Area 51 a5-1

by Robert Doherty

  “Clarify,” Gullick ordered.

  “When we did our background on Dr. Duncan, my people picked up some information that she was working with someone inside our organization or was sending someone in to infiltrate us. The NSA had supplied her with a phone cutout to talk to this agent. That cutout was activated forty minutes ago. My people disconnected it.”

  “Could you find out who was calling?”

  “Not without attracting the NSA’s attention,” Kennedy said. “But whoever was calling on that line, and I do believe it was Turcotte, given all that has happened, didn’t get through.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed of all this?” Gullick demanded.

  “I thought I could take care of it,” Kennedy said. “I warned Major Prague to be on the lookout and to check any new personnel extra carefully.”

  “Obviously that worked damn well!” Gullick exploded. He threw a file folder across the room. “Does anyone in here believe in letting me know what’s going on before we fuck things up any further?”

  The men of the inner circle of Majic-12 exchanged worried glances, not quite sure what to make of the question.

  Just as swiftly as he had exploded, Gullick calmed down. “I want everything you have on Turcotte.” He checked the computer screen. “And who’s this woman in the rent-a-car?”

  “We’ve run the plates the guards copied. The woman renting the car is Kelly Reynolds. She’s a freelance magazine writer.”

  “Just great.” Gullick threw up his hands. “That’s all we need.”

  “I’m working on getting a photo ID of her and her background.”

  “Track them down. Put out a classified alert through CIA channels into the police networks. No one should approach them. We have to get them ourselves. Quickly!”

  “We also have a report from Jarvis,” Kennedy continued. “This Reynolds woman interviewed him yesterday evening. Jarvis gave her the usual story, but she was better prepared than most and penetrated his backstop cover. She specifically asked about that reporter that we picked up the other night on White Sides Mountain.”

  “I wonder why she helped Turcotte and Von Seeckt,” Quinn said.

  Gullick stood. “Find her. Then you’ll know. While you’re at it, find Turcotte and find Von Seeckt and terminate them. Then we won’t have to worry about the whys.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  T — 109 Hours, 20 Minutes

  “Who did you call?” Turcotte asked, as he toweled his hair.

  While Von Seeckt had been on the phone, Turcotte had taken a shower and cleaned himself up. Kelly had run out and gone to a Wal-Mart to buy him a loose-fitting pair of pants and a shirt to replace his torn and sooty jumpsuit. He felt more human now. The stitches that Cruise had put in his arm were holding up well.

  “I left a message for a Professor Nabinger.” Von Seeckt held up the crumpled piece of paper he had in his hand. “I believe he may hold the key to understanding the mothership.”

  “Who is Nabinger?” Kelly asked.

  “An archaeologist with the Brooklyn Museum.”

  “Okay, time out,” Turcotte said. “I thought I was halfway up to speed with all this, but now you’ve lost me.”

  “When they discovered the mothership,” Von Seeckt said, “they also found tablets with what are called high runes on them. We have never been able to decipher the tablets, but it appears that Professor Nabinger might be able to.” Von Seeckt’s fingers ran over the head of his cane. “The only problem is that we have to get access to the tablets to show them to the professor.”

  “We are not going back into Area 51,” Turcotte said flatly. “Gullick will have our heads if we go back in there. And they’ll find us here soon enough too.”

  “The tablets aren’t there,” Von Seeckt said. “They’re being held at the Majic-12 facility in Dulce, New Mexico. That is why I said we must go there.”

  Turcotte sat down in an easy chair and rubbed his forehead. “So you’re agreeing with Kelly and say that we should go to Dulce. I assume whatever facility is there is highly classified also. So we’re just going to break in, rescue this reporter Johnny Simmons, get these tablets, decipher them, and then what?” “We make public the threat,” Von Seeckt said. He looked at Kelly. “That’s your job.”

  “Oh, I’ve been hired?” Kelly asked.

  “No, sounds to me like you volunteered like I did,” Turcotte said with a sarcastic laugh. “Sort of like people used to volunteer to charge across no-man’s-land in World War I. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to pick up hitchhikers?”

  Von Seeckt’s voice was grim. “None of us in this room has any choice. We either expose what they are planning to do at Area 51 in four days and stop it or we — and many others — die.”

  “I’m not sure I buy into the danger this mothership holds,” Turcotte said.

  Von Seeckt shook the piece of paper with the message from Nabinger on it. “This confirms my suspicions!”

  Turcotte glanced at Kelly and she returned the look. For all they knew Von Seeckt could be a total crackpot. The only reason Turcotte even began to believe the old man was the fact that Cruise had tried to kill him. That meant someone took him seriously enough to want to get rid of him. Of course, they might want to kill him because he was a crackpot, but Turcotte thought it best to keep that thought to himself. He didn’t feel on very firm ground; after all, his phone call had been to a number that was disconnected, so his story didn’t hold up much better than those of the other two people in the room.

  Von Seeckt had told him about Duncan being in the Cube. She might be legitimate, she might not. Turcotte’s training told him that when he didn’t have enough information he had to make the best possible choice. Going to Dulce seemed like a good way to at least accumulate more information from both Von Seeckt and Kelly on the way there.

  “All right,” Turcotte said. “Let’s stop yacking and get going.”

  Bimini, The Bahamas

  T — 108 Hours, 50 Minutes

  Less than a hundred miles east of Miami, the islands that made up Bimini were scattered across the ocean like small green dots. It was in the sparkling blue water around those dots that massive stone blocks had been found that had fueled speculation that Atlantis had once been there.

  Peter Nabinger didn’t have the time to dive to see the blocks. Besides, he’d already seen pictures of them. He was here to see the woman who had taken the pictures and then stayed to study them further.

  As he walked the short distance from the tiny dirt-strip airport to the village where Slater lived, Nabinger reflected on the only other time he’d seen the woman. It had been at an archaeological convention in Charleston, South Carolina. Slater had presented a paper on the stones in the shallow waters off her island home. It had not been received well. Not because her groundwork and research had been faulty, but because some of the conclusions she had proposed had gone against the prevailing winds of the world of academic archaeology. What had fascinated Nabinger was that a few of Slater’s slides showed forms of high runes etched into the underwater stonework. He’d gotten copies of the slides and they’d helped him decipher a few more high rune symbols.

  However, the chilly, in fact hostile, reception her presentation had received had convinced Nabinger to keep his own studies quiet.

  Nabinger wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted his backpack. At the conference Slater had not seemed particularly perturbed at the attacks on her theories. She had smiled, packed her bags, and gone back to her island.

  Her attitude had seemed to suggest that they could take it or leave it. Until someone came up with some better ideas and supported them, she was sticking to hers. Nabinger had been impressed with that self-confident attitude. Of course, she didn’t have a museum board of directors or an academic review board for tenure looking over her shoulder, either, so she could afford to be aloof.

  He looked down at the card she had given him at the conference — a small map photocopi
ed on the back pointed the way to her house. She’d given it to him when he’d asked for copies of the slides. “We don’t have street names on my island,” she had told him. “If you don’t know where you’re going, you won’t get there. But don’t worry, you can walk everywhere from the airfield or the dock.”

  Nabinger spotted a shock of white hair above a garden of green surrounding a small cottage. As the woman turned around, he recognized Slater. She put a hand over her eyes and watched him approach. Slater was in her late sixties and had come to archaeology late in life, after retiring from a career as a mineral- and geologic-rights lawyer representing various environmental groups — the reason she could afford to go her own way and another reason she irritated the archaeological old guard.

  “Good day, young man,” she called out as he turned into her drive. “Ms. Slater, I’m—”

  “Peter Nabinger, Brooklyn Museum,” she said. “I may be old and getting a little long in the tooth, but I still have my mind. Did you take a wrong turn on the Nile? If I remember rightly, that was your area of expertise.”

  “I just flew in here from Cairo, via the puddle jumper from Miami,” Nabinger said.

  “Iced tea?” Slater asked, extending her hand toward the door and leading him in.

  “Thank you.”

  They walked into the cool shadows of the house. It was a small bungalow, nicely furnished, with books and papers piled everywhere. She cleared a stack of papers from a folding chair. “Sit down, please.”

  Nabinger settled down and accepted the glass she gave him. Slater sat down on the floor, leaning her back against a couch covered with photographs. “So what brings you here, Mr. Egypt? Do you want more photos of the markings on the stones?”

  “I was thinking about the paper you presented in Charleston last year,” Nabinger began, not quite sure how to get to what he wanted to know.

  “That was eleven months and six days ago,” Slater said. “I would like to think your brain works a little quicker than that, or we might have a long day here. Please, Mr. Nabinger, you are here for a reason. I am not your professor at school. You can ask questions even if they seem silly. I’ve asked many silly questions in my life and I never regretted a one, but I have some regrets about the times I kept my mouth shut when I should have spoken up.”

  Nabinger nodded. “Are you familiar with the Nazi cult of Thule?”

  Slater slowly put down her glass. “Yes.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “Do you know that about ten years ago there was a great controversy in the medical community about using certain historical data to study hypothermia?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The best data ever documented on hypothermia was developed by Nazi doctors immersing concentration camp inmates in freezing vats of water and recording their decreasing bodily functions until they died. They also took some out of the water before they died and tried to resuscitate them by warming them up in various ways — which invariably failed to work. Not exactly something your typical medical researcher can do, but entirely realistic if you’re looking for accuracy.

  “The decision the American medical community made was that data gathered in such a brutal and inhuman manner should not be used, even if it advanced current medical science and eventually saved lives. I do not know how you would feel about that issue. I don’t even know how I feel about it.”

  Slater paused, then smiled. “Now I am the one circling the subject. But you must understand the situation. Of course, I have read the papers and documents available on the cult of Thule and on the Nazis’ fascination with Atlantis. It is part of my area of study. But there are those who would violently oppose any use of that information, so, as eccentric as some of my theories do seem, I have had to keep that particular piece of information out of my own papers and presentations.”

  Nabinger leaned forward. “What have you found?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Slater asked.

  Nabinger reached into his backpack and pulled out his sketchbook. He handed her the drawing and rough translation. “That’s from the wall in the lower chamber of the Great Pyramid.” He checked his watch. He had to catch his return flight to Miami in an hour and a half. He proceeded to quickly relate Kaji’s story of Germans opening up the chamber in 1942, ending it by showing her Von Seeckt’s dagger. He then described his efforts at deciphering the high runes and the message he had taken off the wall of the chamber.

  Slater heard him out. “This reference to a home place. Do you think that is reference to a place on the far side of the Atlantic?”

  “Yes. And that’s why I’m here. Because the Germans — if they did go into that chamber in 1942, which I’m not absolutely convinced of yet despite the dagger— had to have gotten their information about the chamber from somewhere. Perhaps the Germans found writing somewhere that got them to that chamber, if you follow my logic.”

  “I follow your logic.” Slater handed the drawing back. “In the early days of World War II, German U-boats operated extensively along the East Coast of the United States and here in the islands. They sank quite a bit of shipping. But they also conducted some other missions.

  “As you have talked with this Kaji fellow in Egypt, I have talked to some of the old fishermen here in the islands, who know the waters and the history. They say that in 1941 there were numerous sightings of German submarines moving here among the islands. And that the submarines did not seem interested in hunting ships — since we are off the main shipping lanes here — but rather to be looking for something in the waters around the islands.”

  Slater reached behind her and gathered some photos. “I think this is what they found.”

  She handed them over. They appeared to be the same photos that she had presented at the conference. Large stone blocks, closely fitted together in about fifty feet of water.

  Slater talked as Nabinger looked at the photos. “They might have been part of the outer wall of a city or part of a quay. There is no way of knowing, with large portions covered with coral and other underwater life and the sea bottom close by sloping off into unexplored depths. This section with the stones might be just a tiny part of a larger ancient site, or may be the only site, built there thousands of years ago when that area was above water. Built by a people we don’t know about, for a reason we can’t yet figure out.

  “The major pattern of the stones is a long J or more accurately a horseshoe with the open end to the northeast. All told it’s about a third of a mile long in about fifty feet of water. Some of the stones are estimated to weigh almost fifteen tons, so they didn’t get there by accident and whoever did put them in place had a very advanced engineering capability. You can barely get a knife point in the joints between some of those stones.”

  Slater stood up and leaned over Nabinger’s shoulder and pointed. “There.” There was a large, ragged gouge in one of the blocks.

  “And this is?” Nabinger asked.

  Slater shuffled through the photos. “Here,” she said, handing him a close-up of the scar on the block.

  Nabinger peered at it. There were other, very faint, older marks — writing around the edges of the gouge! Very similar to what was in his notebook, but the gouge had destroyed any chance of deciphering it!

  “What happened to this stone?” Nabinger asked.

  “As near as I can tell,” Slater said, “it was hit by a torpedo.” She touched the picture, running her fingers over the high runes. “I’ve seen others like these. Ancient markings destroyed sometime in the last century by modern weapons.” Nabinger nodded. “They’re just like the ones I deciphered from the lower chamber. Not traditional hieroglyphics, but the older, high rune language.”

  Slater walked over to a desk buried under stacks of folders and books. She rummaged through, then found what she was looking for. “Here,” she said, handing Nabinger a folder. “You are not the only one interested in the high rune language.”

  He opened it. It was full of photos of high runes. Written on walls, on mud slabs, carved into
rock — in just about every possible way by which ancient cultures had recorded their affairs. “Where did you take these photos?” Nabinger asked, his heart pounding with the thought of the potential information he held in his hands. He recognized several of the shots — the Central American site that had helped him begin his breaking of the rune code.

  “There’s an index in the folder detailing where each photo was shot — they’re numbered. But, basically, several locations. Here, under the waves. In Mexico, near Veracruz. In Peru, at Tucume. On Easter Island. On some of the islands in Polynesia. Some from your neck of the woods in the Middle East — Egypt and Mesopotamia.”

  “The same symbols?” Nabinger asked, thumbing through the photos. He had seen many of the same ones before, but there were a few new ones in there to add to his high rune database.

  “Some differences. In fact, many differences,” Slater answered. “But, yes, I believe they all stem from the same root language and are connected. A written language that predates the oldest recorded language that is generally accepted by historians.”

  Nabinger closed the binder. “I have been studying these runes for many years. I’ve seen a lot of what you have in here before — in fact I was able to decipher what I did of the wall of the chamber in the Great Pyramid using symbols from a South American site. But the question that bothers me — and why I have never made public my findings — is how can the same ancient writing have been found in such vastly separated places?”

  Slater sat back down. “Are you familiar with the diffusionist theory of civilization?”

  “Yes, I am,” Nabinger said. He knew what Slater was referring to despite the fact that the prevailing winds of thought this decade blew in favor of the isolationist theory of civilization. Isolationists believed that the ancient civilizations all developed independent of one another. Mesopotamia, the Indus Valley, China, Egypt — all crossed a threshold into civilization about the same time: around the third or fourth century before the birth of Christ.