Prehistoric WWII

by Dane Hatchell

  “I do not think so. The ship is veering away from us and appears to be heading toward the mainland,” Christoph said.

  Erik breathed a sigh of relief. The captain must have remembered the great danger his country was in. Chasing after a handful of SS agents and Adolph Hitler himself wasn’t worth the destruction of the two most important cities in the United States.

  It was time for Erik to take control of his life and no longer be like a leaf caught in the wind, blown about by the whims and desires of others. He trotted out of the command room. Less than a minute later, he returned with a tool bag in his hand.

  Christoph turned to his son. “Erik, fetch—”

  “I have the tool bag, Father. I will use a wrench to tighten the flange,” Erik said.

  The commander looked dumfounded, which was an expression seldom seen on his father’s face. “Erik, that is a good boy. You make your father proud.”

  Erik smiled to himself as he searched for the proper wrench. Witnessing his father’s death the day before seemed like a dream. A nightmare. He didn’t know how or why, but the storm had taken him back to his own time. It was useless now to try and make sense of it all.

  “When I get finished here, I will go to the sick bay and see if I can help Dr. Mengele care for the Viktors,” Erik said.

  The commander looked even more taken aback. “Yes, that would be a fine thing for you to do.” A satisfied smile crossed his lips.

  It warmed Erik’s heart to have his father again. Still, he was his own man inside and would not compromise his beliefs for anyone. That said, he would learn life’s lessons and build a strong foundation. In hopes of one day of becoming wiser than his father.

  The question still remained of the fate of the crew once South America was reached. Was there a plot to kill all the crewmen so that Viktor and the SS agents did not have to fear betrayal?

  Erik believed there was only one way to assure their safety. He would make an opportunity to take two pills out of that cobalt blue glass bottle. The cyanide would find its way into the mouths of both Frank Viktor and his wife. With the Führer out of the way, the other SS agents would be forced into anonymity, with no hopes of continuing the war.

  He would ask his father if they would adopt the German Shepard, Blondi. The dog would need to start a new life, too, and Erik needed a new best friend to start life over with.

  Epilogue

  U-234 fled across the ocean for Japan. T.W. Brazo, Captain of the USS Sutton, followed.

  The End

  Coming in 2017: Prehistoric WWII: Pacific

  Read on for a free sample of Jurassic Island

  CHAPTER ONE

  When he heard the high-pitched trill of the phone, Joseph Thornton sat up in bed like a vampire awakening for a night of feasting. He took a moment to look around his bedroom, as if making sure this was really happening and that he was not dreaming. The cell phone rang again, an unfamiliar sound because this particular cell phone only rang on special occasions. Shaking his head as if to clear the sleep from it, Joseph jumped out of bed and ran to the other side of the bedroom.

  There were three cellphones sitting on his desk: one for personal use, one for business and one that he had specifically set aside for his special interests. It was this last one that was ringing now. He recognized the number on the display screen and his heart felt as if it might burst with excitement.

  With hands still partially numb from sleep, he grabbed the phone and answered the call.

  "Yeah?"

  "Mr. Thornton, I'm sorry to call at such a late hour," the man on the other line said. "But I have news that is going to make you very happy."

  "What is it?"

  "I've just sent you an e-mail to your secure account. Check it while you're on the phone with me, would you?"

  Slightly irritated that his contact would not just tell him what the news was, Joseph brought the laptop on his desk to life and logged into an e-mail account that only a handful of people knew about. He'd gone to great lengths and paid a handsome sum to ensure its security. When his inbox came up, he saw only one new mail, sent two minutes ago. The subject line read: SATELLITE IMAGE_01446. The body of the mail was empty, but there was an attachment.

  Now very much awake, Joseph opened the attachment. He couldn't make sense of what he was seeing at first, but once his eyes adjusted to the colors, his heart once again felt like it might burst.

  "What am I looking at?" Joseph asked, although he knew deep down exactly what it was; it was something he had been waiting for over the course of the last twenty years of his life.

  "Your Holy Grail," the man on the other end said. "And if I were you, I'd act quickly, Mr. Thornton. That photograph was taken less than three hours ago and was sent directly to me when my man on the inside saw it. It would likely take some time, but this will be accessible to any motivated competitors within a few hours."

  "Thank you," Joseph said. "If this turns out to be legit, you'll be rewarded more than you can imagine."

  "Satellite photos rarely lie," said the man on the other end. "Well, sometimes they do…when the military gets them first. But the military hasn't even seen these yet."

  "Thanks," Joseph said again and hung up.

  He set the phone down gently and looked lovingly at the photograph on his screen. In it, there was a wide patch of the South Indian Ocean. It was a rather bland photograph, with the exception of one thing.

  A small land mass sat isolated in the midst of all of that water—an island that looked no more special than any other island.

  But what made this island special is that it had not been there yesterday or the day before.

  And it was an island that Joseph Thornton had been waiting twenty years to discover.

  He closed the picture down and logged out of the account. He then packed very quickly, wanting to get as much of a head start on his competition as he could. Within half a day or so, he imagined that there would be at least one more highly motivated and financially astute party that would also be heading to the South Indian Ocean.

  Time was money, and Joseph Thornton never wasted a cent. He was packed within five minutes and after he called his car around to the front of the building, he made a few more calls to get a team assembled for what could potentially be the most historic expedition ever recorded.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was just after midnight when Christopher "Colt" McKinnon ordered his seventh beer of the night. He had toyed around with the idea of taking a few shots to put an exclamation point on the night's lonely festivities, but had decided against it. Whenever Christopher got obliterated, he preferred the slow and reassuring comfort of beer rather than the toxic and sneaky buzz that shots of liquor caused. There was something deliberate and almost poetic about taking time with simple beers.

  That was the extent of his train of thought these days. Once known to a great many people as Colt McKinnon, he was trying his best to regain the name of Christopher. It was the name he had been born with and had adorned the marriage license that now lay somewhere in a cluttered closet in his rundown apartment. That wife was long gone now and even she had taken to calling him Colt near the end.

  Those that recognized him from time to time called him Colt, dropping the Christopher. They knew him as such from countless TV shows and YouTube videos. Scary-Ass Monsters, with your host, Christopher "Colt" McKinnon. After a while, the networks had caught on to his growing popularity and had dropped the Christopher from his name. After that, he'd been Colt to everyone.

  He hated Colt McKinnon these days, though. Colt had ruined his life but, before that, had also given him the life he'd always wanted. Fame, money, the adoration of internet geeks and cryptozoology nerds all around the world. Looking back on it, he was often embarrassed to be associated with it all, although he knew that half of the things he had spent his career chasing down were, in fact, legitimate. But Colt was the sort of name frat boys had, something to be chanted while chugging beer.

  Still,
"Christopher" felt sort of soft and he didn’t like that most of the time either. He figured that it was without a doubt the lamest identity crisis any human being had ever endured.

  He was soaking in this sort of self-pity as he started drinking beer number seven. The bartender was giving him an iffy look, maybe trying to telepathically imply that drinking so heavily alone was pathetic and last call was in less than an hour.

  When the bartender's back was turned, Colt looked up to the television mounted behind the bar. Two guys were beating the crap out of each other on a replay of a UFC fight. He'd nearly gone into that world after college, having a minor interest in collegiate wrestling. He was pretty sure he could take about half of the UFC guys. Sure, the constant drinking and crap diet he had been on the last few months wasn't doing him in favors, but he was still in decent shape.

  He watched the fight as well as he could as his head started to feel a bit swimmy. After a few minutes, he realized that the seventh beer was empty. He looked at it sadly and was about to order another when someone took the bar stool beside him.

  "Bartender," the man said. "Another beer for my friend here."

  Annoyed, Colt turned to the stranger, wondering if it might be some loser that had watched him on television two or three years ago. But the man that sat beside him looked a little older than his usual fanboys.

  The bartender sagged his shoulders as he retrieved another beer for Colt. When he handed the bottle over, he looked to the new man on the stool and said, "You driving him home?"

  "That's yet to be decided," the man said.

  Colt was a little unnerved by that answer and leaned away from him. He gave the man a befuddled glance and let out a chuckle. "Thanks for the beer, man," Colt said. "But I'm not that easy. Or gay."

  The man gave a laugh at this but there was very little humor in it. "I know who you are," the man said.

  "Lots of people do," Colt said. "I'm starting to wish that wasn't the case."

  "Do you have any idea who I am?" the man asked.

  Colt studied the man for a moment and then shook his head. He'd once known a casting director out in Hollywood that looked a little like this guy but that wasn't it. "No clue," he said.

  "My name is Joseph Thornton," he said. "I'm the president and owner of Exxco Labs."

  "That rings a bell," Colt said.

  "Exxco does a lot of research and development in the areas of clean energy, educational technology, and things of that nature."

  "Uh huh," Colt said, pulling out his iPhone and rudely typing something into it.

  "We have recently partnered with Pearson Education to create a wholly interactive learning experience with more than thirty national museums."

  "Oh really?" Colt said, clearly not paying any real attention. While Joseph had been speaking, Colt had pulled up Wikipedia and looked up Joseph Thornton.

  Colt nearly fell off of his stool with what he saw. Thornton was worth an estimated 4.7 billion dollars and was considered one of the most prominent innovators in educational technology in the world. Exxco Labs worked almost as a partner with several government agencies, namely the Department of Defense and a few environmental agencies that Colt had never heard of.

  "Four-point-seven billion," Colt said. "Okay. You have my attention."

  Joseph glanced to the Wikipedia article and grinned. "Now we're even," he said.

  "What's that mean?" Colt asked.

  "You now know all about me so I don't feel too bad for knowing a great deal about you. Christopher 'Colt' McKinnon. You graduated from William and Mary College with a Bachelor's degree in History and a minor in Archeology. You then got your Masters from the University of North Carolina in Archeology. Three years later, an article you wrote for the Huffington Post went viral and you landed a job with The Discovery Channel for a show that was really not about archeology at all…but instead a myths and curse sort of show about Egyptian times. That show got cancelled but you were then picked up by another network where you hosted a show for three years that got incredible ratings. You hunted down Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and even managed to get a few compelling photos of UFOs that, to this day, have not been debunked."

  "That's because they were real," Colt said, sipping from his new beer.

  Joseph smiled and said, "Trust me. I'm a believer. This is actually something I'd like to speak with you about."

  "The UFO photos?"

  "No. I have a job for you. And I need you to start right now."

  "What kind of a job? I think I'm done being in front of a camera. As you can see," he said, holding up the beer as if it were a trophy, "I'm not really camera-friendly these days."

  "No. Nothing like that. Tell me…what do you know about Spectre Island?"

  Colt rolled his eyes and took another pull from his beer. When it was down, he recited the information as if he was reading a cue card from one of his old shows.

  "Spectre Island…a mythical island that likely doesn’t even exist. There are reports of platoons flying over it during World War Two, but little else. In 1956, a fisherman reportedly saw it and made an emergency stop there. He went home stark raving mad and was locked away in an asylum. His brother later went out there to see what happened, only to find that the island wasn't there. Paranormal circles on the internet refer to it as The Bermuda Triangle on Land."

  "That's a perfect summary," Joseph said. "And what are your own thoughts on it?"

  "I think it's probably the result of old wartime technology coming up with small land masses that weren't there. Even that crazy fisherman said he had heard the stories about pilots spotting it in the war. So my gut says it's just a story."

  "What if I had evidence that said otherwise?"

  Colt felt a stirring inside that was very much like the one he had felt on numerous occasions when journeying across ruins, jungles, and abandoned airfields during his time on television. "I'd say I'd like to see it."

  "Oh, you can. I have it in my car. But before I show it to you, you have to accept my job."

  "What's the job?"

  "I'm assembling a team to explore Spectre Island. Despite the comedic moments on your shows, I've done my research and I know that you're a credible explorer and archeologist. I'd very much like to have you on my team."

  "That's a hell of a trek," Colt said. "And quite frankly, that might be a little over my head." He took another drink and looked longingly at the two men pulverizing one another on the TV. With a sigh, he asked: "What's the pay?"

  "You'll get five hundred thousand dollars for just coming along. You'll get another one million if we successfully set foot on the island. And if you can help us explore the island in depth and take part in categorizing any finds and standing by me as we go public with it, you'll get another two million."

  Colt started laughing at this, a bit of beer escaping his mouth. The bartender cut a steely glance towards him but said nothing.

  "Laughter," Joseph said. "Can I take that as a yes?"

  "Hell yes," Colt said, still wondering if he had heard Joseph correctly. He hadn't made that much money in the four years he'd been on TV…not even with merchandizing and public appearances.

  Joseph clapped him on the back and smiled heartily. "Great. Now, we have to get going. I have a plane waiting right now."

  "Oh, like now."

  "Yes." Joseph then reached into his pocket and pulled out a one hundred dollar bill. "For my friend's tab," he said. "And yes, it seems that I will be driving him home."

  Jurassic Island is available from Amazon here.

 

 

 
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