The Third Hour

by Richard Devin

  Dominic waited a moment for the Cardinal to continue. When he did not, he asked, “The U.S?”

  “Oh yes. The United States, and at the same time, the Soviets, were actively involved. The United States and the Soviet Union were the only two powers that had enough money and influence to carry out the experiments.” He paused, lost for a moment in thought, then continued, “The Germans attempted, at one time, to build a device, but had to abandon the project once Hitler involved the country in war. Actually, if had not been for the Nazis, our own project may not have been possible and the Russians may have been the first. You see, the Nazis, put together an amazing team of scientists. Of course, the scientists didn’t have much choice in the matter. They were told what to do and where to go if they wanted to live. Same with the Russians really. The U.S. didn’t exactly use the threat of death, but we did...how should I say this? Pressure some scientists into working on the project. Especially the Germans.”

  “The U.S. was working with Hitler’s scientists?” Dominic’s voice was a bit on edge.

  “Sorry to say that we would not have had the science that we needed if it had not been for the Nazis. So in a way, yes. But not with Hitler’s consent, you understand. The U.S. government, in a covert action brought over many of Germany’s top scientists to work on this and later other projects. You know of some of them quite well. Now they did not all come here willingly, as I have said, we did put some pressure on them. But, in the end, I’m sure that they would have all agreed that it was for the best. After all, we’re still around and Hitler is not.” Cardinal Celent shook his head. “So much good could have been done, and instead it was wasted.”

  “So, let me get this straight.” Tonita’s voice carried a tone that already belied her feelings about the Cardinal’s statements. “You traveled in time?”

  Cardinal Celent smiled. “That is correct.”

  “So that means you went somewhere, right?”

  “You are correct.”

  Tonita paused taking a turn from the Cardinal’s penchant for dramatic pauses. “And, where did you go?”

  Cardinal Celent shook his head. “A good question Tonita, and one that I am prepared to answer.” He had both Tonita and Dominic’s undivided attention. “But, I think, perhaps, it is better that we start not at the beginning, where we traveled to, but rather to where we returned.” Cardinal Celent picked up the book from his lap and held it out to Dominic.

  Dominic took the book from the Cardinal, glanced at Tonita, and turned the book so that the cover was face up. The leather binding on the spine and cover was loose and frayed. Only a hint of the gold-embossed lettering remained on the spine of the book. The cover was also worn and faded, but the gold lettering reflected enough light that Dominic could still make out the title. He frowned, puzzled. Then the expression on his face relaxed as he stared at the word embossed in gold.

  And its full meaning hit him.

  He looked first to the Cardinal, then back to Tonita, and read aloud, “Roswell.”

  THIRTY FOUR

  HE COULD SEE THEIR shadows through the window, distorted images gliding along the walls of the Cardinal’s apartment. Ghostly shapes danced, colliding, merging, forming new shapes that danced again. And then he was there. Dominic. The Key, standing at the window where he was in perfectly clear sight.

  If he had had a gun, the Key would be dead by now. The Novice allowed the image of a bullet tearing through the Key’s body, ripping into muscles and veins and organs, to form in his mind. But a gun and a bullet were so impersonal, he thought. Dominic was the Key, and death by a bullet was not what the Novice had in mind for him. He would not destroy the Key with gunpowder and lead. The Key would have to be killed properly. It would be slow process that would allow the Key’s energy to be absorbed. The Novice, who would then put it to its rightful use within the Order and the Society.

  The Novice crouched down slightly, leaning back onto the knee high stone wall. From this angle he watched as the Key gesticulated. The movements were that of an angry and confused man. He laughed as he read into Dominic’s movements, noting how Dominic could not control his emotions, letting them spew out in hand gestures.

  The Novice allowed his mind’s eye to conjure up an image of Dominic and the slut that clung to him. His thoughts slowly unfolded the pictures of Dominic’s death and hers. He did not hate the Key, just as the predator does not hate his prey. Each understands their role in life and death. And while the prey may not die willingly, it does in the end cease its struggle and allow the predator to take its energy. The Key and The Novice had their callings. Only one would succeed. No remorse. No regrets. Just destiny. He understood and respected the Key. The Key too had been called, not by God, as the Order and The Novice had been, but by man. That was the Key’s downfall. He served man and not God. He would have to be killed properly, with dignity. The Novice had formulated his plan for the Key’s death, in preparation for Brother Salvatore’s unsuccessful attempt. The good Brother had not failed, he realized, instead it was clearly in God’s plan that he should be the one to slay the Key. He would take his time with the Key, and he would kill him, respectfully, allowing the Key to give up his life’s energy willingly.

  But the slut could die the way a slut should. A smile spread across The Novice’s face. He would not need to be gentle with her. Instead, he could take great pleasure in her death and enjoy himself. He convulsed slightly, blood flowing to his penis, expanding it. She would be punished for serving man and betraying God. He convulsed again at the thought of what he must do. His penis had grown hard and erect and he fought to keep control of himself.

  Tonita skirted by the window and his rage, both, internally and in his groin, grew to near bursting.

  The Novice closed his eyes and prayed. Give me control to do what is right. Give me the power to do what I must. I will give you the glory. He repeated the prayer in Aramaic to himself several times, until his rage and his penis went flaccid, and his control returned, a sure sign that God had heard him. He opened his eyes and glanced back to the window.

  There, Cardinal Celent stood, perfectly backlit by the interior lights. A halo surrounded him, like a scene from a DaVinci painting of some angel or saint. The Cardinal’s back was to the room and a sliver of light reflected off of the windowpane, casting a glow on Cardinal Celent’s face.

  The Novice flushed. His face reddened and bumps rose on his arms. He stood, no longer concerned about concealing himself in the shadows of the wall, as he could clearly see that Cardinal Celent was staring directly at him.

  THIRTY FIVE

  JUNE 16TH, 1948

  Kapustin Yar

  Soviet Air Base

  U.S.S.R

  Soviet Air Force fighter pilot Arkadii Ivanovich Apraksin was a highly decorated, knowledgeable, and honorable man. Having flown for years with the Soviet Air Force, he was completely respected and admired by the rank and file, as well as by the commanders at the Kapustin Yar airfield. Test missile launches, space shuttle deployments, as well as experimental aircraft runs, were common occurrences at Kapustin Yar, and Apraksin’s expertise in the fields were well noted.

  Apraksin could clearly see the airfield located on the banks of the Volga River and the city of Stalingrad, just about 75 miles east from his vantage point at twenty seven hundred feet. The horizon was mostly clear with just a few scattered clouds that only added to the picturesque drama, as the fighter buzzed through a cloud, made a turn to the left and began to circle the airfield.

  The base commander radioed to Apraksin, “Repeat. Repeat transmission.” He lowered the mouthpiece to his side. “Go to speaker,” he ordered the radio technician.

  “Speaker open, sir.”

  “Apraksin, repeat transmission.”

  “There is a cucumber-shaped object flying directly in my path.” The static that had garbled the last transmission was gone, and the pilot’s voice came in loud and clear. “There are lights all around it,” Apraksin radioed back, “And the objec
t echoes on my radar.”

  “Confirm radar,” the base commander shouted out to a nearby radar technician.

  “Commander,” the technician answered. “Object confirmed.

  “The aircraft is not responding to my signals.”

  “Apraksin, you have my order to close in on the aircraft. The pilot is in violation of Soviet airspace.” The base commander stood over the radar screen, watching as the dot representing the jet fighter and the dot of the unknown aircraft moved. “Circle unknown aircraft and report.”

  “I cannot, Commander,” Apraksin radioed. “The aircraft counters every turn. I will try to close in.”

  “You are to order the aircraft to land.”

  “Yes, sir,” Apraksin responded, “closing airspace with unknown aircraft.” He maneuvered the Soviet fighter into a direct collision course with the unknown aircraft. Apraksin radioed back to the base commander, “Nine point seven kilometers and closing.”

  All in the control room remained silent, listening. The base commander stood behind the radar technician looking over him to the radar screen, watching.

  “Now within...” Apraksin started to transmit then hesitated. “The unidentified aircraft is descending.”

  Static.

  Followed by silence.

  “Waiting on orders, Commander.” Apraksin remained calm, his voice steady.

  “Apraksin, you are to destroy the unknown aircraft.” In contrast to Apraksin, the base commander’s voice rose.

  “Decent confirmed,” the radar technician shouted before his commander had a chance to ask.

  “I am ordered to destroy unknown aircraft, Commander?”

  “Shoot it down. Shoot the object down now.” The base commander’s voice trembled. “You are ordered to shoot the craft down.”

  “There are lights surrounding the object, Commander,” Apraksin radioed. “Landing lights. The aircraft is landing...” Static cut him off.

  “Apraksin, say again,” the base Commander ordered, as he released the control button on the microphone.

  “No. No!” Apraksin shouted. “It is not landing! The lights...the lights! I have lost control of my engines and all technical systems are out. All systems are down. Engines down. Altimeter down. Compass is spinning. The lights are directly on me. I cannot see the aircraft.” Apraksin was nearly hysterical. “Blinded. I’m going down. Going down.”

  The radio went dead.

  “Sir, the unknown aircraft is gone,” the radar technician said. “Only one echo remains.

  “That cannot be.”

  “Sir, it is no longer on radar.”

  The base commander picked up a telephone handset from the bracket on the wall. All eyes in the room turned and watched as he gestured, speaking in hushed tones.

  Moments later, Apraksin managed to glide the fighter to a rough landing on an air strip on the far outer edge of the Kapustin Yar airfield, away from other aircraft and buildings.

  When the fighter had rolled to a stop, Apraksin popped the cockpit canopy open and breathed in deeply, allowing the stress of the flight to dissipate. As soon as he pulled off the headphones, he heard the unmistakable clicking of chambers being armed. He looked down, half smiling. The aircraft was completely surrounded by service men, weapons at the ready, all aimed at the cockpit. Apraksin’s smile faded. He was held in the cockpit, ordered not to exit. An hour later experts from Moscow and the local Stalingrad KGB arrived.

  The fighter aircraft was immediately hauled off and impounded—to be studied—the KGB said. Apraksin was removed from the area sedated—for his own comfort—and taken to KGB headquarters in Moscow—for safekeeping.

  Apraksin woke in the hospital at Saratov where he gave a detailed statement of his encounter with the oddly shaped, unknown aircraft. After several days of observation, he was presented to a special medical board comprised of top KGB doctors. The doctors determined that additional treatment was necessary and sent Apraksin to a psycho-neurological institute for further observation and study. There he was given shock treatment and psychotherapy. ‘Despite their best efforts,’ as the newspapers would later report, Apraksin was declared ‘disabled’ to further duty.

  All personnel on duty at the base that day were reassigned and relocated to far off bases in Siberia or to headquarters in Moscow, where they could be watched for any signs of trauma—so the KGB reported.

  No trace of the unknown flying object was ever found, and most records of the occurrence vanished.

  THIRTY SIX

  “I THOUGHT ALIENS LANDED at Roswell?” Tonita took the book from Dominic’s hands and began flipping the pages.

  Cardinal Celent laughed, looking through the window, his back still to Dominic and Tonita. “Isn’t that great? The story that has grown around Roswell, and the landing there has taken on a life of its own.” He continued to stare at the Novice, who stood motionless on the street below. “Have you ever been there?”

  “Roswell?” Dominic questioned.

  “Yes.” Cardinal Celent shook his head in positive motion, not so much in affirmation to Dominic’s question, but as an acknowledgement to the Novice that the game was on.

  “I haven’t.” Tonita tossed the book to the sofa. “I’m not into this, aliens invading us thing, and all this UFO nonsense.”

  “It’s a fascinating place really. Roswell.” Cardinal Celent turned his back to the window and to the Novice. “So much built up on nothing more than rumor.”

  “So, there was never a spaceship crash in Roswell?” Dominic picked the book up from the sofa and slowly turned the pages.

  “Oh I didn’t say that. Yes, there was a crash in Roswell. Well, close to Roswell anyway. But it wasn’t a space ship,” Cardinal Celent spoke, keeping his place with his back to the window. He did not want to relinquish his position, afraid that either Dominic or Tonita would take his place and discover the Novice standing, waiting, outside. “The crash outside of Roswell was real. Of course, the government covered it up with stories of balloons and luckily for us the local police and newspapers printed the story, which of course grew into the story of Roswell as we know it today. Fascinating. But the crash was real.”

  Tonita wrapped her arms around herself. “This is just too much.”

  “Please sit down,” Cardinal Celent said to Tonita, then added, “Both of you.” Cardinal Celent waited a moment. When neither Tonita nor Dominic moved to the sofa, he continued, “Please.”

  Dominic stopped flipping the pages of the book and took a long look into the Cardinal’s eyes. “Tonita,” he gestured to the sofa taking a seat there.

  Tonita uncrossed her arms and reluctantly joined Dominic on the sofa. She looked up at Cardinal Celent. “Well?”

  “We chose Roswell for several reasons. One, because of its remoteness. Two, because of the air force base not far from the city. And three...” He chuckled. “Because of the name.”

  “Why the name?” Dominic looked to Tonita, who shrugged.

  Cardinal Celent held his hand out. “The book, please.”

  Dominic reached across the sofa and handed the book to the Cardinal.

  Cardinal Celent fingered the worn cover. “In 1873 Roswell was named in honor of the founder’s father. That is the real story. Still, the name bore some significance to our mission.” He continued to finger the torn leather binding on the book, then continued, “We took the name of Roswell, to be a sign.”

  “A sign from the aliens?” Tonita said, sarcasm pouring out of every word.

  Cardinal Celent laughed. “Not aliens. God.”

  “You don’t,” Dominic started, then caught himself. “You didn’t believe in God.”

  “True. I may not have, but there were others who did. It was their sign. I dismissed it. It didn’t have any bearing on our mission—or so I thought at the time.”

  “What changed your mind?” Tonita said, sitting forward.

  “There are Artesian wells in the area surrounding the town. The wells gave life to the area, and without the
m the town would not have been able to succeed. It would have died and turned to dust, becoming a ghost town, like so many in the deserts of the western United States. Perhaps, we would never have heard of Roswell.” Cardinal Celent shifted his position, taking hold of the end of the table near the window, easing his discomfort from standing for so long.

  “Here, sit down.” Dominic said, noting the slightly pained look on the Cardinal’s face.

  Cardinal Celent smiled, replacing the grimace. “I’m fine. Really.” He did not dare leave the space in front of the window. Even with his back to the window, he sensed that the Novice was below and had not moved. He was still there, watching.

  Cardinal Celent kept his composure, continuing despite the pain in his joints and the burning sensation at his back. “Roswell is a common spelling and combination of two words. Rose—a flower and Well—life. The flower of life.”

  “Rose Well?” Tonita asked.

  “We know this in the Catholic Church by another name.” Cardinal Celent said, and watched as the expression on Dominic’s face registered the meaning.

  “The mother of Jesus,” Dominic spoke the words softly.

  “That is right, Dominic. The well of life—the Virgin Mary.” Cardinal Celent said.

  The quiet sound of glass slowly cracking caught Cardinal Celent’s attention. Dominic and Tonita, seated on the sofa, looked to him as he cocked his head trying to place the noise. He raised a finger to his lips in a gesture of quiet.

  Without further warning, the window behind Cardinal Celent exploded inward. Shards of glass sprayed into the room. Large triangles of glass cleavers lodged themselves into Cardinal Celent’s back. He fell forward taking the brunt of the assault.