Incarnate: Mars Origin "I" Series Book III (10 page)

San Diego, California

The hotel
banquet room’s occupants were rambunctious – laughter and music vibrated from
the poster and banner covered walls. The celebration was no less exuberant than
if the contest hadn’t had such an easy victory.  The smell of liquor
permeated the room decked out in red, white and blue streamers. Stars hung from
the ceiling and waiters clad in black and white passed around trays of hors
d’oeuvres and champagne. Senator Bruce Cook, sitting in his hotel suite, knew
he had won his primary handily. And the democrat that was set to oppose him in
the general had been diagnosed with cancer and had dropped out of the race. It
was a sign that the path to the larger victories that he wanted to claim would
come.

Tucked away in
a corner suite of the 11
^th
floor of the hotel where he’d
ceremoniously watched the election results, the Senator mentally checked this
victory off of his To Do List. He was taking care of last minute matters before
he made his way down to greet his supporters and the media. He took one last
look at his acceptance speech and tossed it on the table, He had it memorized.
He was ready. Ready for the big league and tonight there would be something
more added to his usual “Back to Capitol Hill” speech.

.

The Senator
walked over to the wet bar and poured himself a scotch on the rocks. “Were you
able to find Simon Melas?” he asked his assistant campaign manager.

“No. I haven’t
been able to get in touch with him.”

The Senator ran
his hand over his face. “We’ve got to do something about this.”

The assistant
campaign manager sat slumped in an arm chair. Tired from the day’s activities,
he was trying to grab a last minute recharge before heading to the banquet
room. He yanked at his tie and opened his shirt collar as he spoke. “I agree.
But we need to do the right thing.”

“What is that
supposed to mean?” The Senator gave his assistant a hard stare.

“You know
exactly what I mean.”

“Look. Don’t
beat around the bush with me. You got something to say, spit it out.”

“You know what
I’m aiming at.” The assistant campaign manager returned the stare. “I can’t understand
why you’d grab her like that. What in the world were you thinking?”

He shook the
highball glass, the ice cubes clanked against the sides of the glass. “What I
was thinking is I need the information she has. I need it to move forward with
my plans. And she was okay with it.” He raised his glass up to his mouth and
looked over the rim. “Once she found out it was me.”

“I thought you
had someone else on that. The scientist over at NASA.”

“There is a
reason ‘assistant’ is the first word in your title.” The senator pointed at the
man in the chair with his glass. “You don’t get to know everything. You just
get to do what I tell you to do. And what I told you to do was to find Simon
for me. You failed to do it.”

“And you need
me to find him because you don’t know what happened to him? Right?” He leaned
his head on the back of the chair. “Didn’t you give him money?”

“I gave him
lots of money. Don’t rub it in. That won’t get you points with me. I don’t need
a conscience.” The Senator took a big swig out of his glass, clanged it down on
the bar top, uncapped the scotch bottle and poured another glass. “Yes. I gave
him money. To set up a dig site. We got permits. Worked it out with the local
government. Everything on the up and up. He said that’s what we needed to do to
get her to cooperate.”

“Did he do
that?”

“Well isn’t it
obvious?” The Senator came and sat in the couch opposite his campaign
assistant’s chair. “I just saw Dr. Justin Dickerson in a conference room in
Cleveland, Ohio. A far cry from Central America.”

“You should
have had the man checked out before you shoveled out campaign money to him.”

“Look. I just
need to get out in front of this. I have to be in control of it when I make my
bid.”

The campaign
assistant shook his head. He leaned forward in his seat and looked the Senator
directly in the eye. “This is a bad move. You do not want what this Dickerson
woman has to offer on your platform when you run for higher office.”

The Senator
threw his head back and chuckled. “Oh yes I do.”

“Why is that?
This is pseudoscience, UFO bull crap. You can’t believe that aliens came here.
You don’t, do you? They didn’t build Stonehenge you know? Or the pyramids. The
public will think you are living outside the realm of reality if this is what
you’re going to run on.”

“No way. This
is how I’m going to win. I’ve got proof of what she said. I know it’s true.”

“What kind of
proof.”

“NASA. Because
of the information we’re getting from NASA. From their missions I know what she
said is true.”

“What do you
mean?”

“In my capacity
as the Chair of the Science and Space Subcommittee, the head scientist for the
NASA Mars’ team came to me. He told me about some information he had on Mars.
His fear, based on scientific evidence, that not only was there a probability
of Mars sustaining life, he was sure that it was more like a probability – no,
a certainty that there had been life there. Just like Dr. Dickerson wrote in
her book. And on top of that, she’s got proof.”

“What kind of
proof.”

“She wouldn’t
share it completely with me when I spoke to her.” He eyed his assistant
campaign manager. “And yes, probably was a bad idea to snatch her off the
street – although my men did ask her nicely to go with them. But I’ve got to
get this ball rolling.”

“So, I’m
confused. NASA is in agreement that there are men from Mars?”

“Can you
imagine how people would react?” The Senator took a gulp of scotch and
swallowed hard. “The fear that would come about from the knowledge of a
otherworldly threat. And they would look to their leaders – to me – for answers.”

“Are you saying
there was life there?”

I’m not saying
anything. Yet.”

“Is this some
Area 51 bull? Because you know, once you’re elected, if you win-”

“Oh. I’m going
to win.”

“Yeah, well
when that happens no one is going to hand you the secret file on Area 51
showing that there really were aliens that landed in Roswell. That just doesn’t
exist.”

“I want to be
remembered as the one who first broke the news with actual proof that there is
life on other planets. I want to have that legacy. And she has proof. I don’t
know what it is. Yet.”

 “You
believe her?”

“Yes. I do.”
Senator Cook looked at the disbelief on his assistant campaign manager’s face.
“I believe NASA,” he spoke firmly. “And you should too. Anyone that works for
me would have to believe in this.” He stood up. “I actually thought you were
already on board with this.”

“I don’t know
that I can be. I’ve been turning this over in my mind.”

Cook eyed him.

“I just don’t
know, Bruce. I was more on board before you took up criminal activities.”

“Ah. Does that
scare you?”

“I’m good with
a bribe here or there. Or finagling with finance contributions. Like dishing
out money to that absconding Simon Melas.”  The assistant smiled. “But not
those offenses of the criminal kind. Like kidnapping.”

“Excuse me, Senator
Cook.” Elaina, his chief staff assistant stuck her head in the room. “I thought
you were by yourself.”

“He was just
leaving.” Senator Cook nodded at his assistant campaign manager. “Weren’t you?”

“Uhm. I guess I
was.” He looked from the Senator to Elaina back over to Senator Cook. He stood
up to leave. “Think about what you doing.” He buttoned the top button on his
shirt and tightened the knot in his tie. “And I’ll give another go at finding
Mr. Melas.”

“Close the door
after you,” Bruce said, not bothering to respond to what his campaign assistant
had to say. He walked to the window, his back to the two in the room, stared
out of it and said nothing more until he heard the door close.

“I don’t think
we’ll be working with him any longer,” Senator Cook said, he turned and smiled
at his staff assistant. “I don’t think he’s on board with all the things we
want to do.”

And Justin
Dickerson’s claim wasn’t all he was planning on springing on his unsuspecting
constituents. As the Chair of the Bilderberg Group he had his hand on the pulse
of what the world was engaged in and what the best in their fields thought
about it. Perhaps ancient aliens hadn’t come to Earth and built the pyramids
but that didn’t mean that that they didn’t exist and hadn’t been here. His fellow
Republicans hadn’t wrapped their heads around climate change, but he was going
to skip that argument for something much more pressing.

“Did you tell
him about the second part of your platform?” Elaina asked as if she could read
his mind.

“No. I had planned
on it, but we couldn’t get past what I want to do about Mars.” He smiled at
her. “You have a breath mint for me?”

“Sure do.” She
handed it to him and he popped it in his mouth.

“He ran his
hand down the front of his suit and then over his hair. “How do I look?”

“Like the next
president of the United States.”

Caracol, Belize

He had followed
and watched as Logan climbed into her car that morning and hit the highway. He
looked down as his gas gauge. He didn’t have enough to follow her out of town,
especially not initially knowing where she was going or how far she would be
traveling. But it hadn’t mattered. She could do what she wanted, as long as at
some point she got her mother down to Belize.

He pulled out
his satellite phone. An exact replica of the one he got for her. The cornucopia
of equipment he had delivered to the site – benefit of the gracious anonymous
benefactor.  He smiled to himself. What a great cover. Logan none the
wiser, although she probably wouldn’t remember him, she’d been a child the last
time he saw her.

The equipment
was the best that money – the government’s money – could buy. And it had more
uses than Logan could have ever dreamed of, including the technology to keep up
with her comings and goings. He pulled up the tracker app, and hooked up to
Logan’s phone. The little red circle marker popped in and started beeping.

“There you
are,” he whispered at the phone.

He went back to
his hotel, laid the phone down where he could keep an eye on Logan and
contacted the liaison he used to communicate with Logan.

“How’s
everything going at the site, Jairo?” Simon spoke from his hotel room phone.

“Everything is
going well. Nothing significant found, but there is so much more left there to
still be found,” the liaison replied.

“No doubt. No
doubt,” Simon answered.

Not that he was
in it to find something, but that would be a good thing if she did. He could
use it to get back in with the Senator. The Assistant Director had paid him a
visit, saying that someone in the United States was trying to find him. When
Simon asked had he told them his exact location he told him, “If your
government doesn’t know what you’re doing, neither does my government. We only
need them when we need to have someone extradited. They don’t tell us what to
do.”

While he did
appreciate that response, he didn’t want to be found just yet. He did need to
get back in the good graces Senator Bruce Cook, but he’d figure that out later,
after he got Justin.

Simon knew that
his liaison knew that he kept an eye on the excavation site. He glanced over at
the beeping dot on his satellite phone. He just didn’t know how close of an
eye. “So how is Dr. Dickerson this morning?”

“She’s doing
good. Working long hours, you know.”

“Yes. I know.
Got a call this morning,” he lied, “saying she wasn’t there, yet. No problems
down there is it?”

“Not sure. I’m
on my way out there in a few minutes. My usual drop by. I’ll report back to you
if you want.”

“No. No need.”
He checked the GPS. Logan was headed toward Belize City. Simon thought his
heart might stop.

Could she be
going to the airport?

He ended his
call and sat on the chair, holding the phone firmly in his hand. He watched the
tracker as it moved along the map on the screen.

The dot
indicated that she’d reached Belize City. Was she stopping? Simon held his
breath. If she drove past the city limits, she wasn’t going to the airport.

C’mon Logan.
Didn’t you call your mother to come help you? What are you doing?

So it might
have been a long shot. Putting the young, inexperienced Logan Dickerson in
charge in the hope she’d call her mother. But he didn’t know what else to do.
The government wanted her information. And he needed the government to forgive
him of his past indiscretions. And he could get his revenge.
It seemed like
a win win . . .

Giza Plateau, Egypt

Aaron took the
ancient stool he’d found under the Sphinx and threw it against the wall. As it
splintered he slammed a small statute on the floor and ground parts of it with
his foot. Two of the pitifully few items that he’d found in the tunnel. The
tunnel that he hoped was the passage to the Hall of Records.

Coursing
through his veins was the same abundance of pure adrenaline he had felt the
first days of the dig, but this shot of epinephrine was due to anger.

After receiving
his permits, even the first few weeks of grunt work – readying the area for the
twenty-something scientists he’d chosen, waiting for equipment – had given him
exhilaration like nothing he had ever known.

The grounds had
been a bustle of activity inside and out. The ropes around the Sphinx that had
kept visitors from getting too close, were now fixed with people more
interested in the dig than the monument itself. Fewer and fewer people, it had
seemed to Aaron, were interested in taking that dusty five-minute walk to the
Pyramids and were more interested in possibly seeing the discovery to be
heralded from underneath the paws of the monolith. And that suited him fine. He
enjoyed it. And it would be even better when he rose from the depths of the
Sphinx, his arms filled with the contents of the library he’d found.  

He kicked the
pieces of the broken stool.

The fifteen,
two-person tents were still up. A standing testament to the top notch site and
team he had assembled.

Those ropes
that was a constant staple of the monument to hold visitors back from being
able to get too close to the Sphinx, had been moved back more than twenty yards
to make room for the medical/internet tent, a mess hall, four generators, and
an equipment storage tent. And up closer to the monument was pitched a gear
tent, a science tent with the latest and most high-tech equipment available,
and two more generators. It had been a dream come true. He had been able to
quickly assemble the necessary select team of exceptional researchers with
excavation experience and the unlikely skills required to reach and examine the
inner chambers in no time at all. It seemed they were just as eager as he was.
At least with the information they had. Everything had just seemed to fall in
place.

He hadn’t
exactly been honest with the scientists he recruited, made his reason for the
dig more about the Sphinx than what was underneath it. There were still many
questions about the Sphinx – its age and who built it were still debated. He’d
let the team do study it while he looked underneath for the Hall of Records.

A brilliant
plan. So he thought.

He had even
given a rallying speech, and knew, as he looked down on his team, what high
admiration and respect they must have for him. His intellect, his abilities and
ingenuity was something to be coveted. But mostly he felt that they must be
filled with praise and envy because of his ability to get the things that he
wanted. To make things happen. Most everyone knew how many had tried unsuccessfully
to excavate on the Plateau, especially in a time when there was an interim
government whose first priority was peace in the upheaval of unrest.

And he knew
that his team, as probably most people would after this find, would look at him
as a driving force in a history altering task.

 “Under
the ground here.” He pointed down toward his feet the first time he spoke to
the group as a whole. “Right where I stand.” He stomped his foot. “The answer
to the questions that have plagued generations will be discovered! Right here.”
He had stomped his foot again, that time with more force. “We will make history
when we discover the true riddle of the Sphinx!” He raised his arms out in a
welcoming gesture. “And you have been chosen to be a part of it.”

There
were no cheers as he expected. No throwing caps in the air, but he knew, he
knew that they felt as he did and were grateful that he had chosen them. A
smiled beamed across his face. They’d be even happier, he had thought, when the
real discovery had been made.

While
his team worked on the outside, he had followed the trail from Khufu’s tomb
where the two French archaeologists, using ground penetrating radar, had
purported to have found the entrance. Taking into account the abrupt 90-degree
angle that Jahoda and Dr. Schor documented some years after the French team, he
recruited two student volunteers and they alone grabbed tools from the
stockpile of mattocks, picks, brushes, and hand scoopers and set out to work.

It only took
them two weeks to prepare, dig and located the tunnel previously determined to
hide there.

He made sure he
was the first one down the hole once they cracked the surface. He shimmied down
fully expecting to find a functional tunnel system, and at some point, right
around one of the expected corners, the rooms of the repository. The thoughts
of the rooms filled with manuscripts was his motivation as he crawled and
slithered his way through the dank tight spaces underneath the Sphinx. 

The first day
that he maneuvered his way through the veins of the catacombs he felt as if the
tunnel didn’t open up soon he would run out of air. His legs were cramping, his
chest and arms ached. He stopped, pushed back on his arms to stretch his back
and took in gulps of air through his mouth.

The tunnel was
dusty, hot and rudimentary. The supports for it were failing - deteriorating.
For three days he tried to make some headway. Each trip down he’d search for a
new vein, something that could lead to his precious Hall. And for three nights
he coughed up dirt from, his legs aching from maneuvering through the narrow
passage. He would lie in a pool of sweat worried what he would find the next
day, and worried that he might not find anything.

He, a man who
knew better to get wrapped up into the emotions of things, got hopelessly lost
in an impossibility that turned out to be just that.

Aaron’s big
discovery was that the promising man-made structures that the radar analysis
picked on the ground beneath the Sphinx did exist, but they were nothing more.

He felt deflated.
He had let his ego get the best of him.

Climbing out of
his hole, with a basket and statue in hand, the sun beat down on him.

It was Sunday.
A day off from excavating the site and mostly everyone had left the site and
had gone to Cairo. And the few that were left was having lunch in the mess
tent. Aaron was glad for it. He wanted to stay far away from anyone else.

He had stayed
in his trailer most of the early morning and had gone to the Sphinx for one
last look – but his anger had got the best of him. As he headed across the site
toward his trailer he heard the purring of the generators. The sweltering rays
of heat beamed down on his uncovered head. He took a tea towel that hung from
his back pocket and wiped the sweat streaming down his face. Passing by the
mess tent he heard laughter.

He recognized
some of the voices. It was mostly college students. He could tell from their
voices - the broken English and different accents - a hodgepodge of
amateur archaeologist and fanatics who like to get in on digs. But the hushed
tones that was being used made Aaron stop and listen

“I’m telling
you it’s what I heard.”

.“I can’t
believe that. I mean I’ve worked on many sites but never one based on myths.”
It was an Arabic accent that spoke.

“I don’t think
‘myth’ is the right word for it.”  A cagey British accent.

“Yeah. I think
this is what they call fringe archaeology.”

Laughter
followed that comment.

Aaron nearly
gasped out loud. He covered his mouth with his hand and then slid it up to his
forehead to support the weight of his suddenly heavy head.

What did he
mean fringe? 

“To take a
chance in possibly destroying a monument thousands of years old to find
something that every scientist knows doesn’t exist. Well, let’s just say that’s
pretty bad.” That was a new voice joining the conversation.

“I’ll say it
again.” This person spoke without restraint, his tone forceful. “I don’t
believe it.”

“Next a team
will be assembled to look for the Lost City of Atlantis off the coast of
Bimini.”

Another
outburst of laughter. Aaron wanted to burst in and break the jaw of each every
person who was flapping it.

How could they
have known? He hadn’t let on to anyone what it was he was actually trying to
find.

His two
volunteers he’d recruited to help.

They must have
told.

One woman, an
American whose voice he hadn’t heard before, said very quietly, as if it was a
fact only certain erudite people were privy to, “Everyone knows that von
Daniken actually found the Hall of Records in the underground tunnels of South
America.”

That comment
brought the house down. The laughter echoed throughout the mess tent,
reverberated through his ears and seemed be caught up into the atmosphere.
Everyone would soon be laughing at him.

A fire lit up
in the pit of Aaron’s stomach. It flamed up into his throat and again bought a
downpour of sweat over him. 

He would show
them that he was no one to laugh at.