UNSEEN FORCES: SKY WILDER (BOOK ONE)
Page 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Praise for Ed Kovacs
Books by Ed Kovacs
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
About Ed Kovacs
Copyright
PRAISE FOR ED KOVACS
For Good Junk:
“…the scenes of New Orleans are rich and real. Kovacs hopeless, elegiac vision of the city is touching, and his quick studies of hidden landmarks like the outré bar in the French Quarter that calls itself Pravda, and Pampy’s, a purveyor of soul food to politicians, are written with true affection and terrific humor.” –THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
“Powerful prose that evokes a city still struggling to recover its infrastructure and identity elevates this well beyond most other contemporary PI novels.” –PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY, BOXED, STARRED REVIEW
*****
For Storm Damage:
“A sleeper here, a beautiful spin on hard-boiled fiction that respects the conventions—starting with the knockout female client with an agenda—rather than mocking or aping them. The hero is damaged goods, the politicos are corrupt, other guys you can’t figure out at all, and it’s all done with style and energy.”— BOOKLIST
“Kovacs has written a fast-paced, gritty novel in which no one is to be trusted and nothing is as it seems. His noir take on the thriller will hook readers.”—ASSOCIATED PRESS
“Kovacs is a vivid addition to the thriller genre.” —STEVE BERRY, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
“ Kovacs writes like a master.” —GAYLE LYNDS, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
“Ed Kovacs comes out of the gate with a bang. Storm Damage is ultra fast-paced, moving, and nicely devious. Highly recommended.”—JONATHAN MABERRY, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
*****
For The Russian Bride:
“This is a thriller packed so full of action, it leaves readers breathless. Kovacs does an incredible job at being technically accurate and easy to understand, so readers of all levels are engaged throughout. A must-read for fans of fast-paced stories that don’t let you go till the very end.”—RT BOOK REVIEWS
“Brisk, easy-to-read thriller” – PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY
“Quick, entertaining action.” – KIRKUS REVIEWS
*****
For Burnt Black:
“The vibrant description of occult doings mixes well with the movements of the earthbound characters, making this Cliff and Honey’s best outing to date.” —KIRKUS REVIEWS
“This series has a definite southern noir feel, and its rough around the edges locale will be catnip to some readers, like myself. The book has more twists and turns than the streets and back alleys of New Orleans…”—CRIMINAL ELEMENT
*****
For Unseen Forces:
“Indiana Jones on steroids.”—COL. JOHN ALEXANDER, AUTHOR OF “FUTURE WAR”
“A spellbinding thriller that will keep you riveted well past midnight.”— THE ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH
“A real page-turner rivaling The Da Vinci Code.”—PHENOMENA MAGAZINE
“A taut, suspenseful story that keeps the reader riveted until the very end.”—MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW
“Will keep you up nights with anticipation.”—RANDALL FITZGERALD, AUTHOR OF “COSMIC TEST TUBE”
“Terrific debut novel that deserves to be on the bestseller lists.”—THE DAILY GRAIL
“I couldn’t wait to get back to it after I put it down. Kovacs covers some serious philosophical questions within the framework of a potboiler.”—PAUL SMITH, AUTHOR OF “READING THE ENEMY'S MIND”
BOOKS BY ED KOVACS
Unseen Forces
Storm Damage
Good Junk
Burnt Black
The Russian Bride
DEDICATION
For Callan Ramses, the Little Pharaoh;
What a beautiful accident
And for the Bad Lieutenant;
A true unseen force
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Captain Dale Dye, USMC (Ret.), who encouraged me so many years ago to sit in the gunners seat of the novelist and face the target. I'm deeply indebted to the late Dawson Hayward who gifted me with the keys to unlock many secrets of the American Southwest. His life remains a beacon, a navigational fix to get me back on the path.
In Thailand, my gratitude extends to Pronpimol Na Lampang in Chiang Rai, and to others in border areas who wish to remain unnamed. General Mamdough Ferghani, Egyptian Army (Ret.), was a font of knowledge during my research in Cairo.
Heartfelt gratitude to Aleta Gibbs, Maggie Chan, Trish and Ken Loar, and Mu Li. Major Paul Smith, U.S. Army (Ret.), helped set some facts straight and offered erudite counsel. Much gratitude to R.F. Truman; old friends are precious indeed. David Tseklenis is a visionary with intellect, style, sophistication and wit. I am blessed to have such a friend and offer thanks for his unwavering support.
Much love and and thanks to Neungreuthai Chanphonsean, Mileena Amika, and Callan Ramses, who keep me honest and shower me with unconditional love.
Lastly, this book would not exist were it not for the phenomenal support of Lisa Chan.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It is published fact that the C.I.A. began funding “psi” research at Stanford Research Institute, Menlo Park, California, in 1972. The initial research eventually evolved into a series of secret U.S. military units that trained and tasked remote viewers—psychic spies—in offices at Ft. Meade, Maryland.
The psychic spy units, operating under such names as Grill Frame, Sun Streak, and Star Gate, had supporters in some of the highest positions of the U.S. government.
And thanks in advance to my readers for understanding that while most locations in this book are real and worth a visit, others are purely fictional.
EPIGRAPH
1770, Sir William Pitt, speaking to the House of Lords: “There is something behind the throne greater than the King himself.”
1884, Benjamin Disraeli: “The world is governed by very different personages from what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes.”
1933, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, in a letter to a friend: “The real truth of the matter is, as you and I know, that a financial element in the large centers has owned government ever since the days of Andrew Jackson.”
1966, H.C. Randall-Stevens: “Today, those who rule are usurpers, born through a line of usurpers. When this started to happen long ago, the Book of Knowledge was closed and the Divine Secrets were lost.”
PROLOGUE
The Netherlands, 1943
The sharp ringing of the hand crank phone cracked the air in Piet Ronhaar’s study like an explosion. Piet spilled red table wine all over his daughter Arabella’s astrology chart as he reached for the he
avy black Bakelite receiver. The insistent clanging sounded more like an alarm than a phone and the ashen look on Piet’s face suggested it was just that. Connected by buried wire to an identical hand crank phone at a farm nine kilometers away, the phone rang once a year on the same day at the same time as a test.
This was not that day, not that time.
“That phone never rings. Who’s calling, Papa?” asked six year-old Arabella as she played with old wooden dolls on the floor near her father’s desk. She preferred being near her father to playing with her sisters or helping Mama with chores.
Piet ignored his youngest daughter, ignored the growing puddle of wine, and picked up the phone breathlessly. He listened silently for several seconds then resolutely nodded his head. “It shall be done,” he said as calmly as he could. He slowly replaced the receiver.
When Holland was falling to the Germans, Piet had quickly relinquished the visibility and cachet of a professorship in cosmopolitan Amsterdam for the inconspicuous rural life of a simple farmer. He thought it would help keep safe the ancient secret he protected. At first, Hitler had left Freemasonry and other secret European fraternities like his alone. Recent whispers, however, suggested that policy had radically changed.
Forcing himself to remain focused and calm, forty year-old Piet took several seconds to work out a plan in his mind. He quickly scribbled a few words on a piece of paper and folded it in half. He moved to Arabella and easily lifted her to her feet with his arms made powerful from farm labor.
“What shall be done, Papa?” she asked, as her thin blonde hair fell across pale green eyes. “That telephone never rings. Who were you talking to?”
“Never mind that,” he said, brushing back her hair as fine as an angel's. “Where are Mama and your sisters?”
“Outside hanging the laundry.”
“My little princess Arabella,” Piet said, trying not to sound panicked, “I’m giving you a very special present.” Piet unhooked his necklace, heavy with a sterling silver fish pendant, and draped it around his small daughter. “You must wear my favorite necklace until you see me again later. We are both Pisces, after all, the sign of the fish.”
“Are you going somewhere, Papa?”
“If any of Papa’s friends ever ask you about today, show them this pendant. And you must tell them about my favorite saying. Can you remember that, my sweet?”
“Yes. Your favorite saying is Matthew twenty, verse sixteen. But what about my star chart? And Kaatje’s and Anke’s?”
“You will have it, my darling. But you must remember what I just told you. You must not speak to Germans, tell only Papa’s friends about the pendant and my favorite saying. And tell them I love my three daughters. My three daughters! Can you do that for me, can you remember?”
“Of course, Papa!”
“Very good, my princess. Now run to Mama, right now, and give her this paper. Run, please, and there will be extra chocolate tonight!”
With visions of a confectionery reward, Arabella shot out the door in a dither with the note in her hand. Piet hurried over to the fake stone in his office wall. He would have only minutes. Looking out through a window, he caught a glimpse of his lovely thirty-four year-old wife Lina, anguished and terrified, kick-start their old motorcycle, and with their three girls hanging on, power the vehicle over a hillock and disappear. He feared he would never see them again.
###
Since his grandfather reigned as one of the most powerful industrialists in the Fatherland, Carl Rockow already held the rank of full colonel at the age of twenty-six. A childhood avocation for black magic led him naturally to the Ahnenerbe Verein, the SS Occult Bureau. He relished putting on the black uniform with death's head insignia and fed on the fear his authority instilled in others.
Rockow felt relieved Hitler had finally come to his senses and ordered a crackdown on all secret societies that weren’t satanic. Almost immediately, a treasure trove of ritual objects had fallen into the hands of the Occult Bureau. Since the SS themselves worshiped the devil, only fellow Satanists would be left alone, meaning the secret society Rockow belonged to, the SW, Schwarze Wahrheit, or Black Truth, had nothing to fear.
A morning chill gripped the clear air but Col. Rockow insisted on riding with the top down on his staff car in order to watch for aerial dogfights as he cruised through the Dutch countryside with his driver and a captain.
“Today’s my lucky day, Axel,” said Rockow, sweeping the sky with Zeiss binoculars. “Our ME-109’s are just taking on a squadron of American fighter-bombers, it would seem.”
“Those new American planes are very fast and heavily armed.”
Rockow put down the binoculars and stared coldly at his captain. “We are Germans. We are destined to win.”
“Yes, Herr Colonel. Sir, we have arrived at the mason’s farmhouse.”
“So soon. Pity. I wanted to see the show,” said Col. Rockow, glancing skyward as the car rolled to a stop at Piet Ronhaar’s farmhouse, followed by two troop trucks carrying a full platoon of SS storm troopers. “Oh well, let’s go put on our own show.”
###
Piet Ronhaar sat tied to a chair in his office. His right eye was swollen shut, and sticky, coagulating blood covered his lips and chin. His shirt had been ripped off, and bruises, welts, and cuts covered his battered torso. Blood dripped from Ronhaar's right hand where two fingers were now missing; the red liquid splattered to the floor with the slow beat of a funeral dirge.
Col. Rockow reclined at Piet's desk sipping a glass of wine as he held a document up to the light. “It’s just a matter of time before we find your wife and daughters, Herr Ronhaar, you know that.” The false stone lay open on the desk.
Piet struggled to control his breathing. “You have what you’ve come looking for. I was told to hide that document and I did.”
“Yes, your fellow lodge member said you had the document. The uncoded document. This document, hidden in your stone wall, is in code. I don’t think he would lie to us, especially since I was inserting a knife into his son’s eye socket at the time.”
Piet lowered his eyes. He had erred badly. It had only taken him two minutes to encode the coordinates before the Germans had arrived. The original document he burned in his fireplace. They would never break the one-time pad code he'd created, that was impossible... unless they tortured it out of him. That now loomed as a very real possibility.
“A man came two days ago. He was of a degree higher than me but I did not know him. It was he who encoded the document.”
Rockow chuckled. “You’re a poor liar, Herr Ronhaar.” The young colonel stood casually and stretched like a cat, yawning, then slowly withdrew a ceremonial death's head dagger from a sheath on his belt. He crossed to Piet and drew the blade over the skin of the Dutchman’s exposed forearms, pressing lightly enough to draw blood but not cutting deeply as he carved the initials “SS” into the flesh.
Sweat dripped from Piet’s face as he waited for the real pain to begin.
“Herr Ronhaar, you will give me the code key now, or later. Do it now and you won’t suffer.”
Piet remained silent. He held no hope for survival, but every second he could prolong the encounter would put more distance between his family and these butchers.
Rockow turned to the captain. “Find me some food, Axel. You know how blood makes me hungry. I’m going to the car to get my tools. A Japanese military attache in Berlin recently gave me a set of sharpened teak chopsticks. We'll see how they fit under Herr Ronhaar's fingernails.”
Piet's office had it's own entrance, and the colonel used it as he strode outside and traversed a path toward his staff car. He hurried the last few meters and was reaching for his binoculars to get a better look at the dogfight overhead when an approaching roar stopped him in his tracks.
An American P-38, smoke pouring from both engines, dropped like a stone from the sky. Rockow felt a flash of pride, then fear. He could see the blood-spattered cockpit with his naked eye as the pla
ne, still carrying its full load of two 1600 pound bombs, veered straight toward the farmhouse. Rockow broke into a dead run for a few seconds, then the world shifted into slow motion as the concussion blew him almost three meters down the drive.
He awoke sometime later to the cold realization that all of his troops were dead and the farmhouse had been obliterated. Deep in shock beyond physical pain, he discovered he had been castrated by a piece of the American plane. He felt grateful for the child he already had, checked his pocket to make sure the code remained secure, and then passed out.
CHAPTER 1
The First Lady maintained a well-deserved reputation for procrastination. Hence, her limousine took a secret underground tunnel to the Mayflower Hotel from the White House to cut many minutes off the above-ground traffic-choked route. Tucked away in an obscure corner on the hotel’s second floor, Michel’s salon always discretely accommodated their VIP client.
Today’s event in the main ballroom was a fund-raising benefit for the UNHCR, the United Nations High Commission for Refugees, an organization upon whose board she sat and whose mission cleaved near and dear to her heart. This year was the fiftieth anniversary of the organization, which necessitated the First Lady’s attendance at a series of galas hosted by field offices around the world. The travel could be tiring but the attendant publicity and goodwill helped immensely with fund raising.
The new pedicurist at Michel’s carefully applied a rose pink colored polish. An old lady color, she thought. Dao, a sweet-looking nineteen year-old Laotian girl had taken her first breath in the District, but her family had endured horrific conditions and squalid refugee camps in order to escape the yoke of the Laos government's ongoing repression of the hill tribe people called Hmong.
Dao's parents had been lucky and were provided a life of freedom in America. Her parents were the kind of people UNHCR worked hard to help: ordinary people who fled their homes to escape war, persecution or human rights abuse. Dao’s folks had, in fact, received food, shelter and other essentials directly as a result of UNHCR programs, funded in part by the kind of event taking place in the hotel today.