by Terry James
“The Lord works in mysterious ways. I suppose He’ll let us know what it’s all about when the time comes and will tell us how to use Dr. Kirban’s ideas…his technological gadgets, to accomplish the Lord’s will. That is, if indeed that’s what He wants.”
“These bene elohim--Dimensionals, as Dr. Kirban calls them--if they are supernatural beings, and so powerful, and so brilliant, how can mere people have a chance? Won’t they take over, like in times before the Flood? Won’t they know everything we’re doing to oppose them?”
Christopher turned to face his wife, considering her thought.
“Like I said, I still believe that the Lord doesn’t allow Satan and his forces to move without sending His own forces into action. And, God is far above every created being. He’s omnipotent. He can blind them to our movement, our activity. Seems to me we’ve been enlisted to fight some sort of battle at this time in history.”
“Seems like Satan must use human beings to accomplish his evil work,” Susie said. “Makes sense, then, that the Lord chooses, now days, to use people to fight the Devil’s human forces.”
“The Devil’s indwelt human forces,” Christopher added. “Possession is real. I believe that’s what I was shown in the men’s room at Logan Airport. These Dimensionals possess their human hosts.”
“Wonder what that was all about?” Susie said. “You really believe it was a vision?”
“Maybe we can find our answers at Mitford House,” her husband said.
San Antonio, Texas, Noon June 27, 1967
Randall Prouse watched the busy construction activity going on outside the tinted tour bus window. Hemisfair--the latest of the proliferating world’s fairs--was on schedule for its 1968 exposition.
Helmeted construction workers moved about in the bright, June sun, while heavy machinery muscled structural steel into place. But, his thoughts weren’t on things afoot on the south side of San Antonio. His mind was on all the things involved with Christopher Banyon and the strange trip to Israel.
He didn’t hear the chatter of the 40 students he had brought to SA for a tour of the Alamo. He heard only the sound of the vicious storm that had driven Susie Banyon and him up the embankment and into the cave near Qumran. The thunderous crashes of the storm while over the Atlantic. The automatic weapons fire at the Wailing Wall, and the words of the dying Jewish religious man: “Old men shall dream dreams…Young men shall see visions.”
A sudden whoop of delighted college students jerked the professor from his thoughts of that appalling scene. He looked around to see the cause of the commotion. The students were laughing and talking, just having a good time. He would probably never know the reason for their outburst, nor would want to know.
The trip to the Alamo was his…how many? His one-hundredth? If he were not taking a class to the national historic site at least once a semester, he was taking one visiting relative or another.
This visit was to examine with several archaeologists who specialized in the Mexican Wars of the 1830s, archaeological finds of recent vintage. It would be exciting for the students. He preferred digs in the Middle East, in Jerusalem, in particular.
A tall, partially finished structure in the distance captured his thoughts. The Hemisfair’s Tower of the Americas was almost at its full height. It would have a restaurant that revolved, according to his understanding--it would be a good place to bring friends when they visited.
Minutes later, the big tour bus pulled to a stop in front of the world-famous mission-fortress. The place where Crockett, Bowie, and Travis, along with more than 180 other men, died fighting Santa Anna’s thousands.
Leaving the air-conditioned bus made the cloudless day feel even warmer than the 90 degrees that greeted Prouse when he stepped onto the expanse of man-laid walkway in front of the Alamo. His thoughts returned to events of the time spent in Jerusalem, and at Qumran.
Something bothered him about the time spent in the Dead Sea cave. Maybe he was making too much of it. But, he had never seen a storm like it. It came from nowhere during a season storms rarely happen. It came from the east, another nearly unheard-of thing in that locality. It drove Susie Banyon and him into the cave.
And, only Susie could go farther into the cavern once they had reached the first chamber. The whole episode was supernatural. Christopher Banyon said the fragments burst into flames, the explaining to Yadin of which was not easy. Yet his Arab-Christian friend had not seemed surprised, had only smiled, and told him not to be concerned.
What was the purpose? What went on in those rearmost chambers of the caverns? What was the deity telling them?
His analysis brought him to the realization. It was the thing that was bugging him. The Lord purposely kept him from going farther into the cave, from being a part of whatever went on in those innermost recesses of the Qumran caverns.
And, why had he not, like Christopher Banyon, seen the titanic struggle outside the airplane, in another supernaturally sent storm, this one over the Atlantic?
“Dr. Prouse.”
The girl’s words popped the bubble of his remembrances of the recent trip.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Martinez wants to speak to you about the artifact lecture,” the co-ed said, looking up at the big archaeologist, her fingers shielding her eyes against the midday sun.
“Yeah, okay, Sherri. Tell him I’ll be right there.”
The cool air felt good once he entered the Alamo’s front door for tourist traffic, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark interior.
“We will go straight to the area of the newly discovered artifacts,” he said. “Afterwards, be prepared with any questions for Dr. Martinez you might come up with.”
He walked in front of the students, toward the rear of the Alamo complex, where the Mexican-born archaeologist, Juan Martinez, had prepared what some were calling the most exciting finds in recent years.
The prospects should excite him. In other times, he would be enthralled, no doubt. But, all he could think of now was that he had to get back into the loop in the matters of Christopher Banyon’s dream-visions of the bene elohim…and his friend Gessel Kirban’s strange helmet device…
The fog hadn’t lifted within the expected 3 hours. Their flight to Portland was delayed by more than 6 hours, and the drive had taken another hour and 45 minutes.
Gessel Kirban had offered to let Lori and Mark drive his Jeep wagon to Portland to meet them. But, all had bowed to James Morgan’s reasoning that the less the wagon--familiar to the Taos people--was exposed, the better.
The rental car they took from Portland could be turned in at Boothbay. Sharkton had no affiliate for leaving it there. Christopher would drive it to Boothbay tomorrow, he thought, turning the tan Plymouth off Crab Cove Road, and onto the rough, narrow road leading through the copse of trees, toward Mitford House.
“Well, there it is,” he said when they emerged from the last twist of the gravel road, the headlights cutting through the darkness and illuminating the 3-story structure.
“My, it is big, isn’t it?” Susie said, seeing the gothic spires and Victorian gables.
“Told you it was spooky at night,” Christopher said.
“It’s beautiful,” she corrected. “Because it’s yours.”
“It’s ours,” Christopher said.
“Aunt Annabel Lee was beautiful. That’s for sure,” Christopher said, swinging the car to the right, and pulling along by the side of the old home.
“She had no kids…she and my uncle,” he said, switching off the headlights and cutting the engine.
“She left the house, everything to me. I have no idea how much, but we’ll find out within a month, Mom says.”
Before he could reach for the door handle, the door opened.
“Pastor!”
Laura Morgan leaned to hug him, while he sat behind the wheel. “Boy! Am I glad to see you!” she said. “Both of you,” she added, reaching past the minister to pat and squeeze Susie Banyon’s arm with her right hand.<
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“My, it’s nice to be missed,” Christopher said, returning her hug.
Randall Prouse brooded over the Scriptures. The piece of Biblical knowledge had grated the back of his mind while Juan Martinez lectured on the newly found artifacts of Santa Anna’s assault on those who had defended the Alamo in 1836. The grating had continued and grown more abrasive the rest of the day.
The worry had to do with Gessel Kirban’s technology; Prouse knew that much. Something to do with the helmet Kirban had tried to tell him about in their brief phone conversations when the scientist called him in Jerusalem.
He couldn’t bring to the forefront of his brain exactly what part of Scripture he was looking for. But, he knew it was relevant –and that it must be remembered. The Israeli scientist had told him that the…Dimensionals…as he called them, were somehow channeling their thoughts through human brains.
The precognition neuro-diviner, Kirban had told him, was meant for use with other highly advanced technologies, to assist American and Israeli fighter pilots in air combat. But, the PND helmet was turned into some hideous instrument to control the minds of humans…At least that was the plans of the project called “Dark Dimension,” the sinister brain-child of a super-secret cabal within the legitimate Taos military project. Kirban had, somehow, learned of the cabal. The Israeli couldn’t tell him how he found out, because the scientist didn’t know. The knowledge of the secret enclave--it was just there, in his mind-bank of knowledge.
Supernatural…had to be…
Kirban hurriedly told him, during a subsequent call, that he had found a way, he thought, to use the helmet device to channel positive thoughts that would overcome the evil thoughts.
And, that was the rub in Prouse’s mind. He had finally found the Scripture. It was so simple…why had he not been able to immediately think of it?
What Gessel Kirban proposed was against God’s commandments. To use mind control for channeling thoughts or anything else, seemed, Scripturally, to be as forbidden as the way the super-clandestine group planned to use the PND in the Dark Dimension project.
Prouse moved his right fingertips through the pages of his old Bible. He stopped at the portion he sought and read. It was Deuteronomy 18: 10: “There shall not be found among you [any one] that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, [or] that useth divination, [or] an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch…”.
He quickly turned pages again, then stopped, and after several seconds of intensively exploring the passage, read from 1 Samuel, Chapter 28, verses 6 through 9: “And when Saul enquired of the LORD, the LORD answered him not, neither by dreams nor by Urim, nor by prophets. Then said Saul unto his servants, Seek me a woman that hath a familiar spirit, that I may go to her, and enquire of her. And his servants said to him, Behold, there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at Endor. And Saul disguised himself, and put on other raiment, and he went, and two men with him, and they came to the woman by night: and he said, I pray thee, divine unto me by the familiar spirit, and bring me him up, whom I shall name unto thee. And the woman said unto him, Behold, thou knowest what Saul hath done, how he hath cut off those that have familiar spirits, and the wizards, out of the land: wherefore then layest thou a snare for my life to cause me to die…?”
Prouse looked up from the page, and cerebrally digested the story before he reread the passage.
Gessel had told him that he, Kirban, did not invent the PND helmet, but had made it functional for use in the fighter aircraft. Rumors were about, the Israeli scientist had told him, that the technology was a product of reverse engineering. That it had come to be out of an extensive clandestine operation called “Project Jehovah.” Prouse had heard the scientist’s laugh of skepticism when Kirban said that some believed it was a result of technology recovered when the disks--the UFOs--crashed near Roswell in 1947. Could it be? Could the PND device have developed from technology planted by…?
“You going to stay in here all night, again?” Ruth Prouse put her hands on her husband’s shoulders, while he sat looking over the old Bible that was filled with underlined passages and his scribbled marginal notes.
“Sorry, Ruthie,” he said, lifting her hand and kissing it. “There’s some pretty heavy stuff going on. I’ve got to get a handle on it,” he said, returning his attention to the opened Bible on his desk’s top.
“What’s the heavy stuff that keeps you from my always exciting bed chamber, my love?” Ruth said provocatively, running an index finger over his left ear.
“It’s the weird goings-on with Chris, the whole strange thing,” he said, ignoring her playfulness. “I believe there are some watershed prophetic things setting up here, and I can’t get a grip on them--not completely.”
“What’s so strange? You mean the dreams, or nightmares Chris has been having?” she asked, standing behind him and massaging his neck and shoulder muscles. She felt him respond to the kneading she was providing.
“Feel good?” she asked.
“Ummmm.” He moved his neck and shoulders to make the rub even better. “These creatures, I’m convinced--Chris is convinced--they are part of the whole UFO thing. The 1947 crash at Roswell, New Mexico.”
“UFOs! Hope you aren’t telling that to the people at the college,” Ruth said with a laugh. “They won’t let you deal with the precious students. Their parents will pull them out, if they think they’ve got a UFO kook on staff.”
“Only they’re not UFOs, or extraterrestrials,” he said. “They’re something far harder to deal with than green men from other planets.”
“Oh, it’s okay, then,” she bantered. “If you tell the administration, and the parents that you think these things are spirit beings, fallen angels, Satan and the boys, rather than little green men from outer space, it will all be okay. They’ll all understand.”
“Yeah. Guess they wouldn’t understand either of those, would they?” he said. “I’ve got to tell them something, because I’ve got to get to Maine.”
“Ever consider taking some vacation time?” she asked, with mock irritation in her voice.
He reached above his shoulders to grab both of her wrists, then pulled her forward and kissed her on the cheek. The action turned into a more serious embrace when he swiveled his desk chair and pulled his wife into his lap.
“I know, I’m a rat. I’ve been all over the world in these last two years, but you’ve been stuck here.”
He looked into her eyes and brushed her lips with his.
“Forgive me?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
“Think the kiddos could stand it if we went on a vacation alone?” he asked.
“Who cares?” she said with feigned callousness. “They’ve been weaned. Let them forage for themselves.”
Coming from the most attentive of all mothers, her words caused him to burst into laughter.
“That’s my chick!” he said, hugging her and giving her a deep, theatrical kiss.
“Watch it, Tex,” she said, continuing her out-of-character tone. “I don’t ride with just any ol’ wrangler.”
“Not even to back East, Ma’am?” her husband asked in his best effort at cowboyese.
“In that case, Cowboy, when’s the next stage out of town?” she asked, adding her most seductive smile.
Washington D.C., the evening of June 27, 1967
Mallory O’Rourke drummed his desk with his right fingertips. He looked upward at the white-tiled ceiling of his tiny National Security Agency office. He let his anger escape in a long, seething breath between his teeth. His patience was wearing thin, while he waited for the deputy director of Covert Operations for DOD to get on the line with him.
No, he remembered with a grimace, the man was now director, not deputy director…
O’Rourke was one of a handful of sub-strata Kennedy Administration holdovers. Never a highly publicized member of the now well-known “Irish Mafia” with which Jack Kennedy surrounded himself while President, he nonetheless was in
cluded in the inner circle of Sorenson, O’Brien, O’Donnel, Powers and the rest.
He didn’t deserve this second-class citizen treatment, and he cursed Robert Cooper beneath his breath for making him hang on the phone for more than five minutes. Daniel Eganberg would have never shown such disrespect…
“Mr. O’Rourke?” the female voice on the other end of the line said.
“Yes?”
“I’m trying to run the director down. I’m sure he will be with you in a moment or two,” the young woman said, hoping in her most vivacious voice to assuage the Irishman’s profile-notated temper.
“We had this phone appointment, Miss…”
He waited for her response.
“Lucy Holland,” she said.
“Miss Holland, tell the director that if he wants to know what the President has directed for NSA, regarding his operation, he will have to make an appointment when I can find time to talk. Got that message?”
“Yes, sir. Got it. I will certainly…”
But, the irate O’Rourke had already slammed the receiver on the cradle of his multi-buttoned phone console.
The clandestine systems director for NSA slammed the side of his fist on the desk’s top. The Kennedy people were being relegated to diminishing positions of influence. No doubt because of the big, clumsy, crude Texan’s preparations to win his second term.
The Presidency belonged to Robert Kennedy, not Lyndon Johnson. When Bobby became President, the Kennedy people would again be given the appropriate respect they--he--deserved.
It was the only thing keeping him holding on with fingernails and toenails to this inconsequential job. When Bobby was in the Oval Office, he, Mallory O’Rourke, would have the needed expertise in the agency’s clandestine activities to--he hoped--catapult him into an office very near the new President Kennedy.
But, Johnson was a powerful man. Robert Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson hated each other. Johnson would see to it that all Kennedy appointees, at all levels, were kept under his considerable-sized thumb.