The Nephilim Imperatives: Dark Sentences (The Second Coming Chronicles Book 2)

by Terry James

  “Yes, sir. We will fully prepare them for that probability,” Robbins assured the chief liaison between the joint American-EU project and Robbins’ company for about the fifth or sixth time, he thought, while letting his eyes roam the cabin walls in a look of frustration.

  America’s European Union allies, at the second tier of governing authority, would make no promises that “Operation Scotty” was foolproof. It was his responsibility to give warning of the unknowns involved. Jenkins had not ceased to remind him of his duty in the matter since the moment the DOD clandestine operations chief enlisted him from the ranks of the technology’s civilian producers.

  His duty, from an overall perspective, was a mystery to him. Jenkins had used dormant military obligation to wrest him from his civilian corporate job with Transportec. Technically, Blake Robbins was a Marine Reserve major. In fact, he was a covert operative, answering strictly to the assistant secretary for black projects as part of the Department of Defense. Patience wasn’t his strong suit, and he fought the urge to ask his American government superior for details of the mission to Brussels.

  His being a part of the project was itself an enigma beyond which his mind could explore. His last memory of that horrendous day of the attacks on the World Trade Towers. Knowing nothing until a week later. The sudden consciousness, arising abruptly from the dark nothingness produced the moment he heard the rumble in his 88th-floor South Tower office.

  Blake Robbins did know one important factor in the mix of the unknowns. He was alive, while almost 3,000 of his fellow World Trade Towers workers–including his personal assistant, Megan Kafka--were not. He was–he was told-- a product of the technology’s success. He should make its best salesman.

  George Jenkins walked in a short, brisk stride after putting the phone receiver back on its cradle. April Warmath followed him, scribbling notes on the stenographer pad as best she could while he dictated.

  “Get Lambert and Gravner on a conference call. Set it up for 3:30 my time. Tell them the demonstration is set for Friday of week after next. No one else is to be privy to the call. There is no clearance high enough to include anyone else.”

  His gruff expression made it clear to the young woman that she had just been included in, most likely, an illegal operation of some sort. While the fact was somewhat ego-building, the downside was troubling. She knew a lot…maybe too much.

  The following Tuesday, near Los Angeles, California

  “You look tired, dear. You aren’t getting sick, are you?”

  Lori Lansing looked up at her son and felt his left cheek with the back of her left hand.

  “No, Mom. I’m okay. Just a little jet lag, most likely.”

  Clark Lansing gripped his mother’s hand and kissed it. “I’ll be fine,” he said, then bent to pick up the suitcase and laptop. “A few hours of sleep and everything will be cool.”

  Lori hugged him and reached to pat his cheek. “Well, your room is ready, and the office is yours when you need to work,” she said, admiring her 6’2” son while they walked toward the interior of the house.

  “The bedroom will be fine for working. I don’t need a lot of room,” he said. Clark was the spitting image of his father at that age, she thought, holding him tightly.

  “Your father and I are happy you chose to stay here for a while.”

  “Yes. Well, I needed to get off the flying circus for awhile,” he said.

  “Daddy will be glad to see you,” she said from in front of him while they ascended the stairway.

  “Heard anything from Morgan?” he asked, trudging behind her with the cases.

  “She hasn’t called in a week. She’s not very happy with her mom.”

  “Oh? What have you done to her?” Clark asked in a feigned accusatory tone.

  “Preached at her, I guess,” she said, without hesitation.

  “About the not going to church thing again, huh?”

  “Well, young man, it wouldn’t hurt either of you to go to church,” she said sternly, but with an amused lilt to her voice.

  “I’ve got to call her tonight. Do you know if she’s at the apartment?”

  “She’s there, so far as I know,” Lori said. “What do you need to talk to her about?”

  “Oh, just stuff,” he said, turning sideways to get through the door to the bedroom of his teenage years.

  Fifteen minutes later, while he carefully hung clothes from the suitcase onto the clothes hanger bar in the closet, the troubled thoughts returned. Probably just eating too late at night, or irregularly, or something, he thought, smoothing the cloth on a sports coat sleeve. But why his sister? Why was Morgan always the center of the nightmares? And, why always the same dark figures? Did the nightmares have something to do with the creature–or whatever it was—he saw those several years ago in Idaho? That’s when the nightmares had seemed to start up again.

  And, what about the thing? The 8-foot beast that walked upright, like a human, not like an ape, or a bear?

  Memories of his meeting with the rancher-farmer that September night in 2001 played through his brain for the thousandth time. The inexplicable way in which the giant vanished right in front of his amazed eyes. Or did it? Was the sudden disappearance a trick of the darkness and the misty rain that obscured what really happened to the creature? Or—had he, in fact, seen it at all? Was it all a figment of his imagination?

  Jabard Sowell didn’t think it was Clark’s imagination. The old man hadn’t flinched when he told the rancher about the incredible thing that had happened to him on the way to the meeting that night.

  “About eight feet tall, you say? That’s about what I got figured, too,” the rancher had said, squinting one twinkling-blue eye and looking directly into Clark’s thoughts.

  Disappeared, you say?” Sowell asked the question while walking and shining the flashlight beam on his big barn 30 feet or so away.

  “Com’ ‘ere…I got somethin’ to show you.”

  Clark followed him to behind the weathered gray structure, where Sowell knelt to lift a 5-foot-square piece of quarter-inch plywood from the yellow-green grass.

  “Tell you one thing, young fella, wasn’t no ghost varmint that made this.”

  The old rancher shined the powerful flashlight beam into the huge depression. It was a human-like footprint, at least 20 inches long, 10 inches wide at the front, just behind the toes, and more than 3 inches deep. The footprint of a giant!

  Clark’s life –at least his sleep-life—hadn’t been the same since that night. There had been the dreams from the time he was 10 years old, through age 18 or so. But, they were few and far between. The giant things, dark and boiling --the small pale-gray creatures that sometimes stared at him with huge, black, glistening eyes. But, they were just nightmares of an over-active boy’s imaginings. And, his dad had always gone to great lengths to reassure him, walking him through every dark place in the house, shining light into the crevices.

  Still, he remembered the troubled look from his mother each time her son described the dreams. But, she, too, always did her best to assuage his fears. But lately, the dreams were intense, waking him up, bathing him with cold sweat of terror. His little sister, Morgan, was always at the center of the nightmares.

  “Atten…Hutt!”

  The voice! Clark whirled, came to the military position of attention, and saluted stiffly.

  “Hey, big guy!” Mark Lansing said and rushed forward after returning his son’s salute. There, right hands came together only briefly, hearty hugs taking the place of the handshake that just wouldn’t do the job.

  21 Club – New York City

  Morgan sat, awaiting Bob Rashing’s return to the table. She was uncomfortable, being at dinner alone with a man twice her age, an important client of Guroix, Tuppler, & Macy. But, Alan Cranston had assured her the man was okay. The vice president for the advertising agency’s creative department told her the firm needed to put its best foot forward in trying to land the account, that of one of the largest do
g food manufacturers in the world.

  She was, Cranston told Morgan, the natural choice to go to dinner with Rashing, because she owned a rottweiler. Maybe–if all went well—Rashing would even like to put Jeddy in commercials. Cranston would consider having such a campaign pitched in that direction.

  Still, the sudden request that she accompany the K-9 Excel vice president for marketing to dinner, and to some of New York’s sightseeing spots, made her apprehensive. She wasn’t at the level of account executive; rather, she was a copywriter still learning the agency business. But, she trusted her boss’ judgment, and he vouched for Bob Rashing’s character.

  He was a nice-looking man, she thought, watching him make his way past the tables of 21 Club. His graying temples framed a darkly tanned face just below slightly thinning, dark brown hair. He was a little less than 6 feet tall, she surmised. Almost handsome. But, more than twice her age… Fifty, Alan Cranston had informed her.

  “Sorry, honey, Rashing said, taking his seat across the small table. “Some business that had to be taken care of in Atlanta.”

  He had, somewhere between leaving the table to take the call, and returning 10 minutes later, decided that she was now to be addressed as “honey,” not “Miss Lansing.” The decision on his own to become more familiar was abrasive. Could it be that she was growing up in the New York fast-track life? Becoming more assertive? Normally, she would prefer “Morgan.” But, she–not him--would decide when to become more familiar.

  “I’ll make it up to you. We’ll have breakfast sent up to the suite in the morning,” Rashing said with a broad, toothy smile.

  “Breakfast?” was all that would come out. She felt her face redden. He sat smiling at her, as if he had said nothing out of line. A chiming sound in her purse interrupted her silent processing of his words.

  “Excuse me,” she said, retrieving the cell phone from the purse.

  “Sis?”

  “Clark!” Hearing her brother’s voice after she answered made her nearly laugh out loud.

  “What’s that noise?” Clark said.

  “Oh, just a bunch of people at 21 Club,” she said, with a happy tone in her voice.

  “21 Club?! Boy, we are living high, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah…that’s me. Living high!” she said with animation in her voice. “The agency asked me to go to dinner with a client…”

  She listened to her brother for a few seconds, then cut her eyes at Rashing, who looked with an impatient glare back at her.

  “Yes. A client. He’s about dad’s age,” she lied, knowing her father was 64. She glanced again at Rashing, whose own complexion took on a darker, more reddened tone.

  “Oh. Yes, I’m enjoying dinner very much. Mr. Rashing…Bob…just invited me to spend the night in his hotel suite.”

  She giggled, her nose crinkling, when she heard her brother’s words.

  “Here, you want to talk to him?”

  She thrust the cell phone toward Rashing, who picked up the white cloth napkin, wiped his mouth and hands, threw the napkin on the table, and got up and strode away.

  “Guess not,” she said with another giggle.

  “Looks like I’ll have to find my way home, my dear brother. Seems Bob is no longer interested.”

  They picked up the conversation an hour later, when Morgan had entered the small apartment, been greeted by Jeddy, and settled into an overstuffed sofa in the living room.

  “I’m thinking about getting out of New York, anyway,” she said to Clark while stroking the rottweiler, who lay on the sofa beside her, his massive head in her lap. “Maybe I’ll try an LA agency. I’ll probably get the boot, after tonight. The guy was furious.”

  Clark listened to his sister’s words, wondering how to broach the subject that was, even in his own proximity to the matter, ludicrous to contemplate. He searched the darkness of his old room, now so foreign to him. Too much time, far too many miles between him and home. They had to talk about it.

  “Morgan, I have something to ask you. You’re going to think I’ve lost it.”

  She heard in Clark’s voice a familiar tone, and sat more erect on the sofa, causing the dog to sit up from his lying position. Something was worrying her big brother. Somehow, inexplicably, she knew what was coming.

  “Remember the first time you told Mom that a cloud-man… a dark, cloud-like man was standing in your room? You must have been about…what? Five years old?”

  Morgan felt a flush of uneasiness, a bit of chill traversing her spine and the back of her neck.

  “Yes. I remember.”

  You told me a couple of years ago that you have the recurring dream, but not quite as often. Have they--do you still have those kinds of dreams?”

  Morgan said nothing, and Clark sensed her troubled consideration of the question.

  “You’ve got to talk about it, Sis. I’m having the dreams again, more than ever. Are you having them?”

  “You okay, Morgie?”

  “Umhummm,” she affirmed. Her brother wasn’t convinced.

  “I know what they’re like. So, you don’t have to feel…funny…about telling me. I, of all people, understand.”

  Again, she was reticent to talk about the things of the nightmares.

  She asked, after several seconds of silence, “How long will you be in LA?”

  “I’m taking a week off. I’ll fly to New York on Tuesday.”

  “I’m coming home, Clark. Can we talk about this then?”

  Tuesday night, 9 p.m.

  “Morgan, I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t tell him you would…entertain him… Not like that. We don’t do business that way.”

  Her silence caused Alan Cranston to say more. “Look, the guy isn’t even at the level to make decisions on whether GT & M gets the account. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I am worried about the thought of your using me as a perk!”

  Cranston’s eyes shifted from side to side while he sat in his 56th-floor office, his brain in overdrive, trying to defuse, with the phone call, the situation he had created. The agency’s principals wouldn’t like losing the young woman they had put three years into, training her to assume account executive duties. Besides, it was true –Morgan Lansing’s familiarity with canines, and her love of them, was one reason she had been chosen to be placed in the firm’s training program.

  “Look, Morgan. Just take tomorrow off, okay? Let’s let things simmer down a bit. What do you say?”

  “Well, I say that copywriters are a dime a dozen in New York. Why are you even bothering with me? I’ll go home and find something a little less…demanding.”

  “Come on, Morgan. Don’t be like that. You know we are like a family at GT&M. We don’t want to lose one of our own,” the creative director said in his best cajoling voice.

  “Really? Do we send one of our own out to service clients –like a hooker?”

  “Look, I apologize. I just had no idea Rashing would think he could…”

  Morgan interrupted, “Tell you what, I’ll take you up on your offer, and take that day off. I’ll go running with Jed, and let you know if things have…simmered down.”

  “Fine! Great! We will talk Thursday,” Cranston said with a tight-lipped smile.

  Tuesday, 9:30 p.m., Washington, D.C.

  Her life of late was less than the good times promised by Wendel Clay. The spacious hotel suite, since coming to live with him, had turned into anything but the love nest she had envisioned when talked into leaving her own efficiency apartment closer to her job at the Pentagon.

  April Warmath finished her calisthenics with yoga position stretches to soft, dreamy music. Her eyes closed while she swayed, and she reached to extend each muscle to its fullest.

  She walked toward the large bathroom three minutes later, mopping the damp glow of exertion from her pretty face. She was always glad when the exercises were finished. They had never been fun, but she had been faithful to them since her late teens. At 26, they wer
e ingrained, and she felt incomplete when she couldn’t do the nightly exercise ritual.

  At first, she had felt a little sheepish, well…cheap, actually, she remembered while she looked into the brightly lit bathroom mirror, seeing the ivory-hued, oval face, framed in part by the raven-black hair pulled back and piled neatly atop her head. Her eyes, green and beautiful, nestled within long ebony lashes. But she no longer felt diminished by the live-in situation with her lover. The effects of her Midwestern upbringing were fading, and she must move on in the new life she chose for herself.

  Wendel was seldom home any more. His time away from Washington, from her, was becoming more intrusive. He had assured her they would spend more, not less, time together now that his corporation had assigned him to be full-time lobbyist. Maybe he didn’t foresee that his services as one of Transportec’s attorneys would be needed. But he had not made any effort to explain things. She was expected just to accept it and be prepared to fulfill his desires whenever he showed up. Most angering of all, she suspected his time out of town really was spent with the wife he had promised never to see again.

  She would make the move on the upcoming weekend…

  What would her father say, her living as a “kept” woman” But, she assured herself, continuing to dab the tiny perspiration beads from her face, she wasn’t a kept woman. She had a job. A very important job within one of the nation’s top covert operations. The office, with George Jenkins as its director, had received, because of the War on Terror, tremendous Pentagon black budget funding for carrying out…for carrying out exactly what? She didn’t yet know but was about to find out. Jenkins had told her just six hours earlier that soon she would receive clearances necessary to know the ultra-clandestine project’s darkest secrets. The thought gave her leverage, thus self-confidence that she didn’t have before today.