Delta

by L. Todd Wood

  "To put the nail in the coffin of the third Holy Roman Empire, the visitors helped create the Soviet Union, who almost destroyed the church altogether. The greatness of Russian society was destroyed. The intellectuals were killed in order to make everyone the same. People were taught to denounce each other. Children denounced their parents. Friends hurt each other out of fear. The fabric of the society was torn. The human spirit was decimated. The desire to better yourself was killed. Now the visitors are after us, the Old Believers. They know we remember the old ways. We stand in the way of their goals, their evil deeds."

  As he spoke, Rafe noticed the sun was setting on the horizon and the shadows were falling in the cemetery. The patriarch's words made clear many of the events that had happened to Rafe over the last several weeks, but it did not explain the disappearance of Clare. His uncle's words continued to drone on as Rafe watched the gray shapes appear and spread across the green grass among the headstones. The words did not explain what the visitors wanted with him. He had gained some knowledge of what he was dealing with but still was in the dark on Clare, which filled him with a familiar, intense anxiety. The hour is getting close, I can feel it. My last chance to save her will be coming soon. I hope I am ready. As Rafe listened to his uncle, another sound entered his consciousness. It was like a low moaning sound, and it grew louder. Rafe looked around to try to find the sound's origin. It was coming from everywhere. Eventually Roman looked about as well, as he also heard the sound. Roman looked at Mikhail and said, "What is this, Brother?"

  Rafe soon saw a golden crucifix of the Russian Orthodox style break the horizon from the village below. It was held on a long pole in front of a procession of people, dressed in the traditional religious garb of the Old Believers. Rafe then noticed the same type of group was approaching from all four sides of the cemetery. The entire village was moving towards them and chanting. Soon the three men were surrounded. Mikhail was smiling and he finally answered Roman's question. "They are here to support you on your journey, Rafe. They know the evil you are facing. They are here to pray for you, for your journey will be difficult. Your uncle Roman will be staying here with us. He has been in Moscow too long. It is time for him to join the rest of his family. However, you will be leaving tonight. Your presence here is too dangerous for all of us. You have to unfortunately move on with your journey. You will be on your own but we will be with you in spirit.”

  At that moment, Rafe heard the neigh of horses. The crowd of Old Believers parted, and an opening was formed in their circle around Rafe. He saw a carriage being drawn by three horses approaching. Mikhail spoke again. "This man will take you back towards Anchorage, so you may find a way to leave us here in Alaska to fend for ourselves."

  Rafe remembered what he had been told as a child about Russians and how they loved the number three. They kissed three times, and there were always three horses on the troika, or horse-drawn carriage, again referencing the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost of their beliefs.

  "Where shall I go from here?" Rafe asked.

  "If I were you," answered Mikhail, “I would go to the farthest point of the former Russian Imperial Empire. I would go to California. There you will discover more of your destiny in this life. Go to Fort Ross in San Francisco and find out why the Russians abandoned her. That is where you will find your answers."

  "Will I see you again, Uncle?" asked Rafe.

  "I think not, my nephew. Not in this life. You may not see any of us again, but we don't believe in good-byes. It is time for you to leave." Rafe turned one last time to look at all of them then mounted the carriage and did not look back as the driver started his way north towards Anchorage.

  Chapter Twenty

  The carriage took Rafe only a few miles to the local airstrip near the community. Almost every remote village in Alaska had access to a fixed-based flight operator, or FBO. There were hundreds of them spread out throughout the Alaskan bush, funded by the state government. Nikolaevsk, however, was not far from Homer, on the Kenai Peninsula, which had a large, state-maintained airfield. The FBO usually operated the airfield frequency where pilots announced their intentions on the uncontrolled strip. It also provided weather information, notice-to-airman, and other types of support for pilots.

  Rafe was dropped off at the local charter service. He walked inside the small terminal as directed and waited to be called to board his taxi. Everything had been prepared ahead of time. The man behind the desk pointed to a raspberry pie sitting on the counter. The smell warmed the room. "Help yourself," the man said. Rafe took him up on the idea and soon the raspberries were awakening his mouth with their taste. Small pleasures, he thought.

  A half hour later, a native man walked in and pointed him to a small aircraft, which was being readied for flight. Rafe walked out of the terminal toward the plane and sized up the gentleman who was walking around removing the aircraft's tie-downs, on his pre-flight checklist.

  "Where are you taking me?" asked Rafe.

  The man looked up at him as he reached to untie a rope attached to one of the wing struts, obviously annoyed with being spoken to. For a few seconds, Rafe wondered if the man was going to reply to him or not. Then he spoke firmly. "I've been paid to fly you to Anchorage, Lake Hood specifically, Sport," said the grizzled, old man. He looked to be at least eighty years old and walked with a slight stoop as he shuffled around the plane, inspecting every inch of the aircraft. However, when needed, he exerted a quickness that belied his age.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Rafe.

  “Anything that could kill me!” answered the old man. “They say there are no old, bold pilots. Well, I’m a good example of that. Can’t never be too careful!” he exclaimed. "Get in," he ordered tersely.

  Rafe did as he was told and climbed into the four-seat, high-wing aircraft. He had been provided clothes and other items in a small bag by the villagers. One thing which bothered Rafe, as he strapped in next to the pilot seat, was the fact that the aircraft was a seaplane and two floats were attached where the landing gear usually existed. He surmised that wheels must also be protruding from underneath the floats somewhere. The gray-haired, elderly bush pilot deliberately climbed into the seat opposite him, put on headphones, and proceeded to fire up the engine. His hands were trembling, but when he placed them on the yoke, or controls, they steadied immediately. Rafe guessed the man must have had thousands of hours flying in the Alaskan bush. The small aircraft shook as the propeller roared to life, and Rafe tried to make out the man's words as he spoke silently into the microphone protruding from his headset. Only those tuned in to the frequency could hear. Rafe could make out nothing, as he had not been given one. They taxied to the runway and soon were roaring into the sky. The pilot banked north towards Anchorage and the Kenai Peninsula spread out before them. The mountains surrounding Anchorage were visible ahead.

  They flew for over an hour, and soon the mid-sized city was in sight, with the backdrop of the range rising behind it. The higher peaks were bathed in a white blanket of snow, but the "termination dust," or the first winter blanket south of the tree line, was long melted. Rafe marveled at the beauty of the landscape below. The pilot said not a word the entire trip, but as they neared Anchorage, he pointed down towards a body of water on the southwest side of the city. There Rafe saw lines of floatplanes adorning the water as they bounced up and down in the stiff wind, tied to their moors. Lake Hood had three landing areas as well as a gravel strip and was the busiest seaplane base in the world with close to two hundred takeoffs and landings a day. The seaplane base was located a close north to Anchorage International Airport, three miles from downtown Anchorage. The pattern was full as Rafe could pick out traffic in all stages of their approach as well as aircraft driving towards the field, their landing lights on, mainly for others to see them rather than to increase visibility.

  The pilot set up a pattern for an approach at one of the designated lanes and soon was slowing, descending to land. Half a minute later, they splashed
down into the water and taxied to the nearby dock for Rafe to disembark. The pilot expertly guided the plane in place, gently touching the wooden platform, and then motioned for Rafe to get out. He didn't stop the engine. Rafe opened the door, grabbed his bag and hopped down on the right float. He then jumped onto the dock, shutting the small aircraft door behind him. The pilot revved the engine and never looking back, taxied out to the landing area outlined by buoys for takeoff. Soon the floatplane was racing down the water and eventually jumped into the air, headed back to the Kenai Peninsula. Rafe walked into the small flight office, not knowing what to expect next. Upon entering, a plump native woman behind the counter asked him to have a seat until his ride arrived. She was pleasant enough, although Rafe couldn't quite understand her through her thick Alaskan native accent. He sat down and thought about calling Neal.

  Neal answered on the first ring. "We've been doing some further research," he said immediately. "We've detected a great deal of evidence of visitor activity over the last several decades in Europe and Russia. The pieces of a puzzle have been coming together if you will. By themselves, these events, murders, or reports to authorities of rituals or what have you mean nothing. However, if you know what you are looking for, then you can see a pattern; you can connect the dots."

  "Makes sense," responded Rafe, somewhat numb to the world.

  "There's more."

  "Go ahead and tell me, why don't you?" Rafe asked somewhat nonchalantly. Nothing would surprise him now.

  "We've picked up a trail of activity in the United States. It's primarily been on the coasts. California, New York, D.C. Nothing is definite, but we think we have found evidence the visitors are becoming more active in America. And suprisingly, Washington D.C. is a hotbed of activity as well."

  "I wouldn't doubt that for a minute. Where in California have you found this activity?" Rafe asked.

  "Well, San Francisco to start. Interestingly enough, there is an old Russian fort there called Fort Ross. The name comes from the old Russian word Rus, or Ross. They controlled this part of the state for decades, leaving only after the Crimean War started raging in the nineteenth century. We've seen evidence of rituals there, 911 calls for unusual activity, et cetera."

  "Well isn't that special. I think I could be on my way there now as we speak. I'm being flown down from Anchorage."

  "Really? Why is that?" Rafe told Neal that his uncle had suggested it might be a good place to continue looking for answers. "Then I'll meet you there. Let's do this together," Neal added.

  "Deal, done," responded Rafe, glad to have a friend on board his quest. He hung up the phone and thought about his plan for the next twenty-four hours as he waited for Neal to arrive.

  Rafe sat again in the library, researching symbology. This time, he was in San Francisco at the main downtown branch of the public facility. The grand building had opened twenty years ago and was a massive, architecturally artistic building sporting a beautiful Sierra White granite facade; the interior totaled 375,000 square feet.

  He had been driven from Lake Hood direct to the nearby international airport in Anchorage. The flight the day before from Alaska had been long but easy, and he had arrived in San Francisco some hours ago, then rented a car. He slept most of the time on the flight, his body worn out from the stress he had experienced over the last few weeks. He grabbed a few more hours at a hotel near the airport. He was now somewhat rested but apprehensive. He didn't know what to expect next. I must be experiencing some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder, he thought. But the stress isn't over yet. Rafe had the rest of the day before Neal's plane would arrive from London in the late afternoon, so he intended to make the best of it trying to find out what he could about the visitors.

  He leafed through several books on symbology, trying to make sense of some of the images he had noticed during the rituals and the attack on the village in Siberia. The image of the man's body with the lion's head he connected to ancient Mythraism; the same with the image of the soldier slaying the bull. There was not much more known about these symbols. However, this was not the case with the all-seeing eye of God, or the Eye of Providence. The concept of an all-seeing eye began with the Christian time period and was usually surrounded by a triangle, representing the Trinity, or Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. There was much history associated with this image, and it could be found in various representations in Christian markings and relics around the world. Medieval priests used the eye as a warning to those committing sin, that they would be seen and punished. The design committee for the United States seal put the eye above an unfinished pyramid of thirteen steps, representing the thirteen original states, professing that God was watching over the creation of this new country and would see that is was prosperous and successful.

  Rafe poured through more books, searching for any insight he could find on the three symbols. There was nothing new. He picked up the pile of reference materials and took them back to the shelf on symbology, where he had found them. As he placed the last book back on the rack, he noticed another title down below, at the bottom of the bookshelf. On the spine of the book was an all-seeing eye, although slightly different in style. He reached down and pulled the book off the ledge. The title read Symbology of Satanic Cults. Rafe flipped open the book and found the section on the eye. It seemed the all-seeing eye could be used to project the vision of the Devil as well. The eye supposedly originated with the Egyptian sun god Horus, and was continued as a dual satanic symbol into the present.

  Am I dealing with Devil worship? I wonder if that is the connection I'm supposed to find? thought Rafe. This is maddening. Maybe a visit to the fort will provide more clues. He closed the book and left the library. The time had flown by, and he needed to head towards the airport.

  The drive from the library towards San Francisco International took Rafe through the center of the city and then outwards to pick up Neal. The plethora of public service announcements on the radio made him chuckle as he drove. The nanny-state is alive and well, he thought to himself as he negotiated the traffic. I can relax now. I've been told to have a disaster plan and to watch out for chemicals in my kid's toys. Don't people think for themselves anymore?

  He couldn't help but feel a strange sensation being back in the lower forty-eight of the United States. The last time he was on American soil, before his recent stint in Alaska, had been a rough departure from a screwed up marriage. He longed to see his children again, and he was worried sick about Clare, as he had been for weeks now. He hadn't even had time to think about his other kids and how they were handling it. He picked up the phone and called his two older sons. The conversations were quick as usual, as they were involved deeply in their own lives, starting to grow away from their parents as they approached college. They gave him the latest on what the police had said on their last visit to their mom's house and updates on their sport activities. Rafe didn't ask any more questions, and they didn't really want to talk further. I need to go see them after this is over, he thought. A wave of sorrow washed over Rafe. He had maybe lost Clare, had lost Cecilia and parts of his newfound family. However, the event that had shocked him and destroyed his inner soul was the killing of Ksyusha. He couldn't get her out of his mind, nor could he Clare. Figure this out! Be strong and save your daughter. It will be nice to have Neal here to help me with all of this, someone I can trust. Rafe drove onto the interstate to the airport, oblivious now to his surroundings as he prepared his mind for whatever events the future held.

  One thing Rafe did notice as he was driving through downtown San Francisco was the increase in the homeless population. They seemed to be on every street corner, drug paraphernalia scattered on the street beside many of them. The city just seemed much dirtier than he remembered. No one seemed shocked by this as they went about their day, walking around them on the way to and from work. What is happening to my country? he thought.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rafe pulled to the curb at San Francisco International in front of bagg
age claim. He looked for a place to park temporarily, out of the view of the police, shooing the parked cars away from the front of the airport for security reasons. The terrorism threat had been raised recently due to events overseas and the security personnel were nervous. Neal was waiting for him on the curb and hurriedly hopped into the rental car, slamming the door behind him after throwing his small bag into the backseat. He carried only a small briefcase otherwise. The two shook hands aggressively. “Good to see you, mate!” said Neal as Rafe pulled back into the active traffic lane and headed to the airport exit to go back into the city.

  “Good to see you as well. How was the flight? Long I presume?”

  “Yes, quite long. It’s good to be off that bloody airplane. The business class ticket helped somewhat though. I thank the Queen for that small luxury.”

  “She always did take care of you," laughed Rafe. "Let’s find a nice place to eat and grab a drink. Work for you?”

  “Splendid idea!”

  “We’ve got to get through the city first. I say we cross the bridge and find a place to eat in Sausalito. I’ve booked us a hotel there. Fort Ross is an hour's drive north of San Francisco. So staying in Sausalito, we will be closer to our destination, once we decide to visit the fort, and we won't have to negotiate the traffic coming out of the big city."

  "This is your country, sport!" responded Neal. “I trust you implicitly!” Rafe navigated the myriad of paths out of the large, multi-terminal airport and soon they were headed north.