Incarnate: Mars Origin I Series Book III

by Abby L. Vandiver

  “Maybe you should take one. If you enjoy them. I don’t think protecting your health will be a concern after tonight.”

  The Father shook his head and the man put the cigarettes back in his pocket.

  “I came because I was curious to know what you’ve been up to,” the Father said and smiled. “Now I know it was something you had no business doing.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “A friend of mine has been troubled needlessly because of your actions.”

  “We know all about your Dr. Justin Dickerson. Archaeologist. Discoverer of our thousand year old secret. Senator Cook needed information, we knew how to provide it. If it wasn’t for me, Justin Dickerson would have never had an audience with the Bilderberg Group. And that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? You should be happy about it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Look, Father Chandra. Let’s just cut the crap. You won’t make it out of here tonight if you insist on worrying me with this bull. She was going to let the cat out of the bag, whenever she got the guts to do it. We just pushed that event along.” He stared into the Father’s eyes and raised an eyebrow. “But once she hands over what the Senator wants, we won’t need her anymore.”

  “You’re full of threats tonight.” The Father ran his tongue over his top lip and his fingers through his hair. “Even threatening me.”

  “Only out of respect, Father. Anyone else I wouldn’t have warned them before I took them out.”

  “The problem is Bruce Cook,” the Father said, not acknowledging the man’s comment. “I’ve had a look at what’s he’s planning to do and it can’t happen. This can’t happen through him. And after speaking with you,” he looked around the room, “my other problem is your cavalier attitude toward Dr. Dickerson. I can’t have that, either.”

  “Too late.” The man nodded at his dressed-in-Sunday-go-to-meeting clothed goons. “Too late for you and too late for your Dr. Dickerson. I hope you’ve said your prayers, Father.” He looked at the rust-colored-suit goon and said, “Not here. Take him somewhere else.”

  The Father had tried hard not to ever have Justin in harm’s way, at least not from his own people. He had initiated her contact with the Bilderberg Group. And now, any danger she was in with them was because of him.

  “Our secret was very sacred,” the Father said, almost in a whisper. “And I will be sure to pray for your soul for breaking that covenant before I leave.”

  The Father took one step forward so that he stood in back of the unrepentant man. He swept his leg underneath the man, dropping him to his knees, and in one swift movement the Father wrapped his left arm around the man’s neck, and placed his right hand on the left side of his head and jerked. The loud crack of the man’s vertebrae breaking, ripping his spinal cord in half was a sudden and unexpected move by a man of the cloth and made the suited-down goons hesitate – a hesitation that gave the Father time to reach underneath his jacket and pull his gun, fitted with a silencer, from his waistband.

  The guy that stood closet to Nikhil lunged at him, throwing his weight against him, and they both slammed into the wall. The Father, struggling against the man’s weight, raised the gun to the man’s temple and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit, exploding into the side of his face, tearing away skin and bone. As the goon started to collapse, the Father turned him around and lifted him up with one hand to act as a shield. The dead goon took a shot to the chest from the last goon standing that was meant for the Father.

  Nikhil Chandra pulled the trigger again. This bullet went straight through the goon’s heart. The Father dropped the dead body shield, adjusted his collar and straightened out his suit. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a white stole with gold applique along the bottom edges. He gently unfolded it, kissed it and placed it around his neck. Stepping over the man who had provided him shield, he walked over to the man who had initiated all of this needless bloodshed.

  The Father kneeled down on one knee, and kissed the dead man’s cheek. He made the sign of a cross on the man’s forehead with oil he fished out of the same pocket he’d got the stole. He leaned in close and whispered, “Through this holy unction may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed . . .” Then he crossed himself.

  Chapter Six

  NASA Langley Research Center

  Hampton, Virginia

  He chuckled and glanced up at Mark Phillips. “It does look like a thigh bone. You think those little green Martians have an anatomy that similar to ours?” He flipped through the next few photos.

  Much to the chagrin of Dr. Mark Phillips, the MastCam from the Curiosity rover NASA sent to Mars had sent back a picture that a UFO blogger got hold of. He had posted it on his blog claiming that the image in the picture was a human femur. Dr. Frank Williams, whom he had asked to come by his lab to have a look at the photo, wasn’t making things better.

  Both were well-respected NASA scientists. Mark Phillips had been in charge of the Mars’ Space Mission programs for more than twenty years and team leader of the Mission Mars space team. Frank was a well-seasoned biologist, who thought out of the box and had a wealth of knowledge from which to draw.

  “I don’t believe that there is such a thing as a Martian, Frank. And that’s not why I asked you to take a look at these pictures.” Dr. Phillips reached out his hand to retrieve the pictures.

  Frank, leaning across the table, stood up and pivoted away from Dr. Phillips, keeping him from getting the photos. “I mean look, you can see it here.” He ran his finger over the tip of the object in the picture. “It does resemble the head of the femur right where it articulates with the acetabulum in the pelvic bone. It looks a little deformed, but. . .”

  “You sound like that crackpot blogger and his readers. We’ve already had to get a handle on this - release some of our photos and put out an official explanation. We can’t have one of our own on board with the UFO nut jobs.” Mark looked at Frank and shook his head.

  Frank’s face showed the amusement he got from the conversation. “I think “enthusiasts” would be a better term to describe them. ‘Crackpot’ is a little harsh, don’t you think? What’s our official statement?”

  “Quote. ‘NASA’s Mission Mars science team members believe that the shape of the object in the image is likely sculpted by erosion - either wind or water. And although the rock does resemble a thigh bone it is unequivocally not.’ End quote.” Mark raised his eyebrow as if asking for approval.

  “That sounds official, and believable enough to me.” Frank handed the pictures over. “So why did you want to show me the pictures?”

  “Well, I’m sure in time, these images would have gotten to your department, but I just wanted to get a leg up on what you think this thing could be.” Mark grinned. “No pun intended.”

  “No pun taken. Your explanation sounds good. Rock that’s been eroded. What’s wrong with going with that?”

  “I don’t mean an explanation for the public. I mean one for me. One for science. We do have to look at the probability that it could be something else. Something other than rock. Especially with some of the observations we’re getting back from the soil analyses.”

  “I don’t get it. You have a problem with life on other planets? NASA is on board with the possibility. How can you not be?”

  “NASA’s stance is that in the next fifteen to twenty years we will find evidence of life on other planets. In other solar systems.” He looked hard at Frank. “And I’m down with that. I believe that there is life out there somewhere. But not in this solar system. Not on Mars.”

  Frank laughed. “Oh. Just not this close to home.”

  “Exactly. Think of the ramifications. Mars is only a billion years ahead of us. If in that time it could have spawned life, evolved to the level of hosting intelligent beings and then become the desolate, lifeless planet we know today, what will happened to Earth? How long do we have? I don’t want to think like that. But to explain that to the people on this pla
net – that would undoubtedly create a mass panic. And I definitely don’t want to be responsible for anything like that.”

  “I see your point.” Frank stuck out his hand. “Let me see those pictures again.” Holding them close to his face, turning the pictures at different angles, he squinted his eyes and studied each one.

  Mark pulled up a chair with wheels, sat down and crossed his arms while he waited for Frank to take a second look at the images. Clad in a white lab coat, pants shiny from years of washing and pressing and rubber soled shoes, he spun around in the chair and surveyed his lab to keep his mind occupied. He didn’t want to let on to Frank his anxiety over the photos.

  The lab was large. It had high walls with large vents along the top. There were charts and maps of Mars’ surface stacked on metal shelves. In the center of the lab were prototypes and models of Mars’ vehicles –past and present. And covering practically every inch of wall space were pictures taken by rovers from the Mars program spanning the last seventeen years. Other than sharing office space with two assistants, the lab belonged to Mark. He was good at what he did and he didn’t often need validation. And while there was always a possibility of finding some life form on the planet, human life had always seemed far-fetched. At least he hoped it was.

  “What kind of data have you got from the soil surrounding it?” Frank asked while studying the picture under a magnifying glass.

  “Inconclusive.”

  “Inconclusive?” He looked up at Mark. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I need to double check that ‘eroded rock’ is really what it is.”

  “Tell me about the soil analysis.”

  Mark took in a deep breath and let it out through his nostrils. “Soil carbon and some other stuff.”

  “Stuff.” Frank chuckled. He laid the pictures on the counter top and looked at Mark. “Was it animal decaying stuff like phosphorus?”

  Mark nodded his head.

  “Potassium?”

  Mark lowered his eyes and nodded again.

  “Calcium, maybe some magnesium?”

  “Look, Frank. I just want some ideas on what this could be other than an eroded rock.”

  “And other than a femur.” Frank said in acknowledgment. He picked the pictures back up and glanced over them again.

  “Right. And I don’t want the increase in soil carbon and nitrogen or any of the other ‘stuff’ that was found to be used as a basis for what it could be.”

  Frank frowned. “You don’t want to use the scientific evidence you have to determine what it is? That sounds a bit off.”

  “Well, I’m feeling a bit off. I’d rather get some ideas on what else it could be and then work backwards from there to see if that’s what it is.”

  “That is the most unscientific thing I have ever heard.” Frank laughed hard. “You sound like a ten year old with a new chemistry set rather than a NASA Ph.D. scientist.”

  “Yeah. Well.”

  “Not much to say on that, huh, Mark?” Mark didn’t answer. “You know, the more I listen to you, the more I think it is a thigh bone.” Frank laid the photos back down on the counter.

  “I’m sorry I asked for your help.” Mark gathered up the pictures and stuck them back in the brown folder.

  “Don’t be. Send me a copy of the pictures and the soil analysis for the surrounding area I’ll play your little unscientific game. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “Thanks, Frank.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. If we’re ruling eroded rock out, I’m still leaning toward a thigh bone.” He patted Mark on the shoulder. “I’ll stop by around one-one thirty and pick you up for lunch. Maybe I’ll have some ideas for you then.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

  Mark watched Frank leave the room, then took the brown folder with the pictures and walked over to a file cabinet in his office.

  “Why didn’t you tell him how the makeup of elements in the soil not only shows animal decay, but it shows decay that is much more recent than when we believe any life could have been sustained on the planet?” A voice came from behind him.

  Dr. Phillips pulled open the file cabinet. He laid the brown folder on top and reached into the back of the drawer and pulled out a thick manila envelope.

  “You know,” he said not turning to look at the person standing behind him. “I haven’t looked at this in years.” He laid the thick folder on a table near the cabinet. “I mulled over it when we first got it. Not really putting a lot of thought into the possibilities or the ramifications of those possibilities. I followed protocol. I turned the information over to the Pentagon. But then I convinced myself that it couldn’t be true and I shipped it out to the archives. I instructed that it be put as far back, and as deep down in the unit as it could go. Preferably to stay buried there forever.” Dr. Phillips finally looked at his research assistant who had been in an office inside the lab throughout his conversation with Frank Williams. Evidently, he had heard the entire conversation.

  “What is it?”

  “After I got these new pictures – the eroded rock . . .” He smiled. “I had this file brought back over to my office.” He stroked the top page of the papers in the folder.

  “What is it? Is it more pictures of what you think are skeletal remains?”

  “No. But it is more evidence of life on Mars.”

  “We already have evidence of life on Mars. Microbial life and nothing more.”

  “This may prove that there was more.”

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Back in 1997,” he looked at his research assistant and wished that somehow he could just make this all go away. “Back in 1997 we found evidence of nuclear activity on Mars.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, and not the kind you can explain away with atmospheric contents, or naturally occurring reactions. Believe me.”

  “Well what kind was it?”

  “The kind that can only be explained with the intervention of some higher being.”

  “Like humans.”

  “Like humans.”

  “Are you going to do anything with that information?” The research assistant took the folder out of Dr. Phillips hands and opened it up.

  “Yes. I already have done something.” He sat down at his desk and rubbed his hands over his face. “I did the only thing I knew to do.”

  Chapter Seven

  Cleveland, Ohio

  From the time we left my office in Mather Memorial on Bellflower, I felt like we were being followed. I tried to shake it off, but it wasn’t working.

  My son, a lawyer in my brother Greg’s law firm, had come for lunch. I wasn’t teaching this semester. I had taken a sabbatical to do research.

  The knot in my stomach and bad feelings I got when I first felt our stalkers’ presence seemed not to want to go away. Maybe the queasiness didn’t mean the two men I’d spotted were following us. Perhaps Elaina’s words playing in the back of my mind wasn’t what was really causing me to be nervous. Maybe what I felt was just the jitters because I was going to finally tell my son about what I had discovered in two thousand year old manuscripts found with the Dead Sea Scrolls in the caves at Qumran.

  I was going to tell him the truth about man’s origin.

  I guess I should call it my “theory” of man’s origin, but in my mind I had enough evidence that the “concept” was so much more. It was reality.

  We turned off Bellflower, leaving the hubbub of Case Western Reserve University’s campus and walked up Ford Avenue. I noticed that a third man, seemingly attached to the two following me, had parked and was getting out of a black Ford Escape. It was a newer model, with heavily tinted windows and like the man that exited it, it looked ominous. The man had on black boots, black pants, black leather gloves and jacket, and wore a short-cropped hair cut. He was at least six-feet tall and muscular. I thought the only thing missing was him having beady little eyes, which he could have had. I wasn’t able to see
them though his dark sunglasses.

  Man. Elaina’s phone call sure was making me paranoid. Beady eyes? Sheesh.

  Micah and I were heading to Club Isabella’s for lunch. It was a good fifteen minute walk. I had figured I would need all the time I could get to tell my son what I knew. So I had suggested he park his car and we “enjoy the weather” of the unusually warm October afternoon. We reached the traffic light on Euclid and now halfway to the restaurant, I found myself hedging around the issue.

  Those guys following us, if they were following us, were making me nervous. I couldn’t collect my thoughts. I swiped at a single drop of sweat that trickled down the side of my face. A dull ache in my temple was agitating my sensibilities and a slight tremble had become apparent in my hands. I had to concentrate to try and even out my breathing.

  I turned to look for the SUV and the two men. Locating them, I saw that there were no more than twenty feet behind me. Turning back I tried to push them out of my mind.

  Who says they’re following me? I just need to stay calm.

  Swallowing hard and not letting my rapidly rising fear tumble over into my voice, I tried to have the conversation with Micah. “So what do you think about humans, living maybe a hundred thousand years ago, being more technologically advanced than we are today? I think it’s possible.”

  “What? That’s sounds crazy.”

  We had reached the corner of Euclid and Ford and even though the character in the signal had changed from the red-lit palmed hand to the white body walking, I hadn’t moved. My son Micah had started crossing but when he turned with his “What?” he saw I still standing on the curb.

  “What are you doing,” he said, hurrying back over to me.

  “You’re being closed minded,” I said, not budging when he grabbed my arm to guide me across the street. “I thought as an attorney you were supposed to be able to look at both sides of an argument.”

  He cupped his hand tighter and pulled me out into the street. “C’mon, Mom. You don’t want to be stuck in the middle of Euclid Avenue when the light changes.”