Dragon Over Washington (The Third War Of The Bir Nibaru Gods) (41 page)

“Robby! It’s about time you called. You aren’t going to believe this.”

“Try me. After what I saw here I’ll believe anything,” Thorpe said tiredly.

“We now have two out of three attackers,” Andy said.

“Three?” Thorpe blinked in surprise. He adjusted his Bluetooth earpiece.

“Yeah. The one who attacked the professor, the one who attacked Agent Christensen and the one who hijacked the Hummer patrol car from Agent Mathew’s camp.”

“Wow! Take it slowly. Who hijacked whose patrol car?”

“Focus, Robby! The airborne brigade Agent Mathew is using in the Colorado Mountains lost a Hummer. We thought one of the creatures got it, but they found it near State Highway 70. Three soldiers were dead and one is - comatose.” Andy hesitated.

“Comatose?”

“It’s strange. He can move, but he seems to be brain dead. And his eyes are black. All black. I saw a picture. It’s really unnerving.”

“Just like Benny from Ellis’s team.”

“That’s not all! There was a fifth man with them, a civilian. Remember how the professor’s attacker looked? This guy looks very similar, like a freak. He’s got eyes too large, a long neck and has some sort of fluffy stuff all over his skin.”

Thorpe didn’t say anything.

“Can you believe it? This is worse than a horror movie! Where are all these things coming from? Anyway, we were able to identify him by his fingerprints. His last known whereabouts was Wicomico Airport in Maryland. His name is Kenneth Mulson. His wife says he was supposed to board a plane for Dallas Fort Worth Airport on business. The last time she talked to him was at the Wicomico Airport.”

“Did she say why he looked like a monster?”

“Robby, a little tact here. We looked at his driver’s license. At the time his picture was taken for his license he appeared perfectly normal. The doctors are saying that his cells are behaving very strangely at the nucleus level; that his chromosomes are changing, in a constant state of flux. They can’t explain any of this. His face and feet are changing every hour. And listen to this. He has no criminal record and always pays his taxes. A model citizen.”

“And what about the professor’s attacker?”

“We tried checking the Wicomico Airport again. Just a hunch. Airports keep their personnel’s fingerprints on file for security reasons. The professor’s attacker is one Carl Shenton, a janitor. We checked his file. He drove while drunk, fifteen years ago. That’s it. Another model citizen. Are you seeing a pattern here?”

“Where there any fingerprints from the first attack on Ellis?”

“No such luck. Agent Christensen reported that the attacker had talons for hands. They weren’t able to get any fingertips.”

“Two attackers came from Wicomico Airport? How is this possible? Have you tried questioning them?”

“Only one is talking, the one who attacked the professor. He doesn’t remember anything except that he had finished his shift at Wicomico and was about to head on home. Mulson is barely conscious. He’s just screaming a lot. The doctors say he’s got extremely fast REM.”

Thorpe sat down on the tarmac, his back to a van, holding his smartphone in his lap while policeman and NSA agents ran around him. His eyes were downcast. Helicopters roared in the air above and heavy vehicles rumbled as they passed frightfully close, casting red and blue lights all over. Thorpe saw nothing except his smartphone.

“And Robby, I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you.”

“What?”

A series of irregular clicks followed as the call was routed.

“Mister Thorpe, this is Betty Sturton.”

“Who?”

“I’m a professor at Maryland University.”

“Oh.” Thorpe sat up straighter.

“Don’t be alarmed,” she said.

“But you are a professor.”

“Don’t fret about it. Getting into the academy was easier than getting a real job.”

“Oh.” Thorpe grinned.

“Anyway, I’ve been going over two messages in the Mesopotamian language and Mister Pearson told me you were the man to talk to about them.”

“Yeah.”

“First of all, the language. It’s Mesopotamian, but it’s a mix, as if someone took words and grammar from the Sumerian, the Ubaid and other local languages and mixed them together. Are you familiar with the Sumerian word for ‘War’?”

“Umm—”

“In Akkadian it’s ‘
Arisi
,’ in Babylonian it’s ‘
Bibam’
and the Sumerians call it ‘
Binrir
.’ All of these words appear in the messages with slightly different meanings. Conflict, prisoner of war and war cry. The writing system uses pictograms, drawn as cuneiform markings, but they are ordered from right to left and contain a phonetic complement, though these are evolutions that happened thousands of years after pictograms stopped being used.

“It was quite a challenge deciphering these messages. I think that this language preceded Mesopotamian languages. I think that Mesopotamian languages evolved from this language. Where did you get these messages, Mister Thorpe?”

“Umm, I’m not at liberty to say. National Security,” Thorpe mumbled.

“You are aware that the Sumerians claimed that they received their civilization and their writing system from their gods?”

Thorpe said nothing.

“If I’m right, this is quite a breakthrough in Mesopotamian studies. Anyway, the first message, the spoken one, is about sacrifice. It says that the meat will be sacrificed in honor of the coming of the mother in about six weeks. The second message, the one written down, tells us that in seven weeks the third war is about to start. Are you with me, Mister Thorpe?” Whatever light tone the professor’s voice possessed before was gone.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. There was also a warning about demons. Do you know about demons in the Mesopotamian mythologies?”

“Umm, not really.”

“Demons in the Mesopotamian mythologies are evil spirits, usually powers of nature responsible for illness, drought, crop failure and things like that. They are also hunters, able to sniff out their prey.”

“Okay,” Thorpe said.

“The one who attacked me, Mister Thorpe. The mask he wore. Demons in Mesopotamian paintings and engravings look like he did.”

“Mask?”

“Yes, mask. What else could it be?”

“Umm -”

“I wanted to talk to you because it seems whoever is behind this knows that demons in Mesopotamian mythology usually look like crosses of men and birds. Check up on the demon Pazuzu, Mister Thorpe. It’s a good example.”

“Pazuzu?”

“The movie
The Exorcis
t was about it. Someone had studied the Mesopotamian mythologies. Someone did his homework.”

“Okay.”

“But, putting aside mythology and apocalyptic crap, the way I see it, the message really warns of betrayal and of selling one’s loyalty and making pacts with the enemy. I thought you should know that, Mister Thorpe.”

“Ah, can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead, Mister Thorpe.”

“What does a great big fat woman statue stand for?”

“A very good question, Mister Thorpe. A number of statues of women with great bosoms were found in ancient times. It was thought that they stood for a goddess of fertility, but scholars today aren’t so sure anymore.”

“Does anyone still worship this kind of goddess?”

“Not for the last two or three thousand years.”

Thorpe was silent for a moment and then asked, “What does a bull’s head stand for?”

“A bull’s head was usually the symbol of fertility, agriculture and farming. In times of war, it stood for power and strength. Pay attention to the horns.”

“Horns?”

“The horns were the sign of leadership, of command. Not everyone was allowed horns. Always pay attention to the horns, Mister Thorpe.”

Another series of clicks followed.

“Robby, this is Andy. Like I said, she wanted to talk to you.”

Thorpe was silent, sitting with his eyes closed, holding his smartphone in his hand.

“Robby, you there? There’s another thing. The Hummer they found was - It was as if someone had worked on it, maybe using acid or a blowtorch. They had bent and shaped the metal, turning it into claws, eyes, and weird things. I saw a picture. It’s really unnerving, as if someone tried to make the car appear like some kind of monster.”

Thorpe had hung up.

Day 18 after Earth Barrier Breach.

Washington D.C., United States. Thursday, 19:23.

Thorpe stood on the dark purple floor in front of a mirror, staring at himself intently. In the gilded frame mirror he could see the lavishly decorated bathroom. Lamps cleverly hidden in niches on the wall cast indirect illumination over artful paintings hanging on every wall.

Thorpe smiled, the freckles on his face moving. He widened his smile and pulled his cheeks with his fingers. Thorpe then straightened the well-ironed collar of the white shirt he wore, trying to loosen it a bit. He sighed and pulled himself up to his full height. He assumed a serious expression, his eyes glaring defiantly at his reflection in the mirror. He tried a slight sneer. He looked as if he suffered from constipation.

Thorpe sighed again, slouched down and combed his fingers through his red hair, which immediately returned to its rightful, spiky appearance. The only thing he was satisfied with was his shiny, new, black shoes. He had picked them himself. They were grownup shoes, but they were really glossy. He could almost see his own reflection in their shiny leather surface. Ellis would see his shoes too.

“Hey, it’s almost show time,” Agent Graham poked his head into the bathroom and left.

Thorpe sighed for the third time and made one last funny face at the mirror before leaving the bathroom.

***

Thorpe stood beside a large display wall. The lights in the room shone into his eyes, half blinding him. The National Security Advisor’s offices in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building were amazing, making Thorpe blink as he tried to take in the mahogany furniture, the sophisticated display equipment and the tasteful bar in the corner of the huge meeting room.

Thorpe’s eyes were drawn to the National Security Advisor, Paul Miller, a short stocky man in his fifties who headed the meeting. Around the long black conference table sat the deputy head of the FBI, the head of the Far East desk of the CIA and a three-star army general from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Agents Graham, Mathew, Ellis and Winder were sitting on chairs near the walls, alongside aides that the other participants brought.

Thorpe usually liked being in the spotlight, but this time he felt uncomfortable. He kept adjusting the collar of his new shirt even though his mother had told him it was a perfect fit. There was also a constant background murmur. The army general kept talking with a tall decorated major. Thorpe had tried to glare at them, but you can’t glare at someone when spotlights are directed into your eyes. Thorpe really presentations, especially when people kept interrupting him.

“And here,” Thorpe croaked and stopped to clear his throat, “we can see the hangar we constructed to house the creatures. This was taken by one of our biologists.” A shaky video began running on the display wall, the camera following two men in white lab coats passing armed guards and entering a modular hangar.

“Scientists aren’t particularly good cameramen,” Thorpe said and smiled but his smile slowly wilted when he saw he was the only one smiling.

The video focused on a small, bespectacled man wearing a green army jacket over faded overalls. He was perched on a huge, munched-on tractor tire. The hangar was filled with tires, some on the floor white others hung from ropes. Most of them had bite marks and several were melted in places, as if blowtorches had been used on them.

“This is Isaac Benson, a farmer.”

“You’re using civilian personnel?” Miller asked, his voice showing some surprise.

“Yes, sir. We found he was the only one the creatures listen to,” Thorpe said and turned back to the video. The scientists approached the man and he straightened up.

“Hey man, I told you the thick one doesn’t like you,” Benson said.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s around here.

“Well, just hold that one and it will be all over very quickly,” one of the scientists said.

“Whatever you say man, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Hey, come here!” Benson turned away and caught something in his hands. It was a lizard, more than three feet long. Its jaws were half a foot in length. It hissed as it saw the scientists, its long, forked tongue flicking out. Its tail curled around Benson’s arm, the tip going over Benson’s shoulder.

Something flashed to the right and the cameraman turned his camera fast, but missed it, whatever it was. The camera returned to the creature Benson was holding, which was now growling at the approaching scientists. One of the scientists pulled out a net and the other held a large syringe with a long, metal needle.

“Hold him!” one of the scientists said as they rushed forward. The creature twisted in Benson’s hands, its eyes narrowing, its hide turning red. Its whole body was now curled around Benson.

“You will notice the creature is actually trying to protect Benson. We think it thinks the scientists are a threat to Benson,” Thorpe said.

“Relax man. It’s all right,” Benson murmured and the lizard slowly lost its red color. It lowered its head and closed its eyes while the syringe approached it.

Another creature, its thick and heavy body a dark, angry red, appeared right on top of one of the tires and opened its jaws. A spiky crest inflated around the creature’s head and spines rose up along its back and tail. A jet of fire streamed out the creature’s mouth, striking one of the scientists and engulfing him in flames. The next few moments were utter chaos. The camera flew from side to side as the shouting scientists threw down their instruments and helped each other to stumble out of the hangar. More creatures appeared, some longer than the first ones, all hissing. The flicking of their long jagged tails were occasionally visible in the video.

The thick-bodied lizard followed the scientists’ hasty retreat, its hide assuming a mottled black coloration; jets of fire shot out of its jaws and sett fire to tires and anything else they touched.

“Told you, man. That one really doesn’t like you. Next time bring some pork chop, will you?” Benson yelled after them. “Hey, I’m coming. Don’t get upset,” the farmer said, apparently talking to one of the lizards.

The scientists escaped, the hangar’s heavy doors slamming after them, but not before the thick-bodied creature appeared at the entrance, hissing at the running scientists, smoke pouring out of its mouth, perching on a tire like a lion who has defended its territory.

The burnt scientist rolled on the earth and finally got up, slowly, examining his body. The camera’s owner managed to stabilize it.

“At least the fireproof clothes offer some protection. The fire screen jelly was good, I almost didn’t feel a thing this time,” the burnt scientist said, looking at his hands and feeling his face gingerly.

Thorpe stopped the video.

“We can view the creatures safely only by video camera. They don’t use their camouflage ability much,” Thorpe said.

“That civilian can command the creatures?” Miller asked.

“No sir. We think they see him as their servant or their caretaker. Their nanny, if you will. He’s a farmer, after all. He knows his way around animals,” Thorpe answered.

“These little newts sure look menacing, Sonny.” Snickers followed the comment. Thorpe tried hard not to look at the general and moved to a series of aerial photographs.

“This is the area the large specimen struck. Five acres burned, seven Hummers destroyed, one Blackhawk helicopter that didn’t get away in time and twenty-three personnel dead,” Thorpe said. There was complete silence in the conference room. Thorpe flicked through the photos. There was a Hummer, badly burnt, only identifiable by its distinctive engine grille. A helicopter tail was stuck into a pile of molten metal and plastic. Darker patches on the burnt earth were visible here and there. Thorpe passed over those quickly. The last pictures were satellite images, showing the full extent of the burnt swath on the ground.

The Man walked up and stood in front of the table, looking at the national security advisor. “Mister Miller. To summarize, we think that an unknown organization is moving across the globe. We have unconfirmed reports of attacks in Russia, Africa and a growing presence on American soil. There were assassination attempts on our agents. We have strong indications that this organization has access to advanced technology, including genetics and EMP projection. We can also assume it has considerable financial resources. The few snippets of information we managed to gather indicate the organization is preparing for war.”

Thorpe squirmed on his seat, trying not to look into The Man’s eyes, two grey blocks of ice.

“Your recommendations?”

“Mister Miller, we need to start a manhunt after all the cult members that escaped Owego. We need to cordon off the White River National Forest region with heavy artillery and anti-aircraft missiles. We need to start immediate diplomatic talks with the Russian and Central African governments to cooperate in investigating the attacks of the organization, including sending observers of our own to the Volga-Urals military district in Russia. We need to put our military forces on alert and assemble a heavy rapid reaction force that will be ready for any attacks coming next. We need to research all aspects of the technology the organization is using.” The Man’s voice was sharp enough to cut air.

“Northman, look, you haven’t really shown us anything that proves any of your conclusions,” the army general waved a heavy hand in the air. “The Russians are fighting all the time: Afghanistan, Chechnya, Georgia. Someone is trying to break away from them again. I say we send forces to help them and not the Russians! And you couldn’t even find out who the Russians are fighting,” the general finished, a sneer on his face.

“Mister Miller, the NSA has no authorization to act inside the United States. Director Northman outlined illegal activities of a rogue agency. Only the FBI can operate inside the States and we sure as hell haven’t participated in this so-called operation,” the FBI man said, barely looking up from a dossier he was holding.

“Did you call this operation, Mister Crawly? Even if we take Mister Northman’s words at face value we cannot call this anything but a miserable failure. Losing four choppers and a predator squadron, not counting KIAs. He lost the cult he was tracking. And he only has fairy tales to explain his failures,” the CIA head of the Far East desk said, her blue eyes looking at Northman with disgust. “And how would you explain to the Russians why you wanted to spy on their military exercise? You’d destroy diplomatic relations that took years to cement!” She shook her head once, her white hair flying.

“Who would head this task force you propose, Mister Northman? You?” The army general leaned forward aggressively. “Does the NSA have any expertise in running these kinds of operations? Especially considering your dismal failures so far?”

Mister Miller, completely unperturbed by all the outbursts, leaned back in his chair, staring at Northman.

“Look, you don’t have proof. You only have unconfirmed reports and several animals in a hangar. I need hard evidence if I am to go to the President. I can’t go to him with the amount of information you gathered so far. Your agency jumped from one thing to the other during the investigation instead of getting to the bottom of these things. Director Northman, I’m still not convinced that a national threat exists. This organization sounds like something out of a really bad movie.”

Thorpe, his mouth wide open, watched as Miller turned to an aide who showed him something on a laptop.

“Look, I’m not an unreasonable man. If you want, you can present your findings to the Congressional Intelligence Committee. We can request a closed hearing just after the annual threat assessment hearing in March.”

***

“Hit me again!”

“Are you sure? You already had three.”

“Just give me the drink!”

Thorpe grabbed the milkshake from the bartender, glared at him and placed the glass near his empty ones. He was in a pub on New Jersey Avenue, sitting by the counter, his shirt all wrinkled up. Thorpe, the aids and all the other agents had been asked to wait outside. Thorpe had wandered out of the building and admired the cast-iron exterior of the magnificent Eisenhower Executive Office Building when he heard laughter. He turned around and saw Ellis being embraced by a tall, wide-shouldered man in a tuxedo. Probably some kind of agent, judging by his black suit; probably ex-military, judging by his haircut. Ellis laughed again and Thorpe just left, walking down the street, till he found this pub.

He swallowed, wiping the thin, milkshake moustache from his face.

“Those stupid, idiotic -” Thorpe paused, searching for a swearword that his mother would approve of, “idiots!”

“What do you expect? This is Washington. We’re famous for our idiots,” the bartender said, , holding several highball glasses as he passed by. Thorpe glared at the bartender. He returned to his smartphone, going through the daily photos he had taken of his blackboard, reconstructing his investigation step by step. He had most of the investigation’s information on his smartphone.

“It’s true. I gathered very little solid proof, but I didn’t jump around from one thing to the other. That’s just lame!” Thorpe hit his fist on the counter and shook it painfully. “Okay, it might be true that I let events carry me. But they attacked Ellis! And Mathew’s patrol car. And the professor. What was I to do?”