The Rapture Dialogues: Dark Dimension (The Second Coming Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry James

  He wasn’t one to hide his wrath, and those around him always stepped lightly when he used unabandoned foul language. It wasn’t typical of such a master politician as Johnson to swear, taking the Lord’s name in vain, with so many present. He was no typical politician.

  He was settling down into bubbling anger, able again to control his temper.

  “Listen to what Nasser said on the 27th,” the President said in the Texas drawl familiar throughout the world. “‘Our basic objective will be the destruction of Israel. The Arab people want to fight.’"

  Johnson threw the briefing the CIA had prepared for him onto the big desk’s top, then leaned back in the tan-leather high-back chair. He pulled the glasses from his nose and rubbed the sore places they caused.

  “You told me these boys wanted to start talking peace, Buddy,” the President said, looking to George Grayhouse, whose nickname was “Buddy”.

  The CIA deputy director reddened a bit. “Mr. President, that was our assessment, based upon intelligence from our Turkish allies. They assured that the threat to close the Tehran Straits was just a threat.”

  “Listen here what else he said,” Johnson interrupted, after leaning forward to pick the briefing paper from the desk. “He said the very next day, May 28th,” Johnson said, adjusting the reading glasses and peering down his nose to see the print. “‘We will not accept any coexistence with Israel. Today the issue is not the establishment of peace between the Arab states and Israel...The war with Israel is in effect since 1948.’"

  Johnson lowered his face, looking, with his forehead wrinkling, over the glasses at Grayhouse. “Listen to what this other guy,” Johnson paused to scan up and down the page and lift one page from another to find the name. “This guy, President Abdur Rahman Aref of Iraq… ‘The existence of Israel is an error which must be rectified. This is our opportunity to wipe out the ignominy that has been with us since 1948. Our goal is clear--to wipe Israel off the map.’"

  Johnson again plopped the briefing pages on the desk and leaned back in the big chair.

  “These Arabs say a lot of things, Mr. President. They feed off each other’s big talk,” Grayhouse said.

  “Yeah, well, this big talk might just bring us into a…situation with the Soviets.” Johnson leaned forward, picked up the papers and thumbed through them.

  “Eganberg says we’re covered in this covert operations thing. Do you concur?” the President asked, looking over the glasses at Grayhouse.

  “Yes, sir. We’ve kept the F-4 under wraps. Very high security,” the CIA man said, nodding affirmatively.

  “And the Israelis…they know not to do anything until we say so? Unless they’re attacked?” Johnson said.

  “They won’t do anything until they get the word from CIA, Mr. President.”

  “Tell you what worries me, boys, “Lyndon Johnson said. “That those Jews will blow hell out of those ragheads before they are attacked. Breshnev would then be under pressure to unruffle his hawks’ feathers by direct intervention.”

  Taos, New Mexico June 1, 1967

  Dr. Edward Teller moved slowly among the small group of scientists. He wore the slightest of smiles while he shook hands and spoke approving words. His bushy eyebrows and harsh-featured face had been world famous since the hydrogen bomb test at the Bikini Islands in the 1950s.

  All present tried to engage the great man in conversation about the science they loved and shared with Teller. But, it was Lori he chose for conversation, his dark, somewhat ominous eyes seeming to brighten as they talked.

  “We have been watching you,” he said to Lori in Hungarian-accented English, which, nonetheless, she had no problem understanding.

  “You are becoming a star among the stellar bodies of molecular manipulators,” the renowned scientist said with a quick smile.

  Lori nodded a confident smile of appreciation. “There is just so much to learn…”

  Her answer seemed to please him.

  “We are all still learning, Lori.”

  Teller held her hands in his while he talked. “You are so young to have come so far. And, there is no limit on your possibilities, here, my dear, except those you impose upon yourself.”

  Lori listened intently but said nothing.

  “I shall be observing your progress. You will be working with Gerhardt Frobe, it is my understanding.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There is none more qualified. I will have a special word to him about you.”

  Teller held her hands to his lips and brushed them with a kiss.

  “Please call on me when I can be of any help to you.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Teller, that’s very sweet,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Ah! That’s me--sweet!” he said with a hearty laugh, and a quick glance around at the other scientists and the entourage that followed him through the underground complex.

  Everyone laughed. Teller patted her hands and moved along.

  “Dr. Teller is the one who got you assigned to Dr. Frobe,” the man in the white smock said--with snooty condescension, Lori thought.

  “Oh?” she said, startled by the man’s sudden words. She hadn’t seen him before.

  “He sort of likes the ladies, if you know what I mean,” the man said in a high voice tinged with an irritating whine.

  Lori was incensed, and her face reddened. “Better he likes ladies than gentlemen, if you know what I mean,” she said, then slightly cocked her head, and set her chin in a way that said she was prepared for verbal combat if he wished to continue.

  He didn’t, saying nothing, but looking down the long, thin nose, his lips pursed tightly. He said, then, “Well, I must stay close. He often calls on me for assistance when he’s in the molehole.”

  Lori turned abruptly, leaving the man standing, while she walked away in the opposite direction of Teller’s entourage. The term “molehole” stuck with her. She had been told that it was the pet name for the molecular biology lab section of the complex.

  Her time in the vast complex had been exciting. But, if not for Mark’s being nearby, she could see how the sequestered work-life here could be hard to abide for long stretches of time.

  She hurried through the door marked “The Waste of Time Room –Female.” The eccentric attempts at humor in this scientific community beneath the New Mexico desert-like land both amused her and irritated her, she thought while she washed her hands and studied her face in the mirror. Perhaps it was just that everything irritated her in these tombs, despite the ultra-modern technologies and comforts.

  Her face was as pale as she had ever seen it. The lack of sun can’t be good, she thought, pinching her cheeks, hoping to see a bit of color.

  She walked to the elevators after leaving the Ladies’ Room. Less than two minutes later, she entered the hospital area.

  “How’s Mom?” she said to the nurse who had just finished talking with another nurse.

  “She’s about the same. But Dr. Spillane says it seems she improves a degree or two about every two days.”

  “Thanks,” Lori said, pushing through the double doors and, moments later, walking into her mother’s room.

  “Mom, I’m here. It’s Lori,” she said, picking up her mother’s right hand and kissing it, then rubbing it while she talked.

  “I’m really liking the work, Mother. I’ve only just got acquainted with people, and with the facility. We’ll start on the project tomorrow. At least, that’s when I’ll get involved. It’s been going on for several years, actually.”

  A tear trickled from one of Lori’s eyes. She missed her mother so much. But, the doctors said to keep talking, keep carrying on conversation with her as much as possible. They still believed she would eventually pull out of the comatose state.

  “Mark is involved in the thought-helmet project. He likes the work, but I can tell that he’s ready to get back to his precious F-4s. Was Daddy ever like that? Did he ever seem to love those stupid planes more than he loved us?”

>   “Miss Morgan.”

  Lori turned to see a man dressed in a suit and tie.

  “Dr. Frobe would like to talk with you, when your visit is finished,” the man she hadn’t seen before said.

  “I’ll be with you in a second,” she said, and then turned back to Laura, still holding her hand in both of hers.

  “I’ll be back in an hour or two, Mom. I love you--more than anything.”

  She kissed her mother’s forehead, and left, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her smock.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Morgan,” the man of about 50 said, walking through the doorway behind Lori.

  She stood and turned to meet him. He shook her hand.

  “I am Gerhardt Frobe.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Frobe,” she said, taking his offered hand.

  “And, are you somewhat at home here, now?” he asked in a mild German accent.

  “I’m getting there,” Lori said.

  “Good, good. Lori--may I call you Lori?”

  “Sure.”

  “Lori, Edward--Dr. Teller--has the utmost confidence in you. This is amazing, for one so young,” the scientist said, holding her forearm and gesturing for her to be seated with the other hand. “I cannot tell you what his recommendation means.”

  “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such…”

  Frobe held up his hand for silence. “I did not mean that you were unworthy otherwise. It’s just that I have never had anyone added who comes to us with such a pedigree of higher-ups who recommend them. Do you realize that the President of the United States, himself, suggested you for this project?”

  “No, sir. I had no idea.”

  She knew that the President had spoken to Mark. She didn’t know the “deal,” as Robert Cooper called it, had included the President recommending her. She felt honored, but more than a little unsettled by what it all might mean.

  “Other than maintaining a 4.0 grade point throughout my academic career, I can’t think of what might qualify me--”

  Again, Frobe through up his hand for quiet.

  “Your value as a bright student is quite important, Lori, please let that be understood.” Frobe fidgeted with a pencil he held in his fingers, pausing to think about how to best phrase his words. “However, it is your… genetic resume with which we are most intrigued.”

  “There will be no pain, Captain. This involves sound wave technology that has no adverse effects.”

  Dr. Gessel Kirban adjusted the helmet on Mark Lansing’s head, standing in front of the pilot, his bespectacled eyes going over every centimeter of the metal and plastic headgear device.

  “Is that comfortable?” he asked, making one more adjustment.

  “It’s a little tighter than I’m used to,” Mark said. “But, it’s not uncomfortable.”

  “Yes, well, over a period of several hours, it will become unbearable,” Kirban said, removing the helmet, and adjusting the interior’s elastic straps.

  He put it on the pilot’s head and again began the process of adjustments, rocking the gold-colored helmet from side to side.

  “There. Better?”

  “Yes. Much better,” Mark said, seeing the pleased look cross the professor’s age-creased face.

  “As I was saying, this inflicts no pain. It is based upon low-frequency sound wave technology.”

  Dr. Kirban stepped back, folded his arms across his chest, and began kneading his upper lip with his right thumb and index finger while he studied the device. “You will be the first to put this into practical use, actual use,” he said in an Israeli accent, then scratched the top of his head. The frown of concentration told Mark the Ph.D. in cellular biology and other things beyond Mark’s pay grade to know about was trying to think of how best to explain…

  “You will use this … first in a number of practice sorties, as they say.”

  The Israeli scientist went into an adjoining room, and returned several seconds later with a sleek, diamond-shaped black object. It looked to Mark to be about the size of a football, but much slimmer in configuration.

  “This is the Audiodyne Cognightor,” the professor said, handing it to Mark, who turned it in every way he could. There were no seams to be found.

  “This instrument is ensconced within the lower part of the aircraft. It is what gives the technology its capability to anticipate what action you must take next. It gives the one wearing the precognition neuro-diviner its one-upmanship on the enemy.”

  “The precognition what?” Mark asked, amused with the jargon.

  “The precognition neuro-diviner…” Kirban said. “The helmet you are wearing.”

  “Mind if I just call it a helmet?”

  The professor looked at him for a second, not understanding. Then laughed. “Yes, yes. Let us keep it simple, at least in terminology.”

  Kirban, with great care, lifted the helmet from Mark’s head while he talked.

  “But it is a most complex instrument, Captain. It lives up to its high-sounding name, I assure you.”

  “Exactly what does it do?”

  “Only your using it will tell you that. You must experience for yourself its unique power to…perform,” Kirban said, placing the helmet on a velvet cloth draping over a nearby pedestal.

  “Mark.” He turned, removed his glasses, folded them and put them in the pocket of the white smock he wore. “You have the clearance now, so I will tell you more, since you will be actually flying ‘under the influence,’ as I like to say.”

  The professor pulled a tall stool from a drawing board and seated himself atop its rounded seat.

  “We don’t yet know just what the system will do, at least not under actual flying conditions. To be honest, we could use none of our other test subjects--pilots--because they didn’t have the precise genetic confirmation that the tests show that you have. Our data shows that the pilot who uses this technology must possess certain--how shall I explain? --certain genetic anomalies. Unusual biological qualities and characteristics, combined with some peculiar cerebral disposition.”

  “You mean I’m a little bit odd? A little funny in the head?” Mark said with a grin.

  “Well, uniquely qualified for this instrumentality, I would rather put it,” the Israeli scientist said without changing expression.

  “I’ve never heard of anything even close to this technology, Dr. Kirban,” Mark said. “Did you develop this precognition thingamajig?”

  “Let’s just say the technology has come out of close association with those with special gifts and talents for advancing mankind’s lot for the better,” Kirban said. “I’m privileged to have been put on the front lines in this particular technological breakthrough.”

  Kirban stood to begin an inspection of Mark’s scalp. He parted the hair at several points around the crown of the head.

  “Yes, yes. These have healed nicely, Captain,” he said, feeling the soft filaments at each location on the pilot’s head.

  “The technology is only as proficient as its user, no matter of what that technology consists, young man. This instrument’s ultimate capabilities are geared to your own, unique potential. You will become one with the helmet, as you wish to call it. You will determine how far and how fast we can go with it into the future.”

  “When do we start?” Mark said, like any good Marine, ready for the challenge.

  “We’ve already begun. But, there is one way to give it the ultimate test right away. Are you up to it?”

  Kirban looked at Mark, awaiting an answer.

  “Whatever you think best. That’s why I agreed to join the helmet project,” Mark answered.

  “This must be between you and myself only, Mark. At least for the time being. Will you trust me with a decision I’ve made?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mark said with questioning obedience in his tone.

  “Are you up to a bit of limited combat--actual combat?” Kirban asked, with hesitation.

  “Vietnam?” Mark said.

  “I
srael,” Dr. Kirban said.

  Washington D.C., the Pentagon

  Robert Cooper sat in the burgundy leather judge back chair in his plush semi-darkened office. He brooded over having to play second fiddle to Director Daniel Eganberg, who was chosen by Defense Secretary Robert McNamara to brief the President on the Taos project.

  The underground operation that lay between Taos and Santa Fe was his own baby, and they all knew it. Cooper grinned. Neither Eganberg, McNamara, nor the President knew the whole story, however.

  Not about “Dark Dimension.” Not about RAPTURE, and all it entailed.

  The director would brief Johnson, but be able to tell him nothing of consequence, so far as the real scope of the operation was concerned. The truth, the whole truth, was known by fewer than a handful. The truth that had been a growing, clandestine reality since Roswell. It was a reality that the President would learn at the same time the rest of the world learned.

  Johnson was kept too busy with Vietnam, the Soviets, and now the Arabs and Jews, to even lightly pursue learning details residing within the papers on Majestic and Project Jehovah--documents he had demanded to see.

  “Mr. Director.”

  Cooper looked to the side door of his oak-paneled Pentagon basement office.

  “Mrs. Eganberg is here,” Lucy Holland announced.

  “Yes. Send her in,” Cooper said, rising from his chair and making his way around the massive, hand-carved oak desk.

  The tall, exquisite-looking woman walked into the office upon being summoned by the secretary.

  “Thank you, Miss Holland. No phone calls, please.”

  The young woman smiled and shut the door quietly behind her when she left.

  “It was the same last night,” Gwendolyn Eganberg said, standing face to face with Cooper, who glared at her.

  “Tell me about it,” he said in a detached tone.

  She gave him the report, her inflection indicating she was suppressing her emotions.

  “They came to him, just as you said. He talked with them. As usual, I couldn’t understand a thing he said. Of course, I heard nothing at all from them.”