Battle For Atlantis a-6

by Robert Doherty

  Battle For Atlantis

  ( Atlantis - 6 )

  Robert Doherty

  Traveling through different dimensions — where Washington, D.C., is desolate and Nazi swastikas fly from the Eiffel Tower of modern Paris-ex-Green Beret Eric Dane and his Navy SEALS must take the fight to humanity's most ancient enemy-to save a dying planet…

  Robert Doherty

  Battle For Atlantis

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bob Mayer is the Best-Selling author of numerous books, both fiction and non-fiction. He is a West Point graduate, served in the Infantry and Special Forces (Green Berets): commanding an A-Team and as a Special Forces battalion operations officer; and was an instructor at the JFK Special Warfare Center & School at Fort Bragg. He is the CEO of Who Dares Wins Publishing.

  His books have hit the NY Times, Wall Street Journal, Publishers Weekly, USA Today and other best-seller lists. With over 3 million books in print, he’s the author of Who Dares Wins: The Green Beret Way to Conquer Fear & Succeed and Hunting Al Qaeda. He has appeared on/in local cable news around the country as well as PBS, NPR, the Discovery Military Channel, the Wall Street Journal and Sports Illustrated as an expert consultant.

  Bob is an honor graduate of the Combined Arms Services Staff School, the Infantry Office Basic & Advanced Courses, the Special Forces Qualification Course, the Special Warfare Center Instructor Training Course and the Danish Royal Navy Fromandkorpset School. He is Master Parachutist/Jumpmaster Qualified and earned a Black Belt in the Orient and also taught martial arts and boxing. Bob also earned an MA in Education. He's spoken before over 1,000 groups and organizations, ranging from SWAT teams, Fortune 500, the University of Georgia, IT teams in Silicon Valley, the CIA, Romance Writers of America and the Maui Writers Conference. He brings a unique blend of practical Special Operations Strategies and Tactics mixed with the vision of an artist.

  www.bobmayer.org

  CHAPTER ONE

  EARTH TIMELINE VIII

  Gettysburg, PA, 19 November 1863

  “ Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” The tall man with the dark beard and lined face paused and looked out over the crowd that listened to his speech. Soldiers, politicians, locals. And the dead. Acres and acres of dead in the cemetery he had come to dedicate. He felt the presence of the dead more than he did the living. He also sensed another presence. One he had known all his adult life.

  He was in southern Pennsylvania, in a small town that few had heard of before the great battle of the previous summer that had taken place in and around this place called Gettysburg. It was just past mid-November and the trees were bare of their leaves, making the terrain much different from what it must have looked like in July when the great armies clashed here.

  Lincoln continued. “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.”

  Almost fifty thousand men had been killed or wounded or were missing from the three days of battle. It was a number that had staggered a nation that had seen large numbers of casualties reported before. Many of the Union and Confederate dead still lay in their shallow battlefield graves and if one penetrated far enough into the surrounding woods, they would find those who had not even been buried, the bodies picked clean by scavengers, leaving skulls and bones to trip up the unwary.

  There was an air about the place. It was more than hallowed ground. It was as if the battle still resonated in the very soil. Lincoln had walked most of the battlefield the previous day upon arrival. Visiting places that were already becoming legend: Little and Big Round Tops; the Peach Orchard; Culp’s Hill; Seminary Ridge; and, most important, Cemetery Ridge and the long open field leading up to it. Mary had refused to come with him to the last place, and he had become ill shortly after walking along place, and he had become ill shortly after walking along the stone wall on top of the ridge, peering out to the west the stone wall on top of the ridge, peering out to the west great battle.

  “But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate — we cannot. Consecrate — we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.”

  A slight breeze blew across the gathered crowd, and Lincoln felt a chill on his skin. He had made so many decisions in the past few years and so many people had died as a result of those decisions. And he knew there were more decisions to come. There was to be a final reckoning for which this was but a prelude. So he had been told.

  “It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us-that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain-that this nation. Under God. Shall have a new birth vain-that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

  Abraham Lincoln glanced down at the notes he had made on the way to Gettysburg from Washington and which he had honed the previous night in the local house at which he had stayed. There was another paragraph, one he had scribbled on the carriage ride from that house to this spot. One that he had spent many restless nights tossing and turning over, debating whether he even dare write it, never mind utter it. Mary, dear Mary, had told him not to. Had told him that the Truth was best left unsaid. That the apparent sacrifices that had been made were enough for people to know. That knowing more would be dangerous.

  There was no applause as Lincoln stopped talking. The speaker before him, Edward Everett, has spoken for over two hours, eulogizing those who had died in the Battle of Gettysburg this past summer. Lincoln had just spoken only two hundred and seventy-two words in less than two minutes. There were many in the crowd who hadn’t yet realized he’d begun speaking, never mind stopped. It didn’t matter. The dead had heard.

  President Lincoln looked out over the audience. At the right edge of the crowd he saw his wife’s familiar face. He turned away, and then looked back and she was still there, peering at him intently, the face hidden beneath a black, broad-brimmed hat. The head bobbed slightly, as if indicating approval, and Lincoln shivered once more for several moments, despite the Indian summer warmness of the day. There were prices to be paid beyond that taken in battle. He took the envelope on which he had written the last paragraph, folded it in half and slid it inside a pocket on the inside of his long coat.

  “God help us,” Lincoln whispered to himself as he left the speaking podium. “God help all the worlds. We have done our part.”

  He made his way through the crowd shaking hands, edging his way closer to his wife. When he reached her, he looked into her dark eyes. She held his gaze.

  “Mary,” Lincoln said. Lincoln leaned his tall form toward her, like an old oak blown by a strong wind until his head was next to hers. “Did it work? Was it worth all the death?”

  “I don’t know yet. 1 am still waiting for the Voice to tell me.”

  N months,” Lincoln argued, a refrain that had been going between them ever since the great battle.

 
“Time in this war doesn’t work like that.”

  Lincoln knew his wife wasn’t referring to the War between the States. It had taken him a long time to accept that there was something at stake larger than even the Union.

  Mary Todd Lincoln put a hand on his ann. “I promise, I will let you know. As soon as I hear it.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  EARTH TIMELINE

  Little Bighorn, 26 June 1876

  Custer

  Colonel George Armstrong Custer stared at the blood on his hands in disbelief. There was no pain. He just felt very, very tired. He was aware that someone was walking next to his horse, holding him in the saddle. He looked down and saw his nephew Autie Reed guiding him. There were troopers all about, most mounted, some on foot, all heading up the draw toward higher ground.

  That was good, Custer thought. Higher ground was always best.

  He could hear firing and screams, but they seemed far away. Where was the village? Were the Indians running? He saw his brother Tom Custer off to his right and slightly ahead. He tried to callout but no words would come. They rode out of the draw and a knoll was ahead. Tom was deploying troopers in a defensive line, facing downslope.

  Defensive? Custer thought. That was wrong. They should be attacking. Always attacking. Autie was helping Custer off his horse. Custer tried to stand but his legs were so weak, he sank to the ground. He was surprised when Autie pulled a pistol and shot his horse — his favorite steed. Why did he do that? Custer wondered as the horse collapsed next to him. Autie helped Custer to a seated position, with his back against the dead animal. He drew Custer’s pistol and placed it in his hand. Custer could barely hold on to it. He tried to ask Autie what was going on, why were they on the defensive, but no words would come and his nephew turned his attention outward, pistol at the ready. There was blood on Autie’s face. How had that happened?

  Then Custer saw beyond the perimeter. Hundreds of Indians coming forward, up the draw like wolves to a downed buffalo calf. They were firing rifles and bows. A trooper trying to escape was swarmed by the wave of hostiles, disappearing. This couldn’t be, Custer thought. It just simply couldn’t be happening. Not to his regiment. Not to the Seventh.

  Bouyer

  Mitch Bouyer and Lieutenant Weir, with D Company behind them, reached a high point where they could see to the north.

  “Oh my God,” Weir whispered.

  A small knot of soldiers were holding a perimeter about a mile away on a hill. And all around were Indians. At least a thousand, Bouyer estimated. And the Indians weren’t charging, but holding back, pouring lead and arrow at the soldiers.

  “We can’t … “ Weir didn’t finish the obvious.

  Bouyer understood, but he also knew he didn’t have the luxury of choice. He had three skulls. He’d had to pad the satchels with his blanket to keep them from burning his horse. They’d been growing hotter with each passing minute mirroring the intensity of the battle.

  Bouyer kicked his spurs into his horse’s side and headed forward.

  Weir wheeled his horse and pointed back the way they had come. His troop needed no urging. D Company raced back to the bluff that held the survivors of Reno’s command.

  Crazy Horse

  Crazy Horse rode around to the left, two hundred of his mounted warriors following, putting the firing to his right. He knew the terrain and knew where the battle was taking place. He also knew that the other tribes would attack head on.

  This was the great battle that his mother had foretold.

  He and his warriors galloped along a draw, out of sight. Crazy Horse could sense the anxiety among his men, their desire to ride straight toward the shooting and join in the battle. But they followed his lead.

  Gall

  Gall strode back and forth along the front edge of the Indian line, holding them back from charging directly into the white men’s guns. It was difficult, but his size and stature brought grudging obedience. They lay down in the waist high grass, along the edge of the coulees that flanked the hill on which the white men had set up their perimeter.

  Gall had warriors with rifles move forward so they could see. He directed those with bows back; out of direct sight, and had them fire up into the air, their arrows arching.over and down into the whites. Gall had his hatchet in one hand, the satchel from the Sun Dance in the other. Inside of it was a crystal skull.

  Custer

  Autie placed something in Custer’s lap. A leather satchel. With something hot inside. That woke Custer from his blood-drained stupor. He blinked, looking about. Arrows were coming down, almost as heavily as a summer squall. Some men had pulled saddles over their backs as they lay prone, firing. The ground was littered with arrow shafts like stalks of prairie grass.

  Custer saw that the damned Springfield rifles were jamming as cartridges expanded in the heat of the chamber. One trooper, fifteen yards in front of the main line of the perimeter was on his knees, knife in hand trying to extract a round. Several braves saw this and charged forward. The man grabbed the barrel of his Springfield and jumped to his feet, swinging it like a madman. He knocked two of the braves to the ground before he was overwhelmed by the others.

  Custer tried to lift his hand holding the revolver but he couldn’t do it. Where was Tom? And Autie? And Boston? And Calhoun? His family1 Someone came rushing up on the left and Custer twisted his neck. Tom. Bleeding from a wound in his chest.

  “George — ” Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off as an arrow punched in one side of his neck and out the other with a gush of blood. Tom’s hands grabbed for the shaft as arterial blood spurted for several seconds. A bullet cut short that attempt, hitting Tom Custer in the side of his head, splattering his brother with his brains.

  Custer could only stare in horror.

  Bouyer

  A soldier came galloping madly toward Bouyer, leaning as far forward on his horse as possible. It took Bouyer a second to realize why the man was in this uncomfortable and unusual position — he was trying to minimize his back as a target for the dozen braves on ponies chasing him.

  Bouyer pulled back on the reins, halting. As the man raced past a bullet caught him in the shoulder, tumbling him from the horse. The man scrambled to his feet, looking about wildly. He saw Bouyer and raised his hands in supplication.

  Bouyer forced himself to be still as the braves raced up, two jumping off their ponies. One of them smashed the back of the soldier’s skull in with a stone-headed club. The other braves circled Bouyer, weapons held menacingly. Bouyer pulled one of the crystal skulls out of its wrapping. It glowed bright blue and was so hot, he could feel it sear his flesh, but he held it high.

  The warriors pulled back, even the two who had been · in the process of scalping the soldier. Then they were startled as a second glowing skull held high appeared over a rise to the west. And the hand holding it belonged to Sitting Bull.

  “Powerful magic!” Sitting Bull cried out in Lakota.

  “Yes,” Bouyer agreed.

  Sitting Bull turned to the left. Just over the next rise lay the battlefield. They could hear the firing falling off from the crescendo it had been. Bouyer knew the end was close.

  “We go?” Sitting Bull inclined his head toward the rise.

  Bouyer nodded and put the stirrups to his horse. Skulls in hand the two rode toward the rise.

  Custer

  An arrow slammed into Custer’s left thigh, piercing through flesh and muscle into the ground beneath. He didn’t feel any pain. He didn’t feel the burning heat from the satchel Autie had placed in his lap. All he felt was in his mind, disbelief and shock about what was going on all around him.

  Gall

  Gall saw Sitting Bull and the strange half-breed from the Sun Dance appear to the south, both holding up glowing skulls. He signaled, indicating for the warriors not to attack the half-breed. Then he reached into his satchel and grabbed hold of the hot skull. He almost laughed at the pain. The Sun Dance had prepared him for this. He held the glowing skull alo
ft and moved forward.

  Buffalo Calf Woman

  Buffalo Calf Woman slammed an awl into a dead soldier’s left ear. Pulled it out, and then jammed it into the right, piercing the eardrum. He should not hear in the afterworld. Because he had not heard clearly in this world. Not heard the Great Spirit warning the whites to leave the People in peace.

  She looked up and saw mighty Gall striding forward, glowing blue object in his hand. She opened the satchel she’d taken from the blue-coat. She blinked at the bright blue glow, and then reached in. She grabbed bold with both hands and held it aloft. Then she headed in the direction Gall was going.

  Walks Alone

  The boy who had shot Custer as he tried to cross Little Bighorn, Walks Alone, saw Gall and Buffalo Calf Woman. Where was Crazy Horse? He wondered, as he pulled out the skull the great warrior had given him. He stood up, ignoring the warnings from the braves around to stay down. There were still soldiers alive on the bill, firing.

  None would hit him, Walks Alone knew. He headed up the hill.

  Two Moons

  Two Moons notched an arrow and fired it high into the sky. firing a second before the first impacted. He paused as he noted the people moving forward with the skulls. He put down his bow and opened the satchel he’d taken from Bloody Knife. He removed the skull, gasping as it burned his flesh, and moved forward.

  Crazy Horse

  Crazy Horse turned to the south. Toward the firing. His warriors spread out on either side. He could hold them back no longer. Their vengeance against those who had invaded their land, killed their families, brought disease and death, was unstoppable now.

  Crazy Horse reached into the satchel tied to his pony and pulled out the talisman given by his “brother.” He kicked his pony in the side and raced forward.