The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (85 page)

A third man yanked a black hood over his head, and then the three men threw York into the van while the fourth held open its door.

The van’s door was slammed shut; inside York could be heard shouting and kicking away.

The fourth man—the driver—turned to Michael and a shocked Sonia. “Sir, ready on your orders.”

But Sonia jumped in between the two and yelled, “What the hell’s going on, Michael?!”

“The kid’s coming to work for me.”

York had joined the CIA; he was on his way to the Farm for his first day of training.

Sonia glared at Michael, but it was through an odd smile.

Michael didn’t understand at first.

But soon, it became clear.

“No!” he shouted at her. “Hell, no!”

But on she continued to stare.

“Damn it, Sonia; you can’t do this! What about your career, the hospital? You can’t!”

“I’m as good as anyone—you know it, Michael; besides, I think you could use a doctor on your team.” Sonia held her arms straight out to the sides and said, “I want in.”

Michael rubbed his eyes; he knew better than to argue with her.

Son of a bitch!

Snapping his fingers, he pointed reluctantly at his wife.

The two men who had grabbed York each took one of Sonia’s outstretched arms. Before they could put the black bag over her head, Michael waved for them to wait. He pulled her closer and gave her a deep kiss.

“Good luck. I hope you can hold your breath.”

Sonia’s nervous smile disappeared; returning in its place was one of fear. “Hold my breath! For what?! Why do I have to hold my breath?! Michael!

Michael?!”

Michael didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Outlining any part of the Farm’s training was prohibited. The information was classified.

“I love you,” Michael said.

Without warning, her world went dark.

Michael watched as the white van sped away with the CIA’s two newest recruits.

F
OUR
M
ONTHS
L
ATER
T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE

President Elizabeth Beckett Door sat behind the Resolute.

It had been a busy first month in office. The few moments between her last meeting and the next were well used.

Out of the three oversized, south-facing windows she stared.

Her tranquility was quickly ended, as she knew it would be, but she smiled: this was a meeting that she had eagerly awaited.

The northeast door of the Oval Office opened, and President Door watched, her smile still broad, as Dr. Michael Sterling walked into the room.

Quickly standing, she walked around the Resolute and directly toward Michael.

“Mrs. President.” Michael nodded politely.

She maternally rested both of her hands on Michael’s arms. “In this office, please call me Beth. You deserve it, Dr. Sterling.”

With an awkward smile, Michael nodded and replied, “Only if you call me Michael.”

The president motioned to one of the two couches in the office. “Please, Michael, have a seat. Tell me—how’s the other Dr. Sterling doing?”

“She’s doing fine.”

“Fine? I’d say she’s doing better than fine. From what I hear, she’s tearing up new roads on the Farm—best recruit since, well, since you. I hear Mr. York is doing quite well, too. The Special Activities Division has him in their scopes.”

If Michael were able to blush, he would have. A sense of pride washed over him, but he remained stoic in front of the president.

As if reading Michael’s mind, President Door remarked, “Normally a sitting president wouldn’t keep tabs on a CIA students, but I would say that my relationship with the three of you is anything but normal. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ma’am—” Michael saw the president scowl. “
Beth
, I would agree.”

“I have a personal attachment to you and your wife; to Jonathon as well. I can’t thank all of you enough; I owe you my life. The people of this country can’t thank you enough, too—all of you. I’ve placed a commendation in your personnel file, in York and your wife’s, too. Hell of a way to start their careers with the CIA.”

“It is.”

“Because of all of your actions, the proper infrastructure and development for new mining operations is already underway in Afghanistan and, rightfully, belongs to the Afghani people. I’ve been briefed that the first extraction of lithium has already taken place. Even better, there has been a dramatic reduction in opium trafficking and al-Qaeda activity. The new industry has already led to Afghani communities developing new homes, schools, roadways, medical facilities, and other support functions.”

“That’s certainly good news.”

“Plans have been put in place to assist the Afghani government in the careful mining of those minerals and an orderly transition of its responsibility.”

President Door stopped speaking for a moment as she realized that Michael wasn’t hearing anything new. “I guess I shouldn’t have to tell you that, Michael; the information comes from your people.”

Michael nodded politely.

“Those deposits will go a long way toward helping the Afghani people build something tangible and long-term. The economic development will bring much-needed stability to a country and to a region that has known mostly war and conflict for generations. A new industry gives the men and the youth of the country an alternative to picking up arms. You’ve accomplished a great thing, Michael.”

The president stood.

Michael did too.

As the president held her hand out, Michael grasped it. “As long as I’m sitting behind that desk, you will have an ally in the White House.”

Michael replied simply, “Thank you.”

“Michael, you may have heard that the current director of the CIA has expressed his interest in heading up the Pentagon. I’m inclined to grant him his wishes. That would mean I would need a new director.”

Michael’s eyes met the president’s. “Mrs. President,” Michael said, purposely taking on a more formal demeanor. It was time for business. “I appreciate your vote of confidence in me, but…” Michael paused.

President Door finished his sentence: “You’d prefer to be back in the field, is that it?”

Michael handed her a thin folder that he had brought with him. “That’s the outline, vision, mission statement, and budgetary request for a new division that I’m recommending be put together. It would answer only to the president. In that folder is also my formal letter of resignation as deputy director of the National Clandestine Services.”

The president opened the folder and studied its contents. Closing it, “It’s a small division, Dr. Sterling.” Her reply, too, had taken on a more formal nature.

“It needs to be,” Michael stated.

“What does OST stand for?”

“The Order Surveillance Team.”

The president closed the folder. “Mind if I keep this?”

“That one’s yours, Mrs. President.”

“Dr. Sterling, you have your division.”

S
OMETIME
L
ATER
O
FFICE OF
D
R
. M
ICHAEL
S
TERLING
, S
ENIOR
P
ROFESSOR
, D
ENVER
U
NIVERSITY

“Proof? They are one and the same?”

“One and the same, Dad.”

Dr. Michael Sterling, Senior, fell into his seat.

Michael watched his father’s face turn an interesting shade of white. His normally sideways smile was a bit crooked; this happened only when his father contemplated something that seemed just outside of his comprehension.

“You okay, Dad?”

Michael’s father didn’t answer.

“Dad?!”

The elder Sterling startled at the rise in his son’s voice. “You saw this in the Vatican’s Secret Archives? How did you even get in? Wait, I don’t want to know, do I?”

Michael shook his head
no
.

“And it was in demotic?”

Michael nodded his head
yes
.

“Demotic can be difficult to translate, Michael; are you sure you didn’t make a mistake?”

“Dad, you taught demotic to me, remember?”

Michael’s father ignored the question. “I can’t believe it. They’re one and the same; I’ve always suspected as much. Quite a bit points to that fact: the Coffin Texts, the Pyramidal Texts, the Book of the Dead, a number of apocrypha, and too many hieroglyphs to count. Hell, son, even the Bible outlines a clear picture, but there’s never been any definitive proof. It’s always labeled as conjecture or as allegory!”

“The proof is there, Dad,” replied Michael.

“But no one will ever see it! Those silly-costumed men over there are nothing more than thieves of history! The arrogance of them! How dare they keep this from the world! How dare they continue to lie to their
flock
?!”

Michael shrugged, but he reassured his father. “But I’ve seen it, and now you know. One day the world will know, too. Learning is exponential, Dad; it always has been. It can only be stifled for so long.”

Dr. Sterling, Senior, didn’t necessarily share his son’s optimism.

“Dad,” Michael said, pulling out his camera. “Would you like to see it, too?”

“What?” replied his father, eyeing the camera. “Pictures? You have pictures?”

Michael nodded.

His father’s hands shook slightly as he scrolled slowly through the images. One hand went to his mouth. A look of disbelief and elation both draped over his face.

Handing the camera back to his son, he walked with a steady stride to his office window, out of which he stared upward. The sky was brightly lit by the day’s sun. Across the horizon, to the west, the moon was sitting just above the outline of the mountains. It was one of those rare days where both the sun and the moon shared the same sky. At one time in history, they were called Osiris and Isis, the ancient Egyptian gods of the sun and the moon.

They had a child.

At his birth, three kings who had been guided by a star to his birthplace had greeted him; his mother—called Mery—was a virgin; in the spring he was resurrected from the dead.

He was named Horus, the begotten son.

The Son of God.

The story was told in Egypt, from one generation to the next, starting over
six thousand years
ago.

Dr. Sterling, Senior, looked at the sun and the moon again and smiled at them both.
Proof!
The birth story of Jesus was nothing more than Horus’s with the names changed.

One story begat another…

The End

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JS Nagle is a former intelligence professional who spent many a night with his face hidden by camouflage with a rucksack on his back, or in the guts of cargo planes with his ripcord in hand, readying to jump into the unknown.

A graduate of the Universities of Minnesota and Wisconsin with degrees in economics and an MBA, respectively, JS Nagle left the intelligence profession for aerospace, where he worked with the firm that puts government payloads into space.

An avid adventurist, JS Nagle spends his free time skiing the black diamond slopes of Colorado mountains, climbing ‘fourteeners,’ recovering from broken bones and torn cartilage, and wrestling with his infant daughter.

JS Nagle is also a father to the next generation of military officer: a talented, strong, and altruistic son, as well as a husband to a gifted, beautiful, talented, and athletic clinician.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

My research guides my pen: I have worked diligently to ensure that references to matters of history—whether it be locations, works of art, historical events, or individuals—are as accurate as possible.

In addition, when including matters of a technological or innovative nature, I work toward that same level of aforementioned accuracy. The descriptions included within this novel of many of the technological components or innovations are true.

I readily admit that I do take literary privileges in the authoring of the Sterling novels; one must remember that this work is first and foremost a piece of fiction; all characters and actions that occur and transpire that are not specifically traceable persons or events of a topical or historical nature are purely a creation of my imagination and for the reader’s enjoyment.