Within seconds, Ernst’s armed thugs were hammering the grieving people with the butts of their weapons, forcing them back, as another two contrabandistas picked up the dead man and carried him out of sight, to be buried, as Ernst knew, in the unmarked communal grave outside the compound. When the dead man’s relatives and friends continued wailing in grief, Wilson again demonstrated the power of the strobe light by rendering them unconscious with it, after which they, too, were carried away.
Feeling nothing for the murdered man, Ernst was suitably impressed. Though increasingly resenting being kept in this hellhole, he still had a healthy respect for Wilson – and, indeed, practically worshipped him. He often despised himself for this reverence, but could not fight the feeling.
‘Finally,’ Wilson said, knowing exactly how to impress his disciple, ‘look at this.’
Again aiming his remote control at the immense transport craft, he activated the opening of panels located at half-a-dozen different points, equidistant around the top body, below the level of the mushroom-shaped central dome. With a speed that startled even the expectant Ernst, silvery objects shot out of the openings and ascended to a height of about a hundred feet, where they stopped abruptly and hovered in the air.
They looked just like the old World War II Feuerballs.
‘They are,’ Wilson confirmed, when Ernst had made this observation. ‘They’re highly advanced models based on the originals.’
‘How highly advanced?’
‘Though still only three to six feet in diameter, they have most of the capabilities of the larger saucers and are used for reconnaissance and as antiradar and sensing devices. As they can emit strobe lights and laser beams, they’re also used as mesmerising or stunning devices, as well as to draw mechanical vehicles close enough to the mother ship to be within reach of the CAMS.’
‘So they’re used in abductions.’
‘Correct,’ Wilson said. With what seemed like a sigh of regret (though Ernst suspected that such an emotion would be alien to him) he returned the advanced Feuerballs to the transport craft and closed the panels. He then reopened the wide ramp at the bottom of the saucer and ordered the cyborgs to herd the imprisoned Ache Indians up into it. The cyborgs turned away without a word and walked in their oddly mechanical manner to the cages where, with the help of stun guns that clearly stung, rather than inducing unconsciousness, they began marching the hurt, terrified Indians towards the saucer’s ramp.
‘The infrasounds,’ Wilson said, ‘are so condensed that they can create physical pressure on the human brain and the body’s organs, even bursting blood vessels in the head. Thus, they’re useful as weapons, which is why we’ve incorporated them into the saucers. As for the stereotaxic skullcaps, we also plan to use them to hypnotise or otherwise control human beings by remote control. We’ll abduct those we want, impregnate their heads with minute, remote-controlled electrodes, then return them to the world, to do our bidding as and when required. Eventually, in this way, we’ll be able to enslave the world’s most powerful men and women without resorting to war and with few aware that they’re under our control. In other words, they’ll become our brain-implanted robots – even those in the highest seats of government.’ He offered a smile that failed to warm the Antarctic blue of his eyes. ‘So how are you, Ernst? I must say, you look well.’
It was a lie and Ernst knew it, though he was wise enough not to argue. He had aged overnight towards the end of World War II, when his wife and two children were killed in an air-raid on Berlin, making him realise that he had no one left but Wilson. At least he had aged in appearance – he had seen it in the mirror – though since coming to Paraguay he had aged in an even worse way: inside, in his spirit. Now his skin had a yellow pallor, his handsome features were wrinkled, and his body, though bone-thin, felt heavy and lifeless. As for his spirit, it was trickling out of him with each passing day, leaving nothing but the ghosts of old dreams that were long dead and buried. Ernst knew that he was paying for his sins and that hell was right here on Earth.
‘I feel fine,’ he lied, not yet having the courage to say otherwise. ‘How are things in Antarctica?’
‘Things run smoothly,’ Wilson said. ‘No problems so far. Our secret agreements with the Americans, British and Russians have ensured a constant supply of all the materials we require. As for general manpower and slave labour, we continue to replenish those lost through experimentation or natural causes by simply abducting more people and, of course, by supplementing them with your invaluable supply of Ache Indians. You’re still having no trouble in obtaining them?’
‘It’s easier than it was. With General Stroessner now the President of Paraguay, we have total freedom of movement. The general always wants money.’
‘Greed makes strong men weak, which is what we can utilise. The former war allies are greedy for our technology, which is why I can use them.’
‘I sometimes worry,’ Ernst said, ‘that we’ll give away too much.’
‘You worry too much,’ Wilson said.
‘Do I? Please let me remind you that earlier this year Wernher von Braun’s first satellite, Explorer, was launched successfully into space. Subsequent Explorer satellites made the first scientific discoveries of the space age by locating the radiation belt around Earth. In July, a US nuclear submarine, Nautilus, made a successful four-day journey under the ice of the North Pole. I should also point out that the past year has seen the discovery of electronic miniaturisation in the shape of the silicon chip; and that the British and the Americans are both presently involved in Zeta programmes designed to harness the power of the H-bomb. This represents an unprecedented speed of advancement – and it’s my belief that it was possible only through the West’s access to our innovations, particularly those in the field of electronic miniaturisation, which will revolutionise every branch of technology.’
‘I understand your concern,’ Wilson said, ‘but I think it’s misplaced. We can only pass on what we’ve already surpassed, and each time they’ve tried to trick us, or planned to turn against us, we’ve easily scared them back into line with a display of our superior powers – as we did with the so-called UFO invasion of Washington DC in 1952 and when we arranged for the explosion in the US Vanguard rocket during its launch in December, 1957.’
‘I’d assumed that was your doing,’ Ernst said admiringly. ‘How did you manage it?’
‘We abducted one of the NASA engineers, flew him to the Antarctic base, implanted minute electrodes in his head, using a stereotaxic skullcap, then programmed him to forget his experience with us, while doing for us exactly what we wanted. He planted one of our explosive devices in the rocket – a device so minute, it leaves no traces after it’s exploded. Naturally, the Americans never guessed who had done that – since they never thought to examine the heads of their engineers for electronic implants. So our brain-implanted slave is still there, at NASA, to do our bidding as and when required. The seesaw arrangement is working, Ernst, and we’re in control of it. Now I have to be going.’
The abruptness was typical of Wilson. It was not a sign of rudeness, but of his impatience and inability to sit still and do nothing.
As Wilson pushed his chair back and stood upright, Ernst noticed that the last of the terrified Ache prisoners had been herded up into the transport craft by the stungun-toting cyborgs and that the saucer was therefore ready to depart. Swelling with a sudden, startling desperation, Ernst followed Wilson across the clearing, through his own armed Federales and contrabandistas, as well as Wilson’s grim, black-clothed bodyguards, before stopping at the brilliantly lit, sloping ramp that led up into the saucer. Glancing up, Ernst caught a glimpse of gleaming white, curving inner walls, a stretch of steel-railed catwalk, figures silhouetted in dazzling light. He was gripped by the pain of loss when he thought of how all of this had begun: thirty years ago, when some primitive, liquid-fuelled rockets had been shot up from an abandoned 300-acre arsenal in the depressing Berlin suburb of Reindickerdorf.
Ernst had been there at the beginning, but not for too long. Each time he had been sidestepped, which had happened too often, he had lost another piece of his soul and hope for the future. Now he wanted that back, to recapture his lost youth, and so he turned to face Wilson, his idol, his master, fighting to keep control of his emotions and brimming self-pity.
‘I lied to you,’ he confessed. ‘I’m not feeling fine at all. In fact, this place is driving me mad and I yearn to escape it. This jungle compound is a pestilence. These moronic natives are my despair. I have no-one to talk to, no-one educated, and now pressure from the West to find and punish former Nazis has made it too dangerous for me to even visit Asuncion, which I used to do regularly when I needed a break. I repeat, Herr Wilson, that I’m going mad in this place. Please take me back with you. Replace me with someone else. Give me a respite from this hellhole and let me do more important work. Let me work on the saucers.’
Wilson stared steadily at him, his blue gaze intense, revealing neither sympathy nor contempt, but merely the icy-bright gleam of pure pragmatism. When he then placed his hand on Ernst’s shoulder, Ernst felt his heart sinking, knowing what the answer would be, not able to challenge it.
‘I’m sorry, Ernst,’ Wilson said, ‘but the time isn’t right. I understand your frustration, but I have to be hard with you, to keep you doing what you must do until this job is completed. Your time will soon come, Ernst. Soon you won’t be needed here. In the meantime, however, you just have to be patient and continue to do the best that you can. You have to stay here, Ernst.’
‘But I’m going mad here!’ Ernst blurted out, ashamed of the self-pity in his voice, but unable to hide it. ‘There’s no one for me here. I can’t go to Asuncion. If I can’t get away now and then, I’ll truly go crazy.’
Wilson squeezed his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Ernst. The next time we come, we’ll bring you a thirty-five-foot, single-pilot flying saucer, solely for your personal convenience. You can use it to make trips away from here, when it becomes too much for you. This small craft will take you anywhere you want, allowing you to avoid Asuncion. It possesses all the capabilities of the larger saucers and is easy to fly. Compared to this, driving a car is complicated.’ He squeezed Ernst’s shoulder again, trying to reassure him. ‘The next time we visit, Ernst. In two weeks. I can offer you nothing else for the time being, so I trust you’ll accept.’
‘Yes, Herr Wilson. Thank you.’
Yet even as Ernst said this, lowering his eyes, unable to meet Wilson’s gaze, he was filled with the chilling conviction that his idol was toying with him, not telling the whole truth, hiding something, planning something else for him, perhaps something not good.
When he raised his eyes again, to search for the truth in Wilson’s gaze, the older man had already turned away from him and was entering the saucer. The cyborgs and armed guards followed him in, then the ramp gave off a low humming sound as it slotted back into the outer body of the saucer, once more leaving it solid and visually seamless.
Instantly, Ernst retreated to the relative safety of his front veranda. He sat in his rocking chair, started rocking automatically, staring upwards as the mighty saucer ascended slowly to just above the canopy of the trees. There it hovered majestically, silently, for a moment, then it suddenly shot off as a ball of light that shrank at great speed. Soon it became just one of the many stars above the jungle, briefly hovering in outer space, then it abruptly blinked out, as if it had never been.
Lowering his gaze and glancing around his compound, Ernst saw the high walls of wood and thatch, the guards in machine-gun towers, the open fires burning outside the shacks of the native workers, the bamboo cages for the Ache prisoners, the flogging posts and coffin-shaped, windowless boxes used for punishment; the dogs, goats, chickens and pigs, the shit and piss in the open latrines. In the day it was all shadowed by the soaring tropical trees; but most nights, as right now, it was wrapped in a suffocating humidity, besieged constantly by every imaginable kind of insect and reptile, half of them venomous, others carrying deadly diseases. Surveying it all with his weakening eyes, through senses jaded and increasingly numbed, Ernst accepted that he really was in hell and receiving God’s punishment.
When he thought back on World War II and his early days as an idealistic young engineer, then of Himmler and Kammler and Nebe and the SS, then of his wife and children (all betrayed by him, before dying in an Allied air-raid) and, finally, of what he was doing in this vile jungle, he understood why he was being punished and knew that he deserved it.
Ernst shed sentimental tears, then called out for his servant-girl, Rosa. When she advanced reluctantly from the darkness, on bare feet, clearly frightened, Ernst knew that he would make her suffer as he was suffering, easing his pain by inflicting it on someone even less fortunate.
He had created his own hell on Earth and now had to rule it. The devil, he knew, did not need disciples; he just needed victims.
Ernst now needed a lot of those.
‘Tonight we will do things you can’t imagine,’ he said to Rosa as she knelt obediently, fearfully, in front of him. ‘Now go into the bedroom, take your clothes off, and lie down on the floor. Don’t move a muscle, don’t make a sound, until I come to you. Do you understand, woman?’
‘Yes, master,’ she whispered.
Ernst burned in the scalding light of his sick desires and sad self-destruction. Waving Rosa away and glancing up at the stars, he wondered which one of them was actually Wilson’s flying saucer. Then, in the full knowledge of his loss, he filled up with choking fury and pain.
‘I won’t stay here,’ he whispered. ‘I won’t! As God is my witness!’
So saying, he stood up and entered the spacious, eerily empty log-house, to take out his frustration on Rosa in ways unimaginable.
Chapter Twenty-Six Flying into Washington DC at the end of January, 1959, Dwight was picked up at the airport by Bob Jackson and his wife, Thelma, the sexy blonde WAC corporal who had acted as secretary to both of them during the good days at the ATIC. Though not quite as slim as she had been when Dwight had last seen her, Thelma was still an attractive, good-humoured woman.
‘A matinée idol!’ she exclaimed as she gave Dwight a hug. ‘You haven’t changed a bit, sweetheart.’
‘If I weren’t in a public place,’ Dwight replied, ‘I’d throw you on the floor and try my best.’
‘Which wouldn’t be good enough,’ Thelma said.
Dwight laughed. ‘Don’t you know it?’
The ice was broken as easily as it only can be with true friends and they left the airport, driven by Thelma in a battered old Ford, like folk who had never been parted. Dwight sat in the rear.
‘A damned mess,’ he said.
‘My car?’
‘Yeah, Bob, your car. Sooner or later we all need a hearse, but it doesn’t need to be this bad.’
‘In American society,’ Bob retaliated, ‘a man’s judged by his automobile and his woman. Given this, though my wheels aren’t of the best, I’m still on top of the heap.’
‘Now you know how he suckered me,’ Thelma said, lighting up a Camel and exhaling a cloud of smoke as she drove. ‘I couldn’t resist his Irish blarney. He made me feel like a queen.’
‘Which you are,’ Dwight said.
‘You’re so straight-laced, Dwight,’ Thelma replied teasingly, ‘that hearing those words coming out of your mouth makes me melt and have wicked thoughts.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ Bob said. ‘Instead, take her words as words of wisdom. Never ignore a good woman.’
‘I won’t,’ Dwight promised.
He said it without confidence, even as his chest heaved with a spasm of overwhelming love. It was love for Beth, stabbing through him like a knife, opening him with a surgeon’s precision to all the pain, joy and uncertainty of being back with her.
Getting together again hadn’t been all that easy, though it had certainly been worth it in the end. At first, when Dwight mo
ved back in, he and Beth had been awkward with each other, no longer protected by the ease of familiarity and having to inch slowly towards one another. As with most such relationships, their greatest difficulty was in approaching each other in bed after having spent so much time apart. The first night had been bad, an embarrassed, tentative touching that had filled Dwight with the shock of renewed desire, yet simultaneously unnerved him, making him feel like an inexperienced schoolboy who didn’t know what to do. Giving up, they had slept in each other’s arms and awakened self-conscious with each other – though the rest of that day Dwight felt remarkably alive, skin glowing with the indelible touch of Beth’s soft skin on his. It had made him feel exalted.
The next night, however, was the breaking of the ice, with Beth taking the initiative, exploring him with her hands and lips, finally taking his hardness into her mouth and exciting him to the degree where he forgot the inhibitions he had developed over the barren years of separation. Set free by her equally shy, caring administrations, surrendering to the ecstasy of pure, sensual pleasure, he had lain there, breathing heavily, his body on fire, as she sat up and straddled him, her naked body pale in the moonlight, beads of sweat glistening on her breasts and thighs, running into her pubic hair.
It was possibly a tribute to the depth of their love that even now, at his age, Dwight was convinced that he would never forget that image of Beth for as long as he lived: naked, sweat-slicked, her hair falling across her face, legs spread and spine curved, full breasts thrusting out, emphasising the hardened nipples, as she moved up and down on him, turning this way and that, kneading his chest, belly and thighs with electrified fingers and an instinct that seemed to anticipate his every need and desire. He had stared up at her, wide-eyed, running his hands frantically over her, squeezing her breasts, stroking her belly, gripping her hips to let their movement excite him to the limit; then thrusting up with his groin, trying to penetrate even deeper, to bury himself so deeply inside her that he became a part of her – all of that in beams of moonlight that fell on the bed they had purchased two days after returning from their honeymoon in Niagara Falls, thirteen years ago, when they were younger and less complicated. For that reason, when Beth came, her body shuddering astride him, and he followed closely, feeling as if he was dying, he knew that their love had a solid basis that could see them through. That thought, also, exalted him. Though even now he could not shake off the anguish caused by the knowledge, gained painfully through the separation, that nothing was permanent.
PHOENIX: (Projekt Saucer series) Page 29