Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru

by Marshall Masters

  “And you are still as full of shit as ever,” Razumovsky snorted warmly as the two embraced. Razumovsky gave him a great hug and kissed his cheek. “I've missed you all these years. We could have done so many great things together, had you stayed in Russia."

  Bachtman shrugged his shoulders, “This is the life. What more can we say, so let's not bemoan the past. Now come with me. I have some ice cold Stolichnaya made under license here in Israel and some of my wife's incredible pickles and fresh baked bread. I have not lived here so long as to forget the simple pleasures of life."

  “Well, I hope you have enough for three because I've brought you another mouth to feed. My protg, Pavel Sergeevich Lebedev, my new replacement as the new Obninsk Centre Director.” The two men turned to see Lebedev descending the air stairs. Pavel extended his hand to Bachtman and the men introduced themselves.

  Strolling through the hanger, the two older men reminisced about old times with Lebedev in tow as they strolled through a doorway into one of the hangar offices, where they found a table heaped high with an assortment of fresh bread, pickles and freshly harvested, hydroponically grown vegetables. Off to one side, were several large buckets containing solid blocks of ice with large holes carved in the center, filled with bottles of Israeli-made vodka, chilled to perfection.

  “Bachtman you sly, old dog,” Razumovsky boomed, “you haven't been living in this miserable desert so long that you've forgotten how to make a man feel welcome."

  “It's nothing,” Bachtman demurred. “Just a few snacks.” He then nodded to his orderlies, which was their signal to leave the room. They would wait outside the door along with the crack Russian Spetznatz team assigned to guard Razumovsky and Lebedev.

  With a wink of an eye, the Israeli scientist set up a row of shot glasses on the table and filled them with the frosty, cold vodka. He handed a glass to Razumovsky, and Lebedev and the three men toasted their families, followed by another round, to the hopeful success of their meeting.

  “So what do you think of our vodka, Igor?"

  “Normal. Not bad."

  “You never give in a millimeter, do you?"

  “Only when I have to, old friend.” Mindful of their departure window, Razumovsky cut straight to the business at hand. “So tell me, have you read the proposal from our government?"

  “It was included in the briefing file prepared by the Mossad, but why are you coming all the way to visit me? Do you think I'm going to help you talk my government into giving away our most precious state secrets so you can destroy our Shofar 7 satellite in geosynchronous orbit?"

  This time, Lebedev poured the drinks, giving himself a little time before answering. “I propose another toast to the future. Nothing is more precious than that.” Bachtman eyed him cautiously as they held up their glasses.

  Choosing to be a quiet observer for as long as possible, Pavel drank his vodka and munched on some fresh tomato slices as he studied the two men, either of whom would have, no doubt, made superb professional card players.

  Razumovsky snatched up a pickle slice, sniffed it, tossed back the vodka and popped the slice in his mouth. “Not bad,” he commented as he slowly chewed the pickle. “Isaac, how would you like for Israel to be the darling of the world instead of a pariah state?"

  “That attitude is why I left Russia and came to my homeland. So, if you mean that we're a pariah state because we have not allowed ourselves to be driven into the Mediterranean by terrorists or their friends, I can accept that."

  Razumovsky had foolishly stumbled on a sore spot, and he knew it. As his father used to tell him, vodka greases a foolish tongue. “Israel is a pariah because it has the guts to tell the UNE to go to hell and leave it alone.” He leaned forward to make his next point, “you may have forgotten the motherland, but never forget that while America was the first to recognize Israel in 1948, the USSR recognized Israel just three days later. Russia has made unconscionable mistakes with your people, but denying you your homeland was one mistake we did not make. Never forget this."

  “That, I will not forget. It is the other unconscionable mistakes I try to forget, but come, my old friend. Let's not argue.” Cutting the dialogue short, Bachtman drained his own shot glass and tossed a pickle wedge in his mouth. “I do love my wife's pickles."

  Razumovsky nodded in agreement, but remained quiet as Bachtman refilled the glasses. “Igor, as to this proposal; what you and the Americans offer us is a fool's paradise in exchange for the first sense of real security and peace this nation has had since 1948. We made such a mistake once before at Oslo."

  “Let's not waste time with semantics and posturing, Isaac. We, as well as the Americans, are ready to pledge that there will never be a mosque in space and that Israel will have a substantial number of slots on one of the American colony ships. What more could you want?"

  “Let's have one more toast, and then we will talk of it.” Feeling the effects of the drinks, Razumovsky pushed the glass aside.

  “Excuse me, Igor; is our vodka not to your liking?"

  “Your wife's pickles are better than your Israeli vodka. So, are we to sit here and get drunk like two old fools and squander Israel's one true moment to be loved and respected as opposed to being feared and respected? If this is what you please, then we will do this without you."

  “And you will fail."

  “Kiss my ass."

  “I did that for too many years, but I'm not complaining. You taught me well."

  “Too well."

  “Well enough to finally get your attention."

  “So, then you have it! Let's end this charade. Obviously, you have something up your sleeve."

  Bachtman turned his attention to Lebedev. “You've been rather quiet,” he noted. “I like that in a man. It is always better to observe. So tell me, what have you observed about this American computer genius, Jeffrey LeBlanc? I believe this man actually holds the key to what you need to do."

  “You are right,” Pavel answered simply.

  Bachtman laughed and slapped Lebedev on the thigh. “I am glad to see that Igor is still a great mentor. Now we stop acting like old men farting in each other's face and come to the interesting part.” He stood up and walked to a large, wheeled LCD panel board across from the table. He turned it on to reveal a surface crammed with neatly written, mathematical formulas.

  “I've read your proposal several times,” the Israeli said with a playful smirk, “but you have missed something significant.” He pointed to a corner of the board. “Let us begin with the actual time it will take for your weapon to make its final computation before crushing Shiva into a dust. These calculations must take place in a microsecond, and there is no time for a second chance, even with the most powerful computer. Even these new biomass computers IBM is building are impressive, but there is something lacking. Yes?” Pavel nodded in agreement. “And we both know what that is—an intelligence capable of leaping beyond logic.” Again, Pavel nodded in agreement.

  “Assuming you can get LeBlanc to build a working proof-of-concept quasill to control your system, are you ready to build it?"

  “Yes,” Pavel replied confidently. We already have everything else we need."

  “And what if it fails?"

  “It can't."

  “That's naove crap, and you know it.” Pavel recoiled at his assertion. “Don't come here trying to sell me another unsinkable Titanic. If this fails, the result could turn the face of our planet into a moonscape. If that happens, there will be no mosques in space, and there will be no Israelis either.” Bachtman motioned Pavel to stand next to him beside the LCD panel board.

  Pavel rose up from his seat and joined him. “These are your calculations, yes?"

  Pavel quickly scanned the formulas on the board. “I believe so."

  “Trust me, they are. I'm sure that you're proud of your work, but it is fatally flawed. If you look closely, you'll see where I've given a few hints, but nothing more. Now, let's see how good you are at finding your own mistakes."r />
  Bachtman returned to his seat and winked at Razumovsky. “While your new protg ponders his work, let's eat some of these wonderful treats. Shall we?"

  Razumovsky looked over at Pavel, who was now reading the board with a troubled expression.

  For the next half hour, the two older men ate, drank and commiserated, occasionally glancing at Lebedev as he paced back and forth in front of the marker board like a caged lion. Finally, Pavel plopped back down in his chair with a stunned face.

  “I take it you found the problem,” Bachtman said as he sat a glass of vodka in front of him.

  Pavel tossed back the drink and wiped his lips. “Damn you; you are a genius! We must begin at the beginning, and I do not even know where that it is now.” The numbers did not lie, and he now saw where his plans were seriously flawed. Worse yet, a mistake like this could cost him his career, which paled in comparison with the dashed hopes of saving the planet from destruction.” The shame was so strong in his soul that he could barely bring himself to look at either man.

  Razumovsky on the other hand had known Bachtman for many years, and he knew that the other shoe had yet to drop. After all, suspense had always been Bachtman's favorite pastime.

  Bachtman poured another round. “You know, gentlemen, I have not enjoyed this much vodka at one sitting in some time. I think it is loosening my tongue. Tell me, Pavel, do you think my tongue is getting loose?"

  “Don't taunt me."

  “But do I have your full attention now?"

  “Yes,” Lebedev answered as his eye lifted with a glimmer of hope that perhaps not all was lost. Not yet, at least.

  “When I was your age,” Bachtman said softly, “I made a similar mistake. The kind of mistake that used to mean a one-way train ride to a gulag in Siberia and the likelihood of dying from TB. Had I worked for most any other man than Igor, that would have certainly been my fate. It was he who saved my life, and now I am going to repay an old debt.” He stood up and walked back to the board as Razumovsky laughed and slapped the table.

  “Come here, Pavel,” Bachtman said as he picked up a stylus. Razumovsky's eyes twinkled as the visibly shaken Lebedev joined him at the board. Isaac pointed to one of the primary formulas on the board. “Here is where you made your mistake. Because of this, everything else is just a little out of kilter, as they say.” He jabbed the stylus at Pavel's chest. “You didn't do so badly, and in time, and after great expense, I'm afraid, you'd have caught it. So let me save you the grief. Watch.” Pavel watched in amazement as the older man made a handful of small changes. “Can you remember this?"

  “Oh yes. My God! How could I have overlooked something so simple?"

  “I'll tell you something my dear old mentor, who just happens to be sitting here with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, once told me.” He glanced over at Razumovsky with a nod and added, “all mistakes have simple beginnings.” He pointed at the board and winked, “Fix this, and everything else will be just fine, but keep in mind that you cannot make your system work without an American biomass computer and a proper quasill."

  “I've seen what the engineers at IBM have done. It is too crude for our purposes. They think like sheep in cheap suits."

  “Except for LeBlanc,” Bachtman quickly added. “I've read all of his published papers, and some that were not published, as well. Only he can create such a quasill. Without him, all you've got is so much expensive shit. And dangerous shit, I might add."

  Pavel scratched his head. “I've already been thinking along these lines, but he simply will not come to Russia to work with us. God knows, I've tried. He might do it for the Americans though.

  “And they'll ruin his work with their politically correct we-think management styles, and then you'll still have shit. Worse yet, they'll be sticking their noses into your business and using his work to control you."

  “I know,” Pavel sighed. “What I need is something he wants that the Americans cannot give him. Something he wants so badly that he'll come to Obninsk City to work for us, to obtain it."

  The Israeli's eyes glittered as he clapped his hands together. “Yes! You have to motivate him in a special way. If you can do this and he builds a successful quasill, I'll help you sell your government's proposal to my government. But only if and when you succeed in doing this."

  Razumovsky finally spoke up. “So, now it is you who is smiling like the cat that ate the bird, Isaac. Tell me, you cocky son-of-a-bitch, what have you got under your sleeve?"

  “I wasn't a cocky son-of-a-bitch until I met you,” Bachtman retorted as he pressed a buzzer on the side of the table. A brief moment later, a Mossad field officer entered the room holding a thick folder, handed it to Bachtman and left the room.

  Bachtman leaned across the table and set the folder in front of Pavel with a mischievous grin. “And what kind of mischief do we have here, Isaac,” Razumovsky asked.

  Without taking his eyes off of Pavel, the Israeli answered, “It is the Mossad file on Jeffrey LeBlanc, his sister Roxanne LeBlanc and her son, Russell. Open it."

  Pavel quietly opened the folder and began flipping through the documents and photos. The file included a fully detailed account of the abduction of the son Roxanne LeBlanc secretly had by Anthony Jarman.

  After browsing the entire file, Pavel closed the folder. “And where is the rest of it? I see nothing here that we can use as leverage."

  Bachtman smiled. “You must understand that this goes all the way to the top of the UNE council, and that means Secretary General Antonio De Bono. If word of this were to get out before he could kill the boy, it could become a disaster for the UNE and De Bono—one I do not think De Bono could survive."

  Pavel's eyes shot up. “So the boy is alive?"

  “According to our intelligence, he is alive, and De Bono is getting ready to move him. Up till now, he has kept the boy alive because he intended to use him to blackmail Jarman; however, we suspect that this is not a strong enough motive for all this trouble. There has to be another reason why De Bono has not already had the boy killed, but what, we don't know."

  “So, where is the boy now?"

  “At present, we honestly do not know. However, the Secretary-General is going to hand him over to a privately financed Syrian Peacekeeper unit who will then take him to an as-yet unknown location somewhere in Texas. Of course, I say the word, Peacekeepers, with a bit of irony. As far as we're concerned, they're just hired Hezbollah thugs who enjoy killing innocents for money, plus some Eurotrash mercenaries."

  “How soon do you feel that you can get that location?"

  “My sources at the Mossad tell me that the handover will happen in no more than about six weeks. After that, we'll know."

  “And how soon will we know?"

  Bachtman pulled a fresh bottle of vodka from the bucket and refilled the shot glasses. “One for the road, yes?” The other two men nodded in agreement. “You will know when two things have happened. First, after the handover is complete, we will have very detailed information about his location—more than enough to stage a rescue."

  “And the second?” Razumovsky asked impatiently.

  Bachtman winked at him as he nodded towards Pavel. “You made a good choice with him.” He then held up his shot glass, “Would you gentlemen please join me for a toast?” They all lifted their glasses. “I propose a two-part toast. The first part of my toast is to seeing LeBlanc's fully operational quasill prototype in Obninsk in exchange for our mutual efforts to help rescue the boy."

  “You're a poetic asshole, Isaac Aronovich,” Razumovsky boomed. “So what is the second part?"

  “I will personally educate the quasill and teach it everything I know, including my country's most precious secrets, as part of our new working relationship with America and yourselves.” He glanced over at Razumovsky. “And, if I'm a poetic asshole, Igor, you are ten kilograms of shit in a five kilogram shit sack!"

  Pavel stared incredulously at the two older men as they burst out laughing. There was enough his
tory between these men to write many novels, if, God willing, the day ever came when such an endeavor could be undertaken. He looked at his watch and was shocked to see how the time had flown. If they were not airborne within fifteen minutes, they'd have to stay overnight for the next lapse in the satellite coverage. While Razumovsky would most likely enjoy a stay over, Pavel wanted to go. It would be a long flight to Washington D.C., and, the sooner they arrived there, the better.

  * * *

  Crossing the Cusp

  LUCINDA CHAVEZ STOOD in the clearing and unfolded a tattered, old topographical map she'd found during their trek to Lake Tahoe. For years, her mother, Senator Connie Chavez had repeatedly drummed the timeless advice of former President Ronald Reagan into her head—"trust, but verify.” She had no reason to doubt JALA.TRAC, nor her mother's loving admonitions. Checking the route they'd followed to Lake Tahoe using their medallions was simply a matter of peace-of-mind.

  Using Timmy's battered, old field compass, she took her sightings and, comparing them to the map, was able to plot their final destination to a secluded spot along the banks of General Creek, 3 miles west by southwest of Meeks Bay on the western shore of Lake Tahoe.

  Next to the clearing was an immense, round, flat boulder the size of a small single-story house. It seemed out of place with the surroundings, but perhaps that was why JALA.TRAC had led them to this place. The boulder did provide a very unique landmark, and it would help break the wind.

  It would be dark in another hour, and the rest of the group was still twenty minutes behind them. They would be tired, but everyone had decided to push on instead of camping another night, and the day's hike had been grueling, especially for the younger children. She and Timmy Watkins had chosen to go ahead and begin preparing the final campsite for the ten weary travelers.

  Timmy walked out of a thick patch of pine trees with a huge pile of firewood stacked up to his chin and tossed it next to the fire pit Lucinda had already prepared. “Why don't you get this started while I go fetch some more?” he asked. “It will be real chilly tonight. I'm just glad this isn't winter time."