Irrefutable Proof: Mars Origin "I" Series Book II (29 page)

Chapter
Sixty-Two

Present Day

Lockheed
Martin, in Littleton, Colorado, launched their MAVEN mission in November 2013.
MAVEN, an acronym for Mars Atmosphere and Volatile EvolutioN, is the first
spacecraft dedicated to surveying the air around Mars. The exploration is to
analyze and understand the role that the loss of atmospheric gas to space had
in changing Mars’ climate. The information gathered on this mission, scientists
out at the University of California at Berkeley believed, would help determine
when, and for how long, water could have been stable on the planet. It would determine
whether there could have been life on Mars.

Yeah,
that was impressive,
but
w
hat if they could send a manned flight to
Mars
, I thought.

I
could help them do that.

I
was sitting on the back step, right outside my study, absentmindedly watering
my flowers. The sweet smell of spring and its gentle breezes made me smile.
Added to that was my excitement about what I was planning to do. I guess I
should say
we
were planning to do.

Nikhil
had told me that he had resources that he could share with me. I was beginning
to like that he always said “we.” And even though I still hadn’t met any of his
secretive people, I felt like part of the group.

So,
I knew the knowledge of the Ancients. Ancient myths weren’t myths any more. At
least not to me. I chuckled to myself.
Still no fountain of youth, though.

I
had worried so about doing everything. About finding the truth. About being
able to decipher it once I had it. And always I had that dilemma of sharing my
knowledge with the world. First hiding it in a book of fiction. Then when I
tried to write a book that was academic, all was lost in a fire. I guess not
all of it, Addie still had eight copies, and I had two, my proof copy and
Hannah Abelson’s copy. And of course there’s the manuscript sitting on my
computer.

I
was going to try and get it published again. I found that thought quite
amusing. Probably not a lot of publishing companies would want to publish a
book about people coming from Mars.

But
Nikhil’s “resources” were going to change all that. I was going to be able to
construct the proof I needed.

I
walked over and shut off the water, unscrewed the hose from the spigot and
dragged it back to the shed to put it up.

The
Voynich Manuscript had all the “formulas,” as it were (others that had looked
at the book, without being able to decipher it, had called them recipes), on
their technology, their advanced knowledge. I, of course, could only decipher
the words. I hadn’t the faintest idea of what any of the formulas meant. But I
figured someone who worked in that field would be able to understand it.

The
first someone I tested my hypothesis on was Claire.

Again,
her medical degree, I hoped, would help me. I showed her what I recognized as
the “biology” part of the manuscript. And she told me what she made of it.

“It’s
genetics,” she said.

The
Ancestors had been able to isolate genes that caused diseases and completely eradicate
them. I asked her was she able to use my translated words, words that weren’t
the same words we use now, to follow how they did it. I held my breath, but she
didn’t take long to answer.

“Yes,”
she said. “This right here,” she pointed at a part of my translation. “Is the
description of alleles and the location of the one, in particular, that they
are writing about. This,” she said, “would identify it to anyone who understood
genetics.”

She
read a little more and pointed, “This right here. It describes the double helix
of DNA.”

“Even
without me translating the word ‘helix?’”

“Yep.”

She
said it was just like a journal article. The writer is able to explain the loci
in words. Otherwise, she said, everyone would always have to be together to know
what anyone was talking about. They would have to be able to point at what was
under the microscope and say, ‘See, there it is.’ That would not be feasible. Descriptions
of the parts of the human body, and their location, no matter how microscopic, have
to be able to be rendered in words.

“I
suspect,” she said, “that that would be true for whichever discipline they gave
information about.”

“So,
based on this,” I said, “you could isolate the gene to eradicate whatever
disease this indicates in my translation?”

“Yes,
I could,” she said. “As long as their DNA matched ours.”

“That’s
the basis of my argument, Claire. It always has been. The people from Mars have
the same DNA as us.”

“Looks
like we’ll soon find out, huh?”

I
checked Claire off my list.

The
next someone was Alexander Winterman.

Leaving
the shed, I pulled the sleeves up on my hot pink blouse, wiped the sweat off my
forehead, and stood with my hand on my hips.

Yep.
Alex Winterman was going to give me the proof I needed to make the world
believe. A spaceship. He didn’t know that yet, and even after he gave me the
answers I was looking for, I still wouldn’t tell him. He was a name that Nikhil
had given to me, and I was going to make good use of him.

Dr.
Winterman had a B.S. in Aerospace Engineering from Penn State, a M.S. and Ph.D.
in Aeronautical and Astronautical Engineering, from Stanford and Princeton, respectively.

He
worked at the Lockheed Martin facility in Littleton, and it couldn’t be
anything but luck that Nikhil knew him. When I looked him up, I found that he
worked as a research scientist, and had published three books and over two
hundred and fifty technical papers in journals. He was a fellow of the American
Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics, and he had helped to design several
space crafts, including the one used on the MAVEN mission. He was perfect.

I
brushed my hands together and walked back in through the French doors to my
study and sat at my desk. Grabbing my notebook of the translations, I flipped
through it.

Dr.
Winterman would understand just what all this meant and how to construct a
spacecraft that could take man out among the stars. Just like Claire had been
able to do with the medical part of it.

When
I talked to him he spoke very highly of Nikhil and said that he’d be happy to
speak with me.

Twisting
the curls in my hair, I wondered what Nikhil had said to him about me.

The
phone call I made to him was brief. I told him I had something I needed him to
look over. I wanted him to tell me if it meant anything, and if so, what. I
told him I’d fax it over to him. But, I’d said, since I’d be out his way in
about a week, I’d stop by, if it was okay with him, and speak with him in
person about his findings.

Somewhere,
in the back of my mind, even after Claire’s reassurance, I still thought maybe
I didn’t decode the manuscript correctly. Heck, how could I have done something
that others found impossible? Little ole’ me.

But
if I had really decoded it, and it was possible to build a spaceship, cure a
disease, or do any of the other things that were written in that book with the
otherworldly writing, then I could use that as my proof. That’s the only way
people would believe me. Because people could easily say that I made up what I
said I found in the Voynich Manuscript.

And
true enough, it would be easy to try and pull a hoax if I didn’t have proof. No
one could prove that what I said was written in the book really wasn’t, since
no one else could decipher it. It would just be me - crazy, depression-proned,
retired archaeologist me - telling the world what was in there with nothing to
back me up.

But
if I had a working spaceship . . .

That
would be a different story.

My
appointment with Bruce Cook of the Bilderberg group in San Diego was next week.
I pulled open the desk drawer and took out the airline tickets I had printed off
the Internet for me and Mase. I was going to have to change the route back
home.

We
had decided to make a trip out of it, leave Tuesday, visit friends in San Diego
who owned an olive grove, and hang out with them on their five-acre farm. Then,
on Friday, we’d meet with Mr. Cook, and fly home afterwards. Instead, now on
our way home, we were now going to stop in Littleton, Colorado, and see Dr.
Winterman about getting a real-life “Enterprise NC-1701” ready for take-off.

Chapter
Sixty-Three

I
had originally hoped that The Bilderberg Group was possibly comprised of the descendants
of the Watchers. Not the original Watchers. Not the ones who were here on Earth
when we still lived on Mars, who watched the experiments. But the descendants of
the people who came here and then left signs. (I probably should have given
them a different name.) Maybe they were the Saboteurs, but definitely the
people whom Nikhil was talking about when we were in Italy.

I
was sitting in One America Plaza, on the 14
^th
floor, waiting to see Bruce
Cook, U.S. Senator, and Chairman of the Bilderberg Group. This was his home
office, and it was quite nice. Too nice for a senator. It looked like a whole
lot of money went into decorating it.

There
were expensive paintings on every wall. A staircase in the middle of the lobby,
glass and chrome were everywhere, and the lush tan-colored leather sofas were
as soft as butter. And there were two large television monitors with Don
Lemon’s face and CNN’s moniker plastered across the screens.

Glad
I wore a suit.

Could
this be the place where the people who knew what I knew about man’s origins had
their meetings?

From
Nikhil I had learned that there were two factions of people. The ones that wanted
the knowledge to be told when the right time came, like Father Realini. And
then there was a group that didn’t want the knowledge known, ever, like Father
Realini’s Rector, or whatever his title was. Nikhil wasn’t sure if any of those
people were left. But, I think he thought if there were, I could find that out from
the Bilderberg Group. At least that’s what I’m thinking, since he left their
name on the back of his business card.

I
just didn’t know what group of people the Bilderberg Group fell into. I knew
they had the power players of the world in their group. But was their motivation,
their main purpose, to keep us from acquiring the knowledge, or was it to help
us realize our full capabilities? Or maybe they knew nothing about it at all.

I
was starting to lean toward the first option because people with power usually
become drunk with it. They might start out with good intentions, but rarely
does it last. All you have to do is look at our history. Everyone’s always
trying to conquer and take over the world. Plus, if they were Nikhil’s people,
the good guys, he wouldn’t have told me to check them out. He told me that his
faction didn’t want to be made known until proof was presented.

When I first contacted the Bilderberg Group, it was because I
thought they could read the Voynich Manuscript. Then after I’d deciphered it, I
had forgotten that I had written to them until I got that certified letter. Then
I realized that I didn’t even need them anymore.

But wouldn’t it be great, I mused, if the Bilderberg Group
were the Watchers. That my meeting with Senator Cook would lead me to meet
people who had first-hand knowledge of the things I’d learned from the AHM
manuscripts. But I also realized that if they were those people, Nikhil wouldn’t
have warned me against them.

Back to thinking they’re the bad guys.

Mase waited for me downstairs. He decided not to come up with
me because he said he didn’t want to be in the way. Not Greg. It took a week of
arguing for him to concede to not coming. He wanted to sit right in on the
meeting with me. It would have been nice to have him along. He definitely would
have loved this place, and he knew how to ask questions to get the right
answers.

I didn’t want to begrudge him anything, since he had been so
supportive of me as of late. But with him in the room, I wouldn’t have gotten a
word in. He wouldn’t be happy with the questions I’d ask. He would have just
made me more nervous and flustered. I was happy to sit here, by myself, and
wait to speak with Senator Cook.

Until, that is, his assistant called me back to his office.

I didn’t think I was going to be able to get up off that couch
in the lobby. My knees buckled, and my stomach was bubbling and cramping. I
thought I wouldn’t even make it into his office. I needed a restroom. Bad.

“Right this way, Dr. Dickerson,” his assistant said, directing
me down a long hallway. There were pictures of the San Diego coastline, the U.
S. Capital, the White House, and flowers, everywhere. Live flowers, pictures of
flowers, flower arrangements. And people, the hallway was like a highway. All
busy, talking in hush tones and throwing me fake smiles. We ended up at a big,
ornate wooden door.

“Good morning, Dr. Dickerson. It’s good to meet you.” Senator
Cook put his hand out to shake mine as his assistant let me in his office.

I took his, but was worried that he’d be able to sense my
nervousness. I wiped my hands on my skirt and tried to hold his hand firmly, to
shake it with resolve.

As soon as I gripped his hand, something started screaming at
me from within that he was one of the bad guys.

“Thank you for seeing me, Senator Cook,” I said.

“You’re quite the celebrity,” he said, pointing to a chair for
me to sit and went around his desk, unbuttoning his jacket and holding his tie
close to him as he sat.

“Am I?”

“Yes. Aren’t you the smart one? You found those manuscripts
left with the Dead Sea Scrolls and translated them.” He smiled at me.

His smile was just as phony as the people’s in the hallway. And
why would that make me a celebrity? That’s my job as an archaeologist - find
manuscripts and translate them.

Yeah, I didn’t trust this guy.

“But then, Dr. Dickerson, you wrote a book of fiction about it.
Why was that?”

“I thought, just like one of the first people who understood
what it said, that maybe the world wasn’t ready for such a revelation.”

“So, it wasn’t fiction? I thought you said that it was.” He
looked down at his desk, opened a manila folder, and seemed to be reading over
something.

I wonder if that’s about me.

“Some parts were fiction,” I said. “Most of it wasn’t. I just
don’t like people coming into my house, drilling me on what I know and what I
don’t know.”

So Nikhil was right. Mr. Suit and Wrong Colored Beret guy were
part of the Bilderberg Group
.

“That’s understandable.” His eyes were cold as he glanced back
up at me as if he could see right through me. He closed the folder without
looking down at it. “And now you’re tackling something even bigger. The Voynich
Manuscript. Do you plan on deciphering that and writing a fictionalized account
of it as well?”

How did he know I had the Voynich Manuscript?

“Why?” I asked. “Do you know what’s really in it? What is
says?”

“Do you think I know what’s in it?” he said, as if he were
challenging me.

“You said I’d write a fictionalized account of it,” I said. “If
I did, whatever I wrote no one could ever know if it were true or not unless
they were able to read it as well.”

“Good point, Dr. Dickerson.”

“So do you know what’s in it?” I asked again. After being shot
at and almost speared to death, he didn’t scare me.

 “Like you, Dr. Dickerson, I don’t like people, how did you
say it, ‘drilling me on what I know and what I don’t know.’”

He picked up his cell phone, glanced at it, and put it back
down on the desk.

“No one has ever been able to decipher that manuscript,” he
said. “Most think it’s gibberish. That it’s just a hoax.” He eyed me to get my
reaction. “Perhaps you shouldn’t waste your time on it either.”

 “I haven’t been able to decipher it,” I said, showing no
expression.  “I’m still working on it.”

“Are you, now?” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Why don’t you
tell me what you know about what NASA’s found on the surface of Mars, Dr.
Dickerson, unless of course you consider me asking that ‘drilling you?’”

“I don’t know anything about what NASA found on the surface of
Mars. I just know what was written in my book. And I didn’t get that from
anyone at NASA.”

“Did you know that Mars has no magnetic field?” he said, out
of the blue. “Because of that, humans there wouldn’t be protected from cosmic
radiation. It would bombard their bodies and kill them in a matter of months.
There are ways, however, to create a magnetic field on the planet. Are you
aware of that, Dr. Dickerson?”

Was somebody planning on living on Mars?

I just looked at him. What was he doing, throwing out this
random information? Was he trying to impress me?

“Uhm, no. I wasn’t aware of that,” I said.

“Yes, your book,” he continued. “You have another book coming
out, as well. Is that right?”

“No. That’s not right.”

“I’m mistaken?”

“Yes, you are. My second book was destroyed in a fire before
it could go out for distribution,” I said.

“And you’re not planning on publishing it again? I’m sure the
world is waiting with bated breath to hear what other revelations you’ve
deduced. I know I am.”

 “Why did you agree to see me?” I asked.

“You sent us a letter. Why is it that you wanted to see us?”

Now what was I supposed to say? Well, I sent the letter
because at the time I thought you were Martians.

“What the Bilderberg Group does,” he started again without me answering
his previous question. “Is watch
megatrends
and major issues facing the world
.”

He quoted from the website. I remembered those exact same
words from when I read them off the Bilderberg Group’s home page.

“It’s interesting how you described the government on Mars,”
he continued. “How there was a one world government, and how they wanted to
separate the people.” He cast his eyes at me. “To save them. They wanted to
continue their species, or should I say,
our
species,” he said,
smirking. “When we meet and discuss trends around the world, we always try to
look at the bigger picture. How it will impact us, all of us, in the world at
the macro level.  Then we try to think of ways we might be able to make it
better. You understand what I mean, Dr. Dickerson?”

“Yes,” I said, but what I thought was,
No, I really don’t
understand what you’re talking about. You’re switching topics, talking about
stuff that doesn’t make any sense. What the heck!

“Like your story of fiction, I, speaking for myself here, feel
that technology is getting the best of us, Dr. Dickerson. Don’t get me wrong, I
so enjoy the amenities that they have brought us. But still, they need to be
controlled. In the 1950s a group of people, probably not too dissimilar to the
Watchers in your book, saw the explosion of technology and knew then what far
reaching consequences it could have. Good and bad. That’s when, and why, the
Bilderberg Group was formed.

 “And we find this idea of yours, the loss knowledge theory, very
fascinating. How your
Martians
knew that technology was not good for the
world. That a simpler life, sort of like those of the Sentinelese people - you
are familiar with that tribe in the Andaman Islands?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Yes, well they have lived thousands of years without any
outside contact or technology, and they seem to be doing quite well . . .” His
voice trailed off.

I shifted in my seat.
How did he know all this stuff about
me, what I was doing and where I had gone?

“So, Dr. Dickerson,” he said, glancing down at his watch and
seemingly coming back to the realization that I was sitting there. “I have a
lot of work to do, so this will have to be the end of this conversation.
Perhaps we’ll have more.” He stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. “Come, let
me walk you out.”

Walking around to the front of the desk, he extended his arm
signaling me it was time to go. When I passed by him, he put his hand in the
small of my back and guided me toward the door.

“So, do you think that you’ll be able to decipher that Voynich
Manuscript?” he asked, as he walked down the hallway toward the lobby.

“I don’t know,” I lied.

“Many people have devoted years to deciphering it, only to
fail.”

 “That’s probably the category I’ll fall into,” I said. “Another
one of those who tried but failed.”

“Yes. One of the ones that will never be able to figure it
out.” He smiled at me, condescendingly, as he pushed the down button on the
elevator.