The Fifth Codex

by J. A. Ginegaw

  THE FIFTH CODEX

  When Gods Walked Among Us:

  Volume One

  ALSO BY J.A. GINEGAW

  The Gift from Poseidon

  When Gods Walked Among Us: Volume 2

  A Crimson Shadow Cast (Early 2016)

  When Gods Walked Among Us: Volume 3

  The Gryphon Exodus (Late 2016)

  When Gods Walked Among Us: Volume 4

  THE FIFTH CODEX

  BY

  J.A. GINEGAW

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY

  TIFFANY KUAN

  When Gods Walked Among Us:

  Volume One

  Text Copyright © 2015 by J.A. Ginegaw

  Illustrations Copyright © 2015 by Tiffany Kuan

  The events and incidents contained in this publication can be neither confirmed nor denied in either their totality or their partiality. It can be confirmed, however, that they are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Furthermore, any resemblance of characters to actual persons – known to be living, barely living, almost dead, or confirmed dead – is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-1515239529

  ISBN-10: 1515239527

  The Fifth Codex • Kindle Edition

  For ALEXYS,

  Who can do what so few can.

  For ALEXYANNA,

  Who asks all the questions.

  For ALEXANDER,

  Who has all the answers.

  For NANCY,

  Who holds our family together.

  CONTENTS

  MAPS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  And So It Begins

  TWO

  The Bottom of the World

  THREE

  First Impressions

  FOUR

  Down the Rabbit Hole

  FIVE

  An Unexpected Guest

  SIX

  The Fifth Codex

  SEVEN

  Convincing Our Doubting Thomas

  EIGHT

  I See Dead People

  NINE

  Found in Translation

  TEN

  Incognita No More

  ELEVEN

  The Knowing Time

  TWELVE

  Rise

  THIRTEEN

  Gorgynna’s Gambit

  FOURTEEN

  Magnificence Enslaved

  FIFTEEN

  Aftermath

  SIXTEEN

  Spooked

  SEVENTEEN

  Into the Future of the Past

  Has something so small and of such few words ever dared ask so much? If not so young at the time, would I have ever dared answer? Upon reading this scripted message, a welcome shiver courses through my being. Again. Just as always. My mind grounded in the days that are, my heart longing for the days that were; this shiver joins hands with countless other wisps of frost yet to leave and that I pray never will.

  But a narrow strip of parchment – fragile, easy to destroy, easier to lose – its physical presence overpowers me. Graceful handwriting brings to light the grandness of the sweeping quest to find the world that existed before the one I now know. The parchment holding these words – faded, yellowed – makes clear that the awaited discovery is from a time long ago. And long forgotten.

  Almost thirty years have passed since this parchment and its adventurous taunt first graced my fingertips. It happened right here in my posh London home. Handing these inviting words and a bronze key to me, my dying grand-mère decided the fate of her spoiled, but bold, nine-year-old petite fille. This key unlocked a secret family vault that housed the most beautiful object my eyes – even to this day – have ever gazed upon: the Mermaid Codex.

  Its richly engraved cover, pure gold laden with precious jewels, keeps safe its scripted copper plates. I could not decipher its language then, but this golden cover made clear to me there were four more codices still to find. And find them I did. The first grasped in my right hand, the second by theft, the third and fourth by the offering of my free hand, the fifth entombed at the bottom of the world.

  This beautiful parchment, this lifetime of adventure it sent me on, this day I finally accept the fulfillment of its fantastic request … we meet again, we meet at last.

  Chapter One

  AND SO IT BEGINS

  Upon the early afternoon of February 26th and having just whisked my husband of barely a year off to yet another charitable mission, I find myself happily alone. Not ‘happily’, in that I have finally rid myself of my beloved Philippe for a while, but ‘happily’ to have some weeks now to my own doing. Especially for the fiercely independent, marriage takes a good bit of getting used to. My husband a practicing surgeon, his calling is to help others abroad in need. As if ‘free of charge’ is all the money in the world, Philippe has dedicated his life to doing so.

  A good part of this frantic day spent at Heathrow, I look forward to the peace and quiet of my west London maisonette. That I feel more at ease in this humble eleven-room apartment than my sprawling estate in France is in no way an insult to my home country. Grand memories of my current surroundings warming me as if a crackling fire, I simply have not the will to abandon such comfort.

  This home was a gift from my mother two decades ago. One of many she owned, it was one less to cause her worry. It also served as the background to a good many days of my childhood – including the day I remember most. The maisonette and every furnishing given to me on my 18th birthday – aside from the library – I have changed nothing since. Concerning this one vast room I treasure above all others, the faded script handed down to me demanded I change everything.

  Made to be both indestructible and impossible to break into, the library cost more to make this way than the apartment itself is worth. Millions more. What it keeps safe, however, is priceless. A most special place that guards six precious possessions, this fortress-like room is my sanctuary. Although I must soon allow it, even my own husband has yet to see its insides. The rest of my home quite modern, if not for the library’s many security measures, its mahogany bookshelves lined with ancient books and furniture centuries old would fit right in with the Renaissance period.

  And it is in the solitude of this realm I cherish more than any other when I hear an uninvited pounding on my door. Any visitors always called to my attention by the loyal doorman; for the first time ever, he fails to do so. A polished apple in one hand, with the other I push my darkened glasses onto my face. As fate would have it, I still wear my leather trench coat. I pull its waist belt tight, warily approach the door, and slowly open it. Two well-decorated messengers staring back at me is my first clue that a thorny encounter beckons.

  “Your orders, ma’am,” the highest-ranking of the two says firmly.

  In their handsome service working dress uniforms, they are as tall as I am, and both look to be just a few years past my age. Black hair peppered with grey peeks out from under the brigadier’s cover. His arm as stiff as a board, he holds out a baby blue envelope.

  “Orders?” I return in disbelief. Although the fact-finding ears of a medically trained doctor and linguist hear this, I stare back blankly as if I have misheard him. “Have I been drafted?”

  “No, ma’am,” the brigadier answers. “You have been called upon by those who need you most. Again.”

  “Ah, glad to know I have been remembered,” I reply quickly. Considering ‘those who need me most’, I frown slightly. In turn, my tone turns a bit wary. “Since when does the RAF demand that a brigadier and his colonel act as mere messengers?”

  “Your orders, ma’am,” t
he colonel repeats. This one to my right; until now, he has been little more than a fair-haired statue. I slowly take the envelope into my nervous hands knowing one absolute all too well: To break the envelope’s seal is to be bound by the orders’ directive.

  “Merci, noble protector of the crown. But as a married woman proudly birthed in le drapeau de la France, please refer to me as Madame if you must.” I spin around to close the door.

  “Yes, ma’am!” the colonel replies excitedly as he sticks his left foot in my door to block it.

  As I back away with a cheeky smile, the two let themselves in and close the door. I sneak a quick look to ensure I had remembered to seal off the library. Seeing the nearly meter thick carbon steel door fully closed leads to a good measure of relief. Looking down at the sealed envelope still in my hand swiftly steals some of this relief away. Unbuttoned holsters on the hip of each officer holding a weapon swipes clean the rest.

  “Pardon our intrusion, but we are to escort you to RAF Mildenhall when you are ready,” the brigadier tells me. “As you have much to bring and others who need to be informed as to where you are off to … we have our orders as well.”

  I stare into the eyes of one officer and then into the eyes of the other. And as I do so, I consider carefully my next words and the actions they might initiate.

  “Concerning this envelope I now hold,” I begin slowly, “does either of you know what these orders say or where they direct me to go?”

  Both shake his head, but say nothing. I turn away from them for a quick moment. During this brief pause, I slyly untie the belt holding closed my leather trench coat. Next, I spin around to meet lying eyes telling the truth their mouths seek to hide.

  “LIARS!”

  With a drawn Glock 26 pointing at each face, these two should find dishonesty a bit harder going forward. Along with the blue envelope, I had dropped the scrumptious apple I so want to finish and it now rolls aimlessly across the floor.

  “Ah, ah, ah … I would not go there if I were you, Colonel.” My tone is high-pitched, nervously excited. It has been quite awhile – close to two years – since last in a position such as this.

  Close to gripping his gun, the colonel wisely raises his hands slightly up and away from his body. Relieved by this, I take in a trio of deep breaths. They appear nervous, rightly so, but not overly frightened.

  “Pardon me for saying so, gentleman, but your hefty rank has made certain you are no longer fast enough to pull your Browning Hi-Powers in time. At least, not before I have the chance to turn your faces into a fleshy crème brûlée. Considering this, I think it best to be truthful and convince me to lower my own. You know the drill.”

  Dutifully acknowledging ‘the drill’, each slowly places his hands on his head. Both of their covers fall to the floor as they do this. An overall lack of fear makes me wonder if perhaps these officers are used to such treatment.

  “Your file suggests you are both brilliant and accomplished,” the brigadier says, “but easily unhinged, unpredictable. Maybe it is a bit too gentle and in need of updating?”

  “Perhaps,” I smirk back. I would choose different words with the barrel of a gun directly in line with my face, but then, that is just me. “Did you get to the part where, upon doing what my country last begged of me, I spent nine weeks locked away in an Angolan prison?”

  His wary eyes turn sad; those of the colonel do likewise. For the moment at least, I have little fear these two will attempt anything on the wrong side of stupid.

  “No,” the brigadier says in a soft voice. “No I did not.”

  “Did not get past the first page, I see. It is a shame how those above you refuse to allow the reading of the whole file to discover this and a good many other juicy tidbits. If not for a Mossad agent disobeying orders and my brilliant soldiers who rescued me, I might still be there. How I landed in that diseased sinkhole in the first place … the day started out much like this one.”

  “We are honorable officers of the RAF,” the brigadier protests, “and intend to keep our honor, no matter what queen or country asks of us.”

  “Yes, well, queen and country – their goals especially – are often quite different. Before our end comes, someone corrupts us at least once in our lives. Even if, at the time, we have no idea another is doing the corrupting.” I let out a deep sigh in an attempt to sooth my nerves. In truth, this does nothing to help. “All in the name of fairness, I suppose; in a tragic sort of way, we all win a turn to do what is wrong, but for the right reasons.”

  Tiring of this babble mostly of my own doing, I recall the orders in the sealed envelope. Again focusing on what matters most, my reflective tone turns harsh. “Sit on the sofa there, hands up still,” I command while pointing with the handgun in my left hand. The two now doing as ordered, to pull their weapons now will be even more difficult. “Now, my dear friends; seated and comfortable – speak.”

  “We are to escort you to Mildenhall,” the brigadier begins slowly, “whether you choose to come with us or not. Concerning your orders, we know of only the continent where you will make contact with others. This is the truth.” His voice turns terse, “Your orders, Madame.”

  My eyes drift downward. I bend down slowly, scoop up the blue envelope from the hardwood floor, and toss it onto the marble table separating me from them.

  “Hands on the table if you would.” They do as told. “One of you will open the envelope without reading what is inside. After doing so, drop the empty envelope to the floor and leave the orders on the table.”

  The brigadier nods at the colonel to do this; he does so while I watch greedily. This whole episode, adrenaline pumping wildly, makes me near mad with eager anticipation.

  The revealed orders now on the table facing me, I slide out the cartridge from one weapon and kick it to my left. I then pitch aside as well the now unloaded handgun, but onto the couch to my right. One weapon still in hand, I slowly pick up the orders from the table. Knowing a bit of my history, these less than spry officers wisely keep still. The orders my disbelieving eyes read are shockingly simple, yet infinitely intriguing:

  REGARDING: The Incognita Project

  ICE CORE #1: 2016-01-23

  BLACK GRANITE fragments found only in

  mountains recovered from bedrock.

  ICE CORE #2: 2016-01-24

  BRONZE fragments recovered from bedrock.

  BRONZE: man-made alloy.

  LOCATION: 76°40′S 133°59′W

  Marie Byrd Land, Antarctica.

  DEPARTURE: 2016-02-27

  RAF Mildenhall, Suffolk, England.

  “Est-il possible …?” I gasp as I drop the orders to the hardwood floor a second time.

  “Rear Admiral Vanderbilt drew up these orders,” the colonel offers as if guessing my next question. “Three weeks ago, the US Navy named him commander of the US Antarctic Program.”

  I gawk at my friendly hostages before I hastily holster my remaining weapon. They slowly stand up and meet my incredulous gaze with still wary eyes.

  “Admiral Vanderbilt?” My tone is perhaps a bit too bitter, but wholly deserved. “Sérieusement! Why did you not tell me this earlier? Given information about me, did it not tell you that mentioning the Admiral just might be important?”

  “Apparently not,” they say together after a pause. With sheepish faces that match their voices, each looks away from me in opposite directions.

  “It certainly would have prevented a good bit of misunderstanding.” The brigadier speaks these words inside a long exhale that sounds almost painful.

  I pull out my holstered weapon again, slide out the cartridge, and hold each in a separate hand. “No hard feelings?” I plead with a goofy smile.

  “Provided you do not shoot us … no,” the brigadier responds dryly with an uneasy smirk.

  With this answer, I pitch both into a nearby pillow. Guns and cartridges tossed all about, I consider myself lucky I do not yet have children. Or even a pet.

  “Then I will come
most willingly,” I tell them in a cheery voice. I am mentally exhausted and they, judging by their faces, feel the same. But one option now lies before us: “Protocol, orders, proper procedure, be damned – I think we all need a drink!”

  I spring to the bar and pour three tulip glasses of my husband’s best Cognac. Considering that I almost never drink alcohol, I am rather proud of myself for finding it. A trying day turning blissful – I even chose the correct glasses! In blessed relief that this crazed woman with loaded guns has not shot them dead, the military officers join me.

  “To adventure in the frozen desert,” I toast.

  “To adventure,” the brigadier repeats in a grateful tone.

  They both grin back at me. The colonel’s drink gone in two swigs without even a smell or a swirl first, he suddenly shivers as if bathed in ice.

  “Antarctica, Madame Rothschild,” he chuckles as his teeth clatter, “along with your legionnaires and your wares, I think it best you bring your warmest furs!

  Chapter Two

  THE BOTTOM OF THE WORLD

  From England to Cape Town, South Africa, by way of RAF Mount Pleasant in the Falkland Islands: McMurdo Station draws close. Endless ice shimmering in the sunlight buries mountains up to their peaks. Soaring through the air in an orange C-17 Globemaster III, there is little else to see.