The Menagerie 2 (Eden) (2 page)

O’Connell did not glance at the articles as he placed a manila folder on the desktop. “The purpose of my visit, Ms. Moore, is one of necessity.” He then peeled back the cover of the file. Inside were several 8x10 photographs, mostly satellite imagery. “Several months ago,” he began, “you posted an article in the
Tribune
regarding ancient script discovered in Eden.”

 “Yeah, I remember,” she answered flatly. “Symbologists and archeologists from all over the world criticized my efforts, saying that the script and symbols were fabricated, that I was saying anything to salvage a drowning institute.” She hesitated. “So why are you here, Special Agent?”

O’Connell leafed through the photos and came up with an 8x10 glossy, along with a newspaper clipping attached to it. He separated the two and placed them side by side, the article with pictured symbols on the left and a recent photograph bearing the same markings on the right. “The picture on the right was taken two days ago,” he told her.

She measured the markings in the article to that of the photo. They were incredibly similar with some symbols out of sequence. But most were in chronological order. “They’re the same,” she whispered.

“Somewhat,” he corrected. “But these symbols you insisted to have found in Eden were discovered here, at a new site. The odds of such symbol construction and the chronological order you presented to the
Tribune,
is one hundred thirty-seven million to one. This is too high of a number to be considered as mere coincidence . . . So it obviously caught our eye.”

“And that’s why you’re here? To tell me that there’s some validation to my claim.”

“I’m here, Ms. Moore, under the strictest authority.” He produced another photo, that of satellite imagery. “You know of the Chicxulub crater?”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s the impact point of the final extinction event that happened almost sixty-five million years ago.”

He offered a faint nod of agreement. “Eighteen days ago,” he continued, “an earthquake measuring six-point-eight on the Richter scale hit the Chicxulub village. The effects of that quake caused more than a marginal shift in the seascape. In fact, it coughed up something very special.” He turned the photo so that she could see it clearly. “This is what we found.”

It was a thermal image of an object not far from the Chicxulub shoreline.

“It sits almost 2000 feet beneath the surface,” he added.

She took the photo and examined it. The anomaly was dagger-shaped with precise angles and geometric curves. The outline of the imagery was red, a heat signature. “And you’re showing me this why?”

“As you can see, it’s a heated structure that has been submerged beneath water that should have cooled within hours. But it hasn’t. It’s also a structure that’s obviously a much smaller piece of a larger vessel that’s hidden within the crater’s wall.”

She looked at the photo. “A smaller piece? But this thing is massive.”

“The exposed structure is not much smaller than an aircraft carrier.”

“So what exactly am I looking at?”

“What you’re looking at, Ms. Moore, is something we believe to be part of the bolide that caused the extinction event almost sixty-five million years ago,” he answered. “It’s been buried beneath the seabed until the quake lifted it to visibility.”

“The bolide?” She traced a finger over the image. “Are you telling me that this is the metallic core of the meteorite that caused the extinction event?” She stared at the article on the desk, at the symbols. “And what does any of this” —referring to the ancient script—“have to do with this satellite image?”

“These symbols, Ms. Moore, were found
inside
this structure.”

She proffered O’Connell a quizzical sidelong glance. “Are you telling me that this isn’t a bolide at all?”

 “Yes and no,” he said. “This vessel is responsible for the catastrophic event that ended the age of dinosaurs—that’s for certain. And though its shell is made up mostly of iridium and other metals that are alien and familiar to meteorites, this particular vessel is just that—a vessel.”

She looked at the satellite image—at the geometric shape, noting the perfect lines and angles. “Are you telling me that this ship is otherworldly? Is that what you’re telling me?”   

“Nearly sixty-five million years ago a bolide, or what you believe to be a bolide, was actually a craft.”

She shook her head. “Impossible. The bolide that impacted with this planet was six miles across.”

“Ms. Moore, these beings, this race, even sixty-five million years ago, were above us on the evolutionary scale as we are to the amoeba. What you see here,” he said, placing the tip of his forefinger against the photo image, “is a remnant of that vehicle. More than ninety-eight percent of it was destroyed upon impact, which accounts for the high amount of iridium in the area. But what’s more important,” he added, “is the fact that these ancient symbols were found inside that ship. The symbols you say you found in Eden, a civilization believed to be fourteen thousand years old, are situated upon the walls inside this craft.”

“Sixty-five million years . . .” Her words trailed off into a whisper. Then: “Why are you telling me this?”

“Right now the United States government, in collusion with the Mexican government, since the Chicxulub crater is Mexico’s jurisdiction, has set up a perimeter over this vessel. And in working accordance,” he continued, “we have engineers and scientific experts trying to collect data in order to reverse engineer our findings.”

She could hear the measure of doubt in his tone. “But?”

“But progress has been slowed,” he told her. “Even our most experienced cryptanalysts are unable to decipher these symbols. However, if you can help to determine their meanings, then I believe that progress may be hastened.”

“You want me to go into that vessel to decipher the script? That’s why you’re here?”

“You’d be doing us a great service.”

“I just can’t get up and leave the AIAA,” she told him.

“Ms. Moore, we both know that your institute is floundering because grants have dried up. What the government is willing to do, should you agree, is to proffer the amount of $250,000 into an account of your choice. This should be enough to sustain future operations, yes?”

And then some
, she considered.

“In turn, you will sign a nondisclosure form to keep the knowledge of this operation and its discoveries completely covert. In other words, Ms. Moore, you can never divulge what you see . . . Ever.”

“I find it hard to believe that ancient script would be considered grounds for government secrets.”

“It’s not the script you’re signing the nondisclosure for,” he said. “It’s what’s inside that ship.”

“You know I’ll need an aide,” she offered.

“Of course you’re talking about John Savage, correct? The former Navy SEAL?”

“I see you did your homework.”

“I’m DOD,” he answered. “That’s what I do. But if you need Mr. Savage along, then he’ll be required to sign the same nondisclosure agreement as well.”

“Understood.”

“And as for the $250,000, Ms. Moore, please forward me the proper account number and we’ll settle our deal.” And then, after collecting the photos and returning them to the manila folder, he said, “And please, be prepared. There will be things inside that ship your mind will have a difficult time adjusting to . . . indescribable things.”

“It can’t be more difficult than what I discovered inside Eden.”

He tucked the folder beneath his arm and looked her square in the eyes. And in the same flat voice, he said, “Don’t be so sure.”

CHAPTER THREE

“The DOD?” John Savage said rhetorically. “If they’re involved, then we’re most likely talking about high-end military applications.”

“He did say that their efforts to reverse engineer certain innovations were being held back because they couldn’t decipher the ancient script.”

John Savage, a one-time military elitist with a particular set of battle skills, was a classically handsome man with angular features with dark hair, luminous blue eyes, and a Romanesque-shaped nose—all of which was packed onto a six-one frame of lean muscle. “Are you sure it’s the same type of script you saw in Eden?”

“Some of it but not all,” she said. “But languages and writings often evolve over time.”

“Time? We’re talking about a difference of sixty-five million years here.”

“The similarities were there, John. I saw them.”

“So there’s a correlation between what’s inside that ship . . . and Eden?”

“Who knows,” she answered. “We only know a fraction of our true history based upon some of the facts that we were able to piece together. But the more pieces we discover, the better our understanding of what really happened. History is
always
being rewritten as more facts present themselves.”

Savage went to the window of Alyssa’s office; the drapes parted enough to give a view of the rain-slicked streets of New York City. The windows were dappled with droplets as people walked along the sidewalks with their umbrellas open. “Has the money been forwarded to AIAA’s account?”

She nodded. “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” she said. “It’s a new start, John.”

He knew that she’d been struggling as of late, not only financially but emotionally as well. The media had beaten her down until her spirit had been whipped to the point of nonexistence. But now he saw the spark in her eyes once again, that spangle of brewing life growing with every passing moment. He then crossed the floor and pulled her close. “I’m happy for you,” he told her. “You deserve this.”

And then she kissed him, a gesture that spoke volumes of unbridled love.

When she pulled back he traced the back of his fingers along her cheek, a light and passionate stroke, and then smiled. “Let’s go rewrite history,” he told her softly.

She smiled. And then: “Are you ready to take a boat ride?”

He nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he said.

Oh, yeah.

#

On the following
evening, John Savage and Alyssa Moore were flown to Miami International Airport under the watchful eyes of chaperoning agents, and then picked up a connecting flight to Merida International Airport in Mexico. From there they took a transport chopper to the deck of the
USS Bainbridge,
one of several ships stationed above the submerged vessel, and landed on a helipad at the ship’s stern.

Beneath the heavy wash of the rotors, John and Alyssa left the chopper and ducked unnecessarily beneath the blades until they were clear. Once done, the chopper lifted and banked to the east.

“Welcome to the
Bainbridge
,” said O’Connell, stepping onto the helipad. He was wearing a pristine white shirt and matching pants with impeccably sharp creases. The only contrasts to the ethereal whiteness of his clothes were the tones of his olive skin and amber-tinted sunglasses. “It’s been a long day, I’m sure,” he added. “But we tried to get you here as quick as possible. I hope the flights weren’t too much of a burden?”

“Not really,” said Savage. “Didn’t care too much for the two ops you sent along, though.”

O’Connell turned to Savage, a spangle of the day’s light reflected off the lens of his glasses. “And you’d be John Savage,” he said evenly.

“I would be, yes.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he said, holding out his hand.

Savage took it.

“Those two ops, as you call them, were a necessity.”

“To what? We signed the nondisclosures. We know the consequences of illegal divulgences. It wasn’t necessary.”

“Mr. Savage, you worked black ops, so you know that something of this magnitude is always necessary. Things haven’t changed since you were a soldier working for a wetwork team. If you took insult, then please accept my apology. But from the moment you signed that nondisclosure form, your life, and Ms. Moore’s, became the property of the United States government.”

“And once this is over?”

 “Then you will be free to do whatever it is that you do, Mr. Savage, at the AIAA without being under the auspices of your government. But—if this is what you are alluding to—the nondisclosure remains intact. What you two are about to see can never leave this ship. And as you have already stated, Mr. Savage, you know the consequences of illegal divulgences.” O’Connell hesitated a moment before speaking. “But we’re getting off on the wrong foot, aren’t we? Be assured, Mr. Savage, that you and Ms. Moore have nothing to worry about should you follow the rules of the agreement. They’ll be no disruptions or blackmails in your future to keep you compliant. And we won’t be sending operatives to act as scarecrows to keep you in line. Once this is over, then it’s over. And being a black ops man yourself, I know that you understand the sanctity of maintaining national security.”

Savage agreed and understood. He was once a Tier-One Level operative for the U.S. military. He also understood that being in such a position was also a precarious one. People
sometimes
disappeared, regardless if they had kept to the agreement at hand.

“As one former soldier to another,” said O’Connell, “you are well respected in the ranks and have served your country well in the past. There is no concern amongst the Tier Ones’ ruling over this operation. You and Ms. Moore have earned their trust. I want you both to believe that.”

To a degree Savage did—from one soldier to another, a warrior’s loyalty. But there was also the learned experience to know that loyalty was not always above honor—and that one man’s honor could easily be compromised. “From one soldier to another,” he finally said.

“Good. Even though you’re no longer under the auspices of the U.S. government, we still see you as one of us: Once a brother, always a brother.” O’Connell looked skyward, took note of the descending sun, at the reddening of the sky along the horizon, and removed his sunglasses. “Are you hungry?” he asked them.

Savage turned to Alyssa, who nodded in the negative.

“We’ve already eaten,” he returned. “But thank you.”