It was the type of thing that made Ellis Kincaid realize how anachronistic many members of the nation’s intelligence community were. A meeting in a bathroom stall at a highway rest area? Really? Would the Cone of Silence be used while Maxwell Smart talked into his shoe?
Ellis had received the text on his cell the night before. “Tuesday, 18:00. Meet in men’s room stall at state liquor store on Interstate 93, Hooksett, NH.” But the idiot hadn’t specified whether it was the northbound or the southbound rest area. And the text had come in from a dummy phone, so Ellis couldn’t reply. Worse still, it was rush hour in New Hampshire, to the extent such a thing really existed, and it was snowing, so traffic was creeping along at about half speed. So it’s not like Ellis could circle around, exit to exit, checking out both the northbound and southbound stalls, comparing flatulence levels. Would the fart of a senior Defense Department intelligence operative smell better or worse than some poor slob on his way home from work?
So what to do? Ellis put on his analyst hat which, after all, is what the U.S. taxpayers had been paying him for since his tour in Afghanistan ended. Unlike most Navy SEALs or other elite force members, his specialty was a non-physical one: Ellis was trained in forensic psychology and psychological profiling—he figured out what people were going to do and when they might do it. In his job, ‘people’ meant terrorists or others who might threaten the interests of the United States. Most notably, he had used his skills to evaluate the intelligence regarding Osama bin Laden’s hideout in Pakistan—was it consistent with the psychological profile of the man? Ellis had concluded it was, and that correct bet had earned him a post-deployment job in the DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency. The DIA was the military’s version of the CIA and operated out of a military installation in downtown Washington, D.C.
Ellis had been in Washington when he received the text. But since he had been summoned to New Hampshire, that meant whoever he was meeting was senior to him and already up in the area—why make Mr. Important travel when you can put the young grunt on a plane just as easily? The rest area was only fifty miles north of Boston, so maybe the senior agent was in Boston. But if so, why not meet in the city? It was more likely the agent was in one of two places: at a ski resort in the northern mountains or at Dartmouth, probably consulting with one of the many intelligence community operatives with ties to the college. Either way, Ellis’s bathroom buddy would be traveling south on Route 93 to Hooksett. Probably.
At 5:55 Ellis kicked the slush off his boots and entered the southbound rest stop’s men’s room. He stopped at the sink to eye himself in the mirror—his stylist had lightened his hair and given him what she called a ‘Brit-rock indie’ cut, sweeping all his hair forward so that thick waves of his blond-tinged orange locks kissed his eyebrows. Not bad. And it screamed slacker rather than soldier, so it made for a good cover.
He kicked open both stall doors. Leaning against the wall of the stall closest to the door, he killed time playing Words With Friends on his iPhone. If Mr. Important were in the northbound rather than the southbound stalls, well, it might just cost Ellis that promotion he had been waiting on.
Ten minutes later a large pair of duck boots approached and trudged into the end stall. The man cleared his throat. “You a Patriots fan?” Deep voice, New York accent. And a bit of a wheeze. So probably not a skier.
“Yup. Also the Redskins.”
“Me too.” A lie. Probably a Giants fan. But they both understand the Washington reference. Duck Boots coughed. “First things first: This meeting never happened.”
“Understood.” Great. That meant if he fucked up, he would take the fall. Alone. But the opposite was also probably true—this was an important assignment, success at which would likely advance his career.
“We need Smoot to produce that fuel cell. He’s a goddamn Einstein when it comes to this stuff. I’m talking decades ahead of everyone else.”
Ellis had been assigned the case a year ago—from what he’d read in the file, the government had harassed Smoot, put him in jail, even convinced a judge to keep his kid away from him. Smoot simply didn’t want to help. “With all due respect, I think Smoot is unreachable. He’s living in some desert compound. The last thing he wants to do is help the government. I think he’d rather take it down.”
“Kid, listen to me: The damn Chinese are close to figuring this out themselves. This is bigger than putting the first man on the moon. Almost as big as getting the A-bomb. Whoever perfects this technology can cut their oil needs in half, maybe more. And then patent and sell the technology to the rest of the world. Right now China has the people and the Arabs have the oil. But if China figures out this fuel cell first, all that money that goes to the Towel Heads now ends up in the pockets of the Chinks.” He coughed again. “You combine all that money with all those people, well, it’s only a matter of time before we’re eating apple pie with chopsticks and washing their laundry.”
Ellis didn’t know much about fuel cell technology other than the cells, unlike batteries, needed a constant source of energy. But unlike batteries they could, with this energy source, run forever. The key was to find a fuel source that was both economical and practical. Hydrogen was one promising possibility as a fuel source, but nobody had been able to make it work in the real world. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Son, let me be clear here: You are to do whatever the fuck it is you need to do to get Smoot to build that fuel cell. Blow him, bribe him, brainwash him, boil him in a vat of hot oil—I don’t give a shit.” Duck Boots hit the flush lever. “There are no rules on this one, understand?”
“Yes, sir. No rules.”
“And no excuses, either.”
The professor left to go teach a class, but not before Cam elicited a promise that he would email a short report summarizing his findings later that morning. Cam wanted to lock down the professor’s conclusions as soon as possible, knowing that at some point the professor would be pressured to reconsider his findings by those who refused to entertain the possibility of Europeans in America before Columbus.
Cam phoned Amanda. “You’re going to want to see this. Take a cab. Text when you get close—I’ll meet you out front.” In the meantime he examined the other artifacts. Many of them were unadorned spears and knives, but a half dozen others contained Roman and Hebrew inscriptions along with various Jewish symbols such as menorahs and Jewish stars. Thankfully he didn’t have to resort to his rudimentary knowledge of either Latin or Hebrew—a manuscript summarizing the history of the artifacts, complete with photos and maps, lay on one of the carts. It had probably taken some graduate student an entire semester to compile, and from the way the pages stuck together there hadn’t been more than a handful of eyes that had ever seen the inside of it. Cam thumbed through and found the translation of each of the artifacts and summarized them in his notebook.
Essentially, the inscriptions carved onto the artifacts related the history of a group of Roman Jews who relocated to the Gaul region of France around AD 400 and later, in approximately AD 775, journeyed to a land they called ‘Calalus’—maps carved on the artifacts identified Calalus as the American southwest. As was the case with many Jews of this period, they had begun to become Christianized as a way to assimilate and avoid persecution, but also maintained many of their Jewish traditions. They fought many wars with the local people, whom they called the Toltecs, eventually defeating them and ruling for more than 100 years. Finally, in AD 880, their leader named Israel III freed the Toltecs, a decision which caused his people to condemn and eventually ostracize him. The now-free Toltecs, on the other hand, venerated Israel III for liberating them. When Israel III died, war again broke out, this time catastrophically for the French Jews who were defeated and presumably killed and/or enslaved. The last record, telling of this final battle, was dated AD 895.
When Cam finished writing his summary, he glanced through other sections of the bound manuscript, focusing on the reports written in the 1920s. Amanda texted, interru
pting him. “We’re about five minutes away.”
Instead of going directly to the lobby, Cam found an empty office overlooking the street. He peered through the window. Expos hat had moved to a park bench and was now reading a newspaper; every few seconds he glanced up at the front door of the building. Cam studied him—fifty-something, tall and lanky, prominent Adam’s apple to go along with the big ears Amanda had noticed, probably not military or law enforcement based on his slouched posture and slovenly appearance. Cam eyed him for a few more seconds, sighed and made his way to the lobby. Trying to act nonchalant, he exited the building as the taxi pulled up, greeted his family and escorted them to the conference room. Expos hat watched them but didn’t budge.
Feeling safer once inside the building, Cam showed them the artifacts and explained the geology.
“Extraordinary,” Amanda said. “You’d have to be loony to argue against this kind of hard science.”
Astarte crossed her arms. “Why would anyone argue? Uncle Jefferson knows about this already. He says the Native Americans told him the white men have been coming here for thousands of years.” She often referred to her uncle in the present tense, as if he were still alive. It made Cam want to lift her in his arms and hug her.
Cam nodded. “Isn’t there a legend about it?” he asked. Astarte was part Native American herself. “Something about a white god arriving from across the Atlantic?” Cam wanted to get back to the artifacts, but he also wanted to let Astarte have her say.
The girl nodded. “I think his name was Gloop-cat.”
“Is it Glooscap?” Amanda asked.
“Yes. Glooscap. He had fire-colored hair and rode a giant bird with one white wing. Uncle Jefferson says that was his sailboat.” She swallowed. “Glooscap taught the Native Americans how to fish with nets. My uncle thinks he was really Prince Henry.” Some historians believed Prince Henry Sinclair led an expedition from Scotland to eastern Canada and New England in 1398, leaving in his wake the Westford Knight carving and other evidence Cam and Amanda had studied.
“Did he come as far as Arizona?” Amanda asked.
“No, but others did. Before him. All the Native Americans know about it. So do the Mormons.”
“Fascinating,” Amanda said. “Good job remembering all that, Astarte.”
The girl grinned. “Uncle Jefferson says if I’m going to be princess, I need to remember all the stories.” According to Astarte’s uncle, the girl carried the blood lines of King David, Jesus, Isis, the prophet Mohammed and Mormon founder Joseph Smith in her veins. And he claimed to have ancient artifacts and documents to prove it. The uncle had told Astarte she carried more holy blood than anyone in the world, and that her destiny was to unite the world under one religion. Not too much pressure.
Amanda squeezed Astarte’s shoulder and turned to Cam. “So what is it that caused everyone to say these artifacts were a hoax in the first place?”
“You know, when they were first found, most of the scientists and academics who examined the site believed the artifacts were authentic. The dean of the University of Arizona was convinced, and so was the guy the Smithsonian sent out here. They were on site when pieces were being dug out of the desert, six feet deep. The artifacts were imbedded in thick desert crust called caliche, which takes decades to form and is almost as hard as concrete.”
“So what changed their minds?”
“For the dean, I think it was just simple expediency. The two local papers took opposing positions on the artifacts, and one of them was beating him up pretty good about being gullible. Plus all the Ivy League guys were treating him like a country bumpkin for believing that Dark Age Europeans were exploring Arizona, of all places. So finally he just said nobody could prove it either way and stopped talking about it.”
“And that was it?”
“Yup. People moved on and the artifacts were put in storage.”
Amanda smiled. “Until you popped in for a visit.”
CHAPTER 2
Using Interstate 10 as a directional marker, and cruising at about twice the speed of the cars below, Willum flew northwest out of Tucson. He couldn’t let his mind wander too much—the Interstate 10 corridor was infamous for its desert wind microbursts and resulting dust clouds. From his high vantage point Willum could usually see the burst coming in the form of tumbleweeds racing across the desert, like something out of the old Roadrunner cartoon. Today, for now, all seemed serene and he covered the sixty miles in a half hour.
He had made the trip dozens of times but always grinned like a thirteen-year-old spying his uncle’s stash of Playboy magazines at the sight of his domed compound rising out of the desert in Casa Grande. And it wasn’t just one breast—the compound consisted of a series of massive interconnected domes. Five domes were strung together like a caterpillar in the rear of the complex. An underground tunnel connected this group of domes to another set of four domes which in turn linked to a final set of four more domes. At the front of the complex, abutting a rural highway and partially hiding the thirteen domes from view, sat a flying-saucer-like structure.
The compound had originally been built as an electronic assembly plant—the domes housed the production lines and the saucer the corporate offices. The plant had never been finished, and the domes and saucer had sat unused for decades save for teenagers drinking beer and telling ghost stories. Many locals believed the place was haunted. Willum had purchased the complex almost three years ago, paying a half million dollars for what had become a run-down and obsolete set of buildings sitting on sixteen acres in the middle of nowhere.
He could have negotiated a better deal, but it was perfect for his needs and he had more money than he knew what to do with—besides, it probably wouldn’t be long before society imploded and money would be worthless. Gold would retain its value, as of course would food and water and the means to produce them. Otherwise those who survived would need two things: weapons and the ability to produce electricity. So after sinking a deep well for water and installing a massive generator and the solar panels needed to power it, Willum loaded one of the domes with truckloads full of bottled water, military meals known as MRE’s and other non-perishables. Another dome he stocked with a few dozen assault rifles, a hundred handguns and enough ammunition for both, along with machetes, gasmasks and first aid supplies, including potassium iodide anti-radiation pills. He then surrounded the compound with a thick, twenty-foot high concrete wall along the street side, an iron gate and guardhouse at the entrance, and an electrified fence around the remaining perimeter. Finally, he converted the rest of his money to gold bullion, set up a satellite dish so he could watch live sports and keep abreast of the news, and waited.
Not that this was how he had planned to live his life. He had expected his mid-life crisis to be like most others—a sports car, maybe a new job, perhaps even a young girlfriend. But a fortified, armed compound in the middle of the desert while waiting for society to collapse? No.
It never had to come to this. Or perhaps it was inevitable. Working in a small lab outside Cleveland, he had invented a sophisticated fuel cell that he sold to General Electric. The Department of Defense, convinced the technology had some invaluable military applications, invited him to work with them. Willum considered the offer and passed. But apparently the request from DOD was more like a summons—when Willum didn’t respond he got a terse letter from the IRS. He had paid capital gains taxes of approximately six million dollars on the twenty-six million dollar profit from the GE deal. One would think that would have been enough. But the IRS demanded more, Willum refused to pay while also refusing to work for DOD, the IRS took him to court, some judge ruled against him, Willum stubbornly continued to refuse to pay … and found himself in jail.
Before he could even file an appeal, his wife divorced him and took his son and half his money; the government grabbed another four million for itself. He was left with a decent nest egg of about six million, a criminal record and a giant chip on his shoulder. All because he ref
used to work for a government that as a child he had pledged allegiance to, as a Marine had fought for, as a young adult had begun to question, as a businessman had come to dislike, and finally as a middle-age man had grown to abhor.
While in jail he did a lot of reading, and a lot of thinking. Without the distractions of everyday life, he came to see the corruption of the federal government and its inevitable collapse. Government in America no longer served the populace but rather had become a living, voracious being itself—it existed to serve the vast numbers of people who worked for it. And to ensure that the electorate never turned on it, it handed out entitlement payments—bribes, really—to a huge percentage of the population. Life in America had become an Ayn Rand novel.
Like Rome, the greatness of America had passed. And like Rome, the fallout from its inevitable collapse would probably usher in a Dark Ages-like period of lawlessness, poverty and general regression.
So Willum began to plan for the ugliness looming around the corner. It might be three years, it might be thirteen, it might be thirty. But collapse would come. He hoped it would be later rather than sooner—he wanted his nine-year-old son Gregory to have as normal a childhood as possible. Not that Willum had been allowed to play much part in it. He was entitled to one day of visitation every two weeks, his ex-wife having convinced the Family Court judge that a felon living in an armed desert compound was an inappropriate role model for Gregory. Of all the things the feds had done to him, this was the most … inhumane. Taking a child away from a parent, influencing that child to see the parent as some kind of monster—it was beyond wicked. His ex-wife had allowed him one hour of trick-or-treating this year with Gregory—the boy dressed as Harry Potter and Willum as the hulking, bearded, kind-hearted Hagrid. But only one hour?
Powdered Gold: Templars and the American Ark of the Covenant (Templars in America Series Book 3) Page 3
