Ancients (event group thriller)

by David L. Golemon

  Von Heinemann actually had trouble keeping a straight face. The naivete of this young fool and the rest of his once-upon-a-time family of Ancients were beyond his grasp.

  "Now, as I think about security before your meeting with the press next week, we must have a complete accounting of all on the continent who have knowledge of the find."

  "That's simple. I have a list here of everyone who had any knowledge of what we have been up to--it's a short list, but full of the very influential. Since some are from your side of the family of man and few from mine, I suspect they will stay quiet until the announcement; they are all good chaps, at least on our side of the fence." Peter smiled at his small joke and then reached into his coat pocket and brought out the list and passed it to the older man.

  "Yes, this will be very helpful, and of course, as you know, the Juliai side has always been able to maintain their secrets well," he said as he pulled out his top desk drawer.

  Peter nodded. "Again, my hope is that I didn't hurt you too much with my unthinking and very harsh words. You are a patriot for all the family, all Aryans, to emulate and I--"

  His words froze in his mouth as he watched Karl raise a small pistol and point it at him.

  "I have no animosity toward you for the things you said; I am only sorry you didn't listen to reason, Peter. Your side of the family has always been so weak when it comes to controlling the proliferation of the weaker and fouler races, and the sheer disrespect for world power--it really is quite boring."

  "You are willing to murder me for those ancient designs and even more outdated dreams of the Juliai?"

  "Yes, I believe I am. I find my arguments have outweighed your own; the need for science, race control, and the protection of the West is a far more noble cause than the propagation of fairy tales, don't you think?"

  "You're absolutely mad! A fairy tale is a make-believe story, but I now have the proof that our kind really existed, that our severed factions can bring about change peacefully, slowly, and with forethought. If you kill me, I will take the secret of the Atlantean Wave with me to my grave, and furthermore I--"

  The bullet struck him in the heart. His eyes widened at the suddenness of his death, and all he could do was mouth the word, Why?

  Heinemann laid the still-smoking pistol upon his desktop and turned his swivel chair around to blot out the view of his dying friend. He saw that the gardeners had looked up at the gun's sharp report. Then he watched as they slowly went back to their work. He was content to look at the garden until he heard footsteps rushing down the hallway. The door opened but Heinemann did not turn around.

  "God in heaven, what have you done?"

  Karl closed his eyes in thought. He heard his assistant lean over the stricken Peter.

  "You need not concern yourself with Professor Rothman; he has gone to a place he is most comfortable with. He has joined our ancestors."

  The large assistant removed his bloody hands from the chest of Rothman and looked into his eyes. He blinked once and then his eyes slowly dilated in death.

  "You have murdered a man who adored you. Have you gone insane? This can only cause more trouble between the Juliai and the other Ancients. You do realize that, don't you?"

  Karl turned slowly in his chair and looked at his tall German assistant. "Humorous, he said the same exact thing to me only a moment ago. I have answered him; do I need to answer your concern also?"

  The assistant got the clear meaning of what his employer was hinting at and immediately stood up straight and clicked his heels together. "My meaning is only that ... this ... was unexpected."

  "Yes, I would have preferred to go another route myself, but things are much too important to leave to chance." He looked from Peter's body to the large German. "Do you agree?"

  "Yes, Herr Von Heinemann, I--"

  "Has the equipment I ordered been received?"

  The question took the man by surprise. This monster had one of his best friends and a member of the Ancients sitting dead right before him and he had the gall to ask about scientific equipment? He truly was mad.

  "We received a cable from our offices in Singapore; sixteen tons of material was received two days ago."

  "Good. Of course you have contracted for shipment of the material to the island?"

  "Yes. I thought you would want it delivered as soon as possible because I assumed you would sway--"

  "As you can see, I swayed the argument to my side. Now get a hold of yourself, man. He was my friend and my student, and what had to be done was done. We cannot go back, so stop acting like a schoolchild. Get his body removed and don't get any more blood on my Persian rug than is already there."

  "Yes, Herr Von Heinemann."

  "The archaeological site?" he asked.

  "Yes?"

  "Destroy it. Leave no trace Peter was ever there."

  "And the warehouse full of artifacts?"

  The older man looked him in the eye. "They cannot remain in Austria. Contact Joseph Krueger in America. Tell him we are sending crated material for study at a highly secured location. I will have copies made of the material I need, so the originals can stay with the rest of the scrolls. Now, since the main component that the diagram scrolls call for will be missing, have you started a search for the crystals needed to replace them?"

  "Yes, but we may also have diamond replacements from Rhodesia."

  "Excellent. Now please remove Peter's body, he will be a deterrent to my lunch. And make arrangements for my passage to the island within the day, fastest possible route."

  "Yes, I understand," the manservant answered. He started to turn away and then stopped, hesitating to give this cold-blooded man another reason for showing his infamous temper.

  "Do you have something to add?"

  "Before your meeting this morning, Professor Rothman imparted to me a parcel he wanted placed into the morning's outgoing post."

  "Yes?" Von Heinemann asked, becoming agitated.

  "It's just that he mentioned it was from the site in Spain, and very valuable."

  The color drained from the industrialist's face. Then he sniffed. "Unless it was the size of the Key, it has no value to our design and is of no concern to us." He turned away from the servant to watch the activities of the gardeners. "But, out of curiosity, where was this package being sent?"

  "Boston, Massachusetts."

  Von Heinemann swiveled back to face his assistant. "America." It was not a question but a statement. His gaze was that of a man deep in thought. Then he waved the manservant away.

  Karl Von Heinemann watched as the German struggled with the weight of the dead professor as he handled the body carefully through the ornate library doors. Von Heinemann wasn't in the least bit saddened by the fact that he had killed for what he believed would be the alteration of world power. The situation dictated harshness. He could never allow the fools outside the Juliai to know that at least one of the old tales was fact.

  Karl stood and made his way to the large world map hanging in a magnificent gilded frame on the wall. He placed his hands behind his back, then rocked on his heels and back again. He couldn't help but wonder if the parcel Peter had sent to the United States happened to be the source of where the Atlantean Keys were buried. Then he shook his head to clear it of his paranoia as his eyes fell on the lone red-topped pin stuck in the map by a small group of Pacific islands where his and the Coalition's work would take place in the coming years. He smiled at the name indicated, a small island known only for its export of pepper seeds in the East Java Sea.

  He spoke the name written in English on the world map, letting it roll off his tongue repeatedly until he thought he had the pronunciation correct: "Krakatau."

  In just eight short years, in 1883, the island's name would be synonymous with complete and utter destruction to any person saying it: Krakatoa.

  HONOLULU, HAWAII, 1941

  Lieutenant JG Charles Keeler knew that the men standing in front of him were not the real menace. The antagonist, or
the real bad guy, as the movie serials would say, was in the chair in the far corner, bathed in shadow. The man had not moved since he had been brought into the small store in downtown Oahu. The tape holding his mouth closed was making him sweat even more than were the serious-looking men before him. It was as if he could not breathe adequately through his nose to maintain his hold on consciousness.

  He heard the man in the shadows clear his throat. In the dimly lit room the young lieutenant couldn't see the nod of the man's head toward one of the brutes standing in front of him. Then one of the men reached out and pulled the tape from his mouth. The pain was sudden but was something the lieutenant could handle. He had expected it. He did his best to give the giant of a man the appropriate glare of rage. The brute only smiled and nodded, as if he understood.

  "Your father, he sent you a package three weeks ago, yes?"

  The naval officer tried his best to penetrate the shadow where the voice had escaped. He shook his head and tried to clear it. The chloroform used to subdue him earlier was still clouding his mind, but not as much as these men might have believed. He knew he had to fight for time to understand what this was all about.

  "I will inquire only once more. Your father sent you a package three weeks ago, yes?"

  The man in the shadows crossed his legs, the only part of him to emerge from the darkness since the lieutenant had regained consciousness. The young man wanted to smile. The mysterious man was actually wearing spats on his shoes. Who wore spats anymore? He cleared his throat instead of allowing the smile to cross his face.

  "My father lives in Boston.... I ... I haven't received anything from him in five months."

  Silence.

  The man who had ripped the tape from his mouth took two steps behind the chair, and without warning a flare of excruciating pain shot from the ring finger of his right hand to his elbow.

  The young lieutenant let out a scream. Then, as he managed to open his eyes, he saw that the large man was holding something up for him to see. It was his finger, and on the finger was his Annapolis ring, class of 1938. The ring was removed, the finger thrown unceremoniously into his lap. The man who had so deftly cut his finger off placed the ring on the little finger of his own left hand, then he held it up to the dim overhead light and admired it.

  "Now, Lieutenant, I will go through the bother of asking again. Your father sent you a package three weeks ago. Yes?"

  "My father and I don't speak."

  "Yes, we know the family history, young man. He was not too pleased with your choice of careers. Nonetheless, he entrusted to you a package. Now, are going to confirm to us you received this package?"

  Keeler lowered his face to stare at the bare concrete floor. He heard the honking of horns and curses of servicemen as they passed on the street above. How he wished he were among them right at this moment.

  "Mr. Weiss, please remove his thumb. That should effectively end Mr. Keeler's naval career."

  The white class-A navy uniform jacket seemed to close around him like an anaconda. It grew tighter as the large man moved toward him.

  "Yes ... Yes! He sent the package to me!"

  "There, that wasn't at all difficult, now was it, Lieutenant."

  The boy lowered his chin to his chest. He had failed his father and the family once again.

  He heard the man stand up and then finally step from the dark shadow in the corner.

  The man was small. He wore a dark suit with very expensive lines. His dark, oiled hair was impeccably combed straight back with the part slightly left of center.

  "If it will ease your mind, Lieutenant, your father will never learn of your failure here tonight. He is dead. Your younger brother would have joined him for his journey, but he was off at school. His death will wait."

  He heard the words said in their German accent, but they failed to hit home for a moment. He looked up at the approaching man and narrowed his eyes to mere slits, forcing away his tears of frustration and physical pain.

  "What?"

  The small man stopped and looked down at him, his features very serious. "I said he is dead. Tortured until he admitted sending to you the item we have sought for sixty years."

  "What ... what are you talking about--what item?" the boy hissed.

  "Oh, that's right, you were a wayward boy and not privy to certain aspects of your father's more ... secretive activities. However, that is unimportant. What he has sent to you will be in our hands momentarily, and his death will be but a footnote in the history books."

  The man walked over, poured a glass of water, then turned to his captive. The boy looked at the clear glass and tried to swallow. He was thirsty, had been since he had been snatched off the street hours before. The small well-dressed man nodded to the two thugs, and then he felt his hands being untied; but instead of relief at his sudden freedom another bolt of pain shot through his hand as blood rushed to the open wound. He pulled his arm forward and clutched his hand.

  "Mr. Krueger, assist the lieutenant."

  His right hand was roughly pulled away from his body and a white cloth was wrapped around the stub where his ring finger had been.

  "There you go. Now drink this." The water glass was held out before him and he took it and swallowed the cool liquid in three large gulps.

  "Now, one more question and Mr. Wagoner and Mr. Krueger will show you to the door, Lieutenant. Where is the package that contains the bronze plate map? It has hieroglyphs you most assuredly could not understand."

  Keeler knew he was a dead man. However, he did know something that was going to give him one last defiant punch. His father had trusted him far more than people knew.

  "It's in a safe aboard my ship." The boy smiled, this time wide and knowing. Then he grew serious and looked at the small man. "I don't know about fashion in Hitler-land, pal, but no one wears spats anymore--kraut!"

  "One more time, you grinning fool: where is the plate map?"

  "Somewhere you'll never get to it," the boy said, his smile growing.

  The small man nodded and the lieutenant was pulled to his feet.

  "You'll take us to the harbor and point out which vessel it is, and then we'll see if the map is out of our reach."

  "Fuck off, Nazi. I'm not telling you a damn thing."

  "Young man, this may surprise you, but I am not in the employ of the Nazi regime. I am German, as you know. However, nationality has nothing to do with us. Our goals, while similar to Herr Hitler's, are far grander."

  "To me, you're just one step removed from my father; you both share the arrogance of class."

  The man smiled and then looked as if he had decided something.

  "My organization has many members, the likes of which may even be high up in your own government. Even your father's people share some of our ancient ideologies. To compare Hitler to us or even to your father's people? My dear boy, don't make me laugh." He leaned closer to the American. "Without us, that fool in Berlin would never have made it to power." He straightened. "I am through being gentle. What ship?"

  This time the large man enthusiastically went to work on Keeler.

  An hour later, a large car pulled into a secluded area across from Ford Island inside Pearl Harbor Naval Base.

  There were two ships anchored at the end of the very long line of warships at battleship row. A smaller vessel was silhouetted in the starlight next to a second, much larger ship, whose graceful lines and majestic towers silhouetted against the setting moon made her glimmer in the darkness.

  Krueger examined several photos of American warships. "Is that it?" he asked.

  "No, that's the repair ship, Vestal. The vessel we seek is the larger one to her starboard beam," said the man known as Weiss.

  "That foolish American attorney was far wiser than we anticipated, sending the plate map here to his wayward son, and then that smart bastard placing it in his captain's custody, very resourceful indeed."

  The German closed his eyes for a second and then opened them and looked in
to the harbor. He was looking at one of the most famous ships in the world, many times serving as the flagship of the Pacific Fleet. He continued to watch as more laughing and joking American sailors rounded her stern in a whaleboat to board after a night of drinking. His jaw muscles clenched as the last words of the American naval officer echoed in his head:

  "It was sent to me, but I was directed to give it to my captain, so good luck getting to it, asshole," the tough American lieutenant had said through his toothless and bloody mouth, and the words had mocked the German to no end, "because it's in the captain's safe."

  The small man angrily looked at his watch. It was close to four thirty in the morning; the date was now December 7, 1941. As he looked up at the large ship with her graceful lines, he knew he had a difficult job ahead of him in order to recover the plate map, which described the hiding place of the control Key to the weapon.

  He had to find a way to board that ship and get what was in the captain's safe. He watched the drunken sailors laughing and talking loudly that Sunday morning, their voices bouncing lazily along the quiet harbor over the one-mile distance.

  As he watched the sailors, he hit on a plan to board the USS Arizona. The sun had been up for two hours, and it took the three men every bit of those frustrating hours to secure a uniform with the correct rank. The German-born ex-commando Krueger was wearing the uniform of a lieutenant and had successfully boarded a whaleboat that was making its rounds of battleship row. Krueger disembarked with the Arizona crew.

  "Hey, Lieutenant!"

  The German froze just three steps onto the teak deck of the Arizona.

  "Forget something?"

  The German felt the weight of the Luger tucked into his pants and under his tunic, and with a deep breath he turned to the man who had spoken.

  The officer of the deck was eyeing him, hands on his hips. The German knew that he had somehow erred as he was looking at a lieutenant junior grade, a full rank below his own stolen status. He looked around as other sailors clambered up the gangway. He watched as they saluted toward the back of the great ship and then turned and saluted the officer of the deck. Krueger quickly deduced where he had gone wrong.