Glastonbury was drawn and quartered at the order of Thomas Cromwell, under authorization of King Henry VIII. Ostensibly it was over a religious matter, but in reality to gather the Abbey’s riches for the king. Money always trumps ideology or theology.” He squeezed, eliciting another scream. “Draw and quarter. Do you know what that means?”

  Brynn nodded, tears of pain streaming down his face.

  “Good. Nekhbet finds my history lessons boring. Are you bored?”

  Brynn shook his head. “Please.”

  “That was a declarative, with no interrogative attached. Is there something you want to ask me?”

  “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Oh, it’s too late for that,” Nosferatu let go of the hand. “Obviously.”

  Brynn gasped and cradled the useless appendage protectively with his other hand. “What do you want?”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Paul.”

  “We’re off to a good start. Two truths in sequence. Why do you think Vampyr is dead?”

  Paul hesitated. Nosferatu started to reach across, but the man spoke. “Mrs. Parrish believes he is. The nuclear explosion along the Skeleton Coast.”

  Nosferatu had heard of the Parrish’s. While his wealth was considerable, acquired over thousands of years, the Parrish’s were rumored to be the richest of all. Now it made sense how they had managed that. “Why are you here?”

  Paul nodded toward the scrolls. “I’ve got a handheld scanner. We’re recording what we don’t already have.”

  “Where is Mrs. Parrish?”

  Paul closed his eyes. “I don’t know. Truly.”

  Nosferatu got up and walked around the table. He put a hand on the shoulder of the injured hand.

  “I really, really don’t!”

  Nosferatu squeezed, crushing the shoulder joint.

  Paul screamed, the sound echoing in the small room.

  “I don’t,” he whimpered. “It’s called Dreamland. That’s all I know.”

  Nosferatu sighed and let go of the shoulder. He went back to his chair. “How does she communicate with you?”

  “I get orders from London.”

  “I just came from London. That won’t help me.”

  “That is all I know.”

  “Where is Brynn? The true wedjat of Avalon?”

  Paul swallowed. “I killed him.”

  “That was rude,” Nosferatu said. “I imagine he allowed you in, thinking you were a brother of the order.�
�

  Steve nodded, even though it wasn’t a question.

  Nosferatu looped back. “Why is Mrs. Parrish concerned about whether Vampyr is dead?”

  The shift in the eyes. Nosferatu started to get up.

  “Seattle,” Paul said. “All I know is some guys from my tech division got sent to Seattle the moment we learned he was dead. My boyfriend wasn’t supposed to tell me. But he did. Some project called Danse.”

  Seattle. Vampyr’s lair. “’Danse’?” The word rang a bell. “Danse Macabre?”

  “I don’t know what the connection is.”

  Nosferatu did. He leaned back in the old wood chair and considered the possibilities. None of them were good. If the Myrddin were trying to break into Vampyr’s lair then—

  He was so deep in thought he didn’t catch Paul’s move until it was a moment too late. The Myrddin grabbed the gun, put it under his chin and pulled the trigger. Blood and brain splatted the rack behind him and the practically headless body fell backward onto the stone.

  Nosferatu sighed. Nekhbet was going to be upset when he didn’t bring fresh blood back.

  He noted the hand that had held the gun was extended to the right. There was something on the man’s wrist.

  Nosferatu removed the wristpad, a device he’d never seen before. As he held it up to the light, the screen flashed red three times accompanied by a low beep.

  Black words appeared on the red: UNAUTHORIZED USER

  Then the screen cleared and the image of an old woman appeared. “Ah. Nosferatu. I finally get to see you.”

  “Mrs. Parrish,” Nosferatu said. “I do not appreciate your attempt to kill my wife and me.”

  “Wife is it? Really? Did you have a civil ceremony or a religious one?”

  “She is more than wife,” Nosferatu said. “I used a term a human could understand.”

  “Spare me,” Mrs. Parrish said. “I assume my man there went the way of Paris and London. Not important. I apologize for my misguided followers. Sometimes they follow the path of Becket’s assassins.”

  “I doubt anyone who works for you would take action without your authorization.”

  “Your doubts aren’t important,” Mrs. Parrish said. “I give you my most sincere assurances you and your wife will not be bothered by my people ever again. The device you hold will no longer work. I wish you the best with your long life and your wife.”

  The screen went dark.

  All lies, Nosferatu suspected. And she didn’t know that he knew about the attempt to get into Vampyr’s lair. Which meant—

  The screen came alive, but a different woman.

  “She’s lying,” the woman said. “But you know that, don’t you? You Ancients have been around too long to be lied to.” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I am Professor Leahy. My grandfather was Nikola Tesla. We should meet. I have some rather bad news you need to know. Frightening news actually. It involves Vampyr’s lair.”

  VICINITY AREA 51

  The bluff had worked. The three Apaches retreated, but it was clear the threat was relieved only temporarily as a large plume of dust appeared on the south end of the Groom Mountain range.

  A large convoy of armored vehicles.

  Rennie tossed the empty Stinger into the bed, jumped out and got in the driver’s seat. He cranked the pickup and accelerated up the ridgeline to join up with his men. Ten minutes later he arrived at the point just before the crest of the ridge where his company was deployed in a line, weapons pointing back at the valley.

  Rennie got out. The approaching force was spreading out on the valley floor. About twenty minutes away. He looked through the binoculars. Twenty Bradley fighting vehicles armed with 25mm chain guns and TOW missiles. Armor his company’s heavy machine guns couldn’t penetrate. And each capable of carrying six fully equipped soldiers besides the driver, gunner and commander.

  How Mrs. Parrish could command Apaches, Chinooks and Bradleys was a matter to be delved into later, Rennie knew. If there was going to be a later. Based on the current military math, that wasn’t likely.

  He turned and walked the twenty meters up to the ridgeline. To the southwest the landscape looked like the surface of a desolate moon except for the straight lines indicating roads. Craters of various sizes covered the flat plain for miles. The surface was rippled and broken in unnatural ways.

  The Nevada Test Site.

  928 nuclear tests in total. 828 of those underground. All within sight of his position. Only a desperate person would enter that hell.

  He looked the other way. Considered his options. Keyed his FM radio. “Mount up. We’re moving out.”

  Rennie was in the lead as they entered the Nevada Test Site. A strange darkness appeared ahead, coming toward his vehicle. He was puzzled for a moment, then realized it was a shadow, but the forward line was so perfect, it made no sense.

  Rennie looked up.

  The mothership was silently descending, angling toward Area 51.

  *****

  The mile-long mothership was operating on magnetic drive, which took less power than gravity drive. Julius was at the controls, the binder with instructions that Majestic-12 had gleaned over the years open and propped on the command console. Large displays along the front of the bridge showed 360 degrees of view and took some getting used to. Orientation on what was ‘up’ and ‘down’ and all around had been particularly difficult in orbit without something to orient on. With the ground below it was a bit easier.

  Kara sat to his right. Her pounding headache, something she wasn’t foreign to, couldn’t overwhelm the thrill of being in this massive alien ship, descending so quietly and smoothly. They passed over the wasteland of the Nevada Test Site. The gaping hole in the side of Groom Mountain beckoned. A half-dozen helicopters seemed like gnats as they flew an outer ring around the alien ship.

  Julius began to edge the ship in the opening.

  “Watch it!” Kara called out.

  He shot her an irritated glance. “I know what I’m doing?”

  A loud, scraping noise echoed through the mothership as it hit the left side of the hole. Rock gave way to the Airlia b’ja metal. Outside on the ground, members of Mrs. Parrish’s security team ran as boulders tumbled to the ground.

  “No damage,” Julius said, glancing at one of the displays. “This thing can take a lot.”

  Kara kept her mouth shut.

  The large black cradle that had held the mothership for over ten thousand years had been cleared of debris. A bead of sweat dripped down Julius’ forehead as he gently tweaked the controls.

  “How far?” he asked Kara.

  “Ten meters,” she said. “Eight. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”

  With a shudder the mothership touched the cradle, not quite perfectly as it rolled eight degrees to the left as it settled into the landing cradle.

  But good enough.

  Julius let go of the controls and keyed his wristpad to send an unnecessary message. “Mrs. Parrish. We have touched down.”

  THE ARK

  ROCKY MOUNTAINS

  Colonel Mickell looked as rough as Turcotte felt.

  “Coffee?” Turcotte asked as Mickell slumped down in a chair.

  “Beer?” the Special Forces officer asked.

  “I will get it,” Yakov volunteered.

  Mickell was dressed in combat gear, but all name tags, patches, and insignia were missing from their Velcro anchors. He had an M-4 and a full combat load.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Turcotte asked, as Yakov handed him the beer.

  “What didn’t?” Mickell replied. He popped the beer and took a deep drink.

  Mickell had helped Turcotte and Yakov before, stopping the spread of a new version of the Black Death, developed on Devils Island. Then he’d given them support at Camp Rowe. A thin man to begin with, he looked like he’d lost a few pounds he couldn’t afford to. His wisps of gray hair were fewer and farther between.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  �
��You told me about it,” Mickell said. “Just before you took off for Mars; I figured it was where you’d head. About you and Lisa Duncan, or whoever she was. I’m sorry about that, Mike. That was a hell a of thing she did.”

  Turcotte was taken aback, then he slowly nodded. “Yeah. It was.”

  “I saw you depart Rowe,” Mickell said. “I was there.”

  “What?” Turcotte was surprised. “Then why—“

  Mickell cut him off. “From a distance.” He held up a hand. “Let me back up. Before all that. After you left for Mars, we got stripped down to almost no one at the Warfare Center given the conflicts flaring up. I was in charge of the school, but we had no students. They’d all been rush graduated and PCSed forward to deploy.”

  Turcotte saw that Yakov wanted to ask a question, but indicated for him to wait. He’d never seen his former special ops comrade this disturbed.

  Mickell took a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s going on, Mike. The chain of command has fallen apart. California seceding? Texas? Tehran’s been wiped off the map; along with their nuclear facility. I don’t how up to date you are. Last I heard in the chatter at Fort Carson was India and Pakistan are ready to blow each other up.”

  “What happened at Camp Rowe, sir?” Turcotte asked.

  Mickell seemed confused. “Rowe? Oh. Yeah. We were gassed. I had a skeleton cadre, ten of us. We heard a helicopter go overhead. Then guys started dropping. Everything went black. I came to just as there was an explosion over by the commo vans. Managed to get outside, through the gate. That’s when I saw your spaceship, the fin-whatever, taking off. What happened?” He didn’t wait for an answer, continuing his story. “We found bodies. Parts of bodies.”

  “We lost three of our people,” Turcotte said. “Quinn, Kincaid and Leahy.”

  Mickell frowned. “No. I mean there were pieces and parts, but only two dead. We bagged them. What we could. Definitely only two. I’ve been around enough IEDs to know.”

  Turcotte looked at Yakov. The burly Russian raised an eyebrow.

  “A survivor, then?” Turcotte asked.

  “Not standing around,” Mickell said. “A chopper took off not far away from the commo vans, right after I saw you departing. No clue who that was, although I assume it was whoever gassed us. Lucky they didn’t kill us.”