Legacy

PROLOGUE

The old shack stood in stark contrast to the gleaming new structure that towered over it. The larger structure, a two-story house, had been built at great expense following the gold strike in the Superstition Mountains two years earlier. It had been occupied for exactly seventy-two hours before the old man and his houseguest decided it just wasn’t their style to live in such opulence. Much to the consternation of the military police and the security team that patrolled the property at the base of the mountains, Gus Tilly had moved back into his original shack along with the small being who had become his closest friend. The one-room shack had been repaired and a few creature comforts, such as new lamps and two new beds, had been added, but other than that the walls still leaked cold air in the winter.

Gus Tilly’s net worth was something in the neighborhood of $160 million according to close government sources, but he still worked by himself at the Lost Dutchman Mine with occasional help from his houseguest and the young man who lived in Chato’s Crawl. The boy in town was named Billy Dawes and he could only assist Gus on the weekends and holidays now because of his college schedule-a schedule that was paid for by the proceeds from the mine.

The Lost Dutchman, discovered by accident in 2006 during the incident in the desert, had been bestowed on Gus by the U.S. government after his assistance in that event had been deemed invaluable, but that wasn’t the reason for the massive military presence that guarded not only the mine but the shack and the empty house as well. The real value of the property was the creature that Gus watched over. Tilly had sat with his friend for hours at a time during the ten thousand hours of debriefing by other friends based many hundreds of miles away in the desert sands beneath Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada. Four years’ worth of valuable intelligence, covering a period that had begun in the time of Harry Truman and ended in a battle that had claimed hundreds of lives in 2006.

The existence of this small being was known only to a few people. He was referred to by the code name he had been given as part of the highly classified Operation Case Blue. Mahjtic, or Matchstick as he was nicknamed by Gus, was the most valuable and precious being the world had ever known. Only the president of the United States, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and an organization known as Department 5656 knew of his existence-an existence that provided the intelligence that would assist in safeguarding the world from a threat that had been coming for many generations, beginning one stormy night in 1947 in a small town in New Mexico named Roswell.

Gus Tilly rolled over on his oversized bed as he heard the whimpering sound coming from the child’s bed to his left. He raised his head and looked down at the small creature lying restlessly beneath the thick covers. Mahjtic kicked at the blanket that had been draped over him, his movements violent at first, then gradually slowing. The Mickey Mouse night-light that Mahjtic loved glowed softly in the wall socket only a foot away from the small bed. The old man watched as Mahjtic’s large green head and small hands and feet became still, but in the dim light he could see that his large slanted eyes were working beneath the almond-shaped lids-the small being was dreaming, an extremely rare occurrence that only happened when Mahjtic became aware of the enemy known as the Grays.

Gus was just about to lie back down when Mahjtic sat bolt upright in the bed and began screaming, kicking the covers free of his small body. He pushed himself into a sitting position and stared wide-eyed at the far wall of the shack. Gus’s heart raced as he saw the terror that filled those large, obsidian eyes. He jumped when the front door opened and two men came into the one-room house with nine-millimeter automatics drawn. They looked around and saw that all was still except for the otherworldly screeching of the small being they were there to protect. They looked about as if they had no idea what to do. The first plainclothes soldier reached for the light switch.

“No!” Gus hissed. “No lights. He’s dreaming. He’s still asleep.” The old man tossed his own covers away and eased out of his much larger bed. The two security men watched as Gus lowered his eighty-four-year-old frame next to the small bed and took the creature’s hand. They all noticed that the cowboy-and-Indian pajamas that Matchstick wore were soaked through with the tiny being’s perspiration. “Hey, old boy, wake up,” Gus said as he gently patted Mahjtic’s small, long-fingered hand. “You’re having a doozy of a nightmare.”

Matchstick was shaking and his eyes were still focused on the far wall, or on something far beyond it that the men couldn’t see. Outside the shack’s thin walls the winter wind blew cold against the aged wood and made a moaning sound that didn’t add any comfort to the strange situation.

“Hey, big fella, now you come on and wake up. You’re scarin’ old Gus.”

Mahjtic blinked and then screamed once more. It was a piercing sound and something that Gus hadn’t heard since 2006. Mahjtic was terrified.

“Oh, shit,” the tallest of the security men said. “Should I get a call into Director Compton?” he asked Gus.

Gus ignored the question, instead placing an age-spotted hand against the soft green skin of the alien’s cheek. “Come on, old boy. Come back to Gus, I ain’t goin’ to let nothing get ya.”

Finally Mahjtic blinked. A large tear rolled from his right eye and soaked quickly into the yellow pajama top. He blinked again and then his eyes opened wide and settled on Gus’s craggy face.

“There ya go, son. Gus is here.”

The eyes of the small creature drooped as they took in his friend’s features. He placed its hand over the old man’s.

“They come, Gus.”

The old man’s heart froze in his chest. He knew exactly who “they” were. He closed his eyes and nodded his head. “I thought it had something to do with those bastards.”

“The Moon.”

Gus opened his eyes and saw that Matchstick was again staring off into space. “What’s that?”

“The Moon.”

Gus turned toward the man who had spoken earlier. “Get on the radio and get Director Compton out here. Tell him to hurry.”

The two men quickly left the shack and disappeared into one of the six trailers that circled the two houses.

“Now, tell me what’s so important about the Moon, and then we’ll talk about those other fellas that are coming.”

Mahjtic moved his eyes and looked at Gus once more. The shaking had stopped and in the dim glow of the Mickey Mouse night-light Gus could see Mahjtic trying to focus.

“The Moon, Gus. The Moon-”

The war had lasted exactly three years, two months, and twenty-one days and had ended civilization as they knew it. Never again would the voices of children at play be heard, or those of men and women expressing thoughts or feelings of love.

Now the last desperate hope of their species had dwindled to a small outpost on a moon orbiting a hostile world-a blue, volcanic planet with a shifting crust and so harsh an environment that even their enemies wouldn’t want it for millions of years. The moon orbiting this explosive and angry world had once had a larger twin, and that had been where the last hope of the people had been found. Their salvation had been an ore of amazing quality and properties. It had been mined, smelted, and turned into the magical energy needed to fight the invader. This great moon, where the powerful ore had been found, was now gone. Its sudden, system-wrenching death had taken with it the hope of an entire civilization, causing a home world of red sands, green oceans, and emerald skies to be voluntarily reduced by its own people to a dead and drifting planet with all traces of life erased from its face forever, and the survivors had found that there is no honor in death-just death.

The destruction of the large moon Ophillias had been intentional. The ignition of its mineral mines did just what the planners of the final solution had intended. The enemy fleet and their devilish mechanized invasion troops were blotted out in a nanosecond of stunning violence. Only things didn’t go as planned; they seldom do in wartime. Instead of the eruption taking out only the mineral mines and the enemy saucers in orbit around the moon and their home world, the moon had been shattered. First the mineral deposits ignited. Then the core of the moon, rich with energy, had exploded, slamming the nearby home world and this, the lone surviving moon. First one world and then its larger twin were hit so hard with debris from the exploding Ophillias that their orbits had been ripped apart, while the home world was sanitized of all life and pushed deeper into space. Entire cities, oceans, and continents were wrenched into the vacuum. The other blue and still burning world with its small moon, Phobos, was nearly thrown into the sun. It was now the third planet in orbit around the large star.

The large man thanked the heavens above him that this desolate and barren rock was only a brief stop before the planned jump to the giant blue and green colored world 240,000 miles away. The new orbit taken by that world and its moon was still unstable, but the survivors of their race had little choice in the matter. They were going to call it home, volcanic environment or not.

The helmeted man, standing on the edge of an enormous crater, stared upward into the face of what would be their new home. The days it had taken for the surviving warships to follow this rock and the giant volcanic world below to their new orbit had been harrowing, but the new orbits had finally stabilized just as their scientists had said they would.

In a billion years, the great world below could possibly have become a twin to their home planet. He could see its single great supercontinent, partly hidden beneath billowing white clouds. The man could even make out its hundred thousand volcanoes spewing fire, gas, and steam. This world was a familiar giant that once was so close to their home world that they could see its oceans moving at night through telescopes. Now it was the only planet within ten light-years that had breathable air. The scientists at the base were saying that the great landmass was still in motion, destabilized by the sudden push toward the sun provided by the explosion of Ophillias.

The man looked away and down, kicking at the dust that covered the old moon as its new parent watched over it. He knelt and retrieved a piece of rock that didn’t belong on this moon’s surface. As he examined it, he knew it was the one element that had been their deliverance in defeating the invaders-Trillinium, an amazing ore that when laced with oxygen and water produced vast amounts of pure, clean energy. That energy had allowed them to create new light weapons that had proved invaluable in the fight with the saucer people and in the end it had become the instrument that destroyed both the defender and the conqueror. He rolled the stone over and looked at it. Then he took a deep breath, though it sounded hollow and empty in his helmet.

He knew this moon would be inundated with massive amounts of ore from the Ophillias explosion, as would their new home on the hostile planet below. Perhaps on their new world they could recover some of the magical ore and put it back to work producing energy.

The man let the small rock slip from his fingers and fall into the lunar dust. He wasn’t used to regrets, but he had come to learn that even a man like himself, someone who always looked forward in life, could not ignore the fact that they had destroyed their own civilization. Oh yes, he thought, he was capable of regret.

The three remaining battleships of the home fleet were in orbit around the moon. He could see them high above as they made their hourly circuit across the inky, star-filled sky. They were only small specks of light, but he knew them for what they were, the last haven of a self-vanquished people whose home world was now void of air and sea, a rotating ball of red dirt orbiting the same star as the hostile planet he now looked upon. Sister worlds, one smaller than the other, ripped apart like conjoined twins, killing them both. He kicked at the chunk of Trillinium, sending the rock out into a low trajectory. He watched as it sailed through the airless environment and landed a hundred yards away.

He shook his head and looked at the readout on his sleeve. The needle indicated he was starting to run into his oxygen reserve. He glanced up one last time at their future home and knew this would be a good place to salvage what remained of their civilization. Hell, he thought, it’s the only place.

As he started down the steep slope feeling the pain of guilt once more as he had on other days since that horrible moment when his own red planet had come to an end, the man slid to a stop and reached over to his left shoulder. He pulled the small flag from his suit, not caring that he risked damaging the vital material that protected him from the harsh environment. He looked at the small flag and its four circles representing the great society of twin planets and their two moons. He smiled without humor and allowed the stiff material that made up the flag to fall through his gloved fingers to the gray dust at his boots.

He shook his head inside his helmet as he continued to make his way down the crater’s side.

“Gideon, are you receiving?”

As he reached the bottom outer wall of the crater he pushed the transmit button on his wrist. He started whistling and spitting, blowing air through his pursed lips. “I-unable-radio-static-”

“Knock it off, Gideon, I know you’re hearing and transmitting just fine. The computer says you’re low on oxygen, so you’d better get back. Things here are starting to get weird.”

Major Gideon smiled at hearing the sweet and calm voice of the youngest member of their lunar team. Lydia was cute and sassy, but had a no-nonsense streak that was suffocating to men like himself. But she had the cutest pointed ears of any woman he could remember.

“Yes, mother, I am very capable of reading an oxygen gauge.”

“Hmm, you could’ve fooled me. It seems I have to remind you on a daily basis. Dr. Joshua says you could hurt yourself if you get low on O every time you go out on your little strolls.”

“I get the drift, Doc,” he said as he heard Lydia talking with someone on her end. Apparently she had inadvertently left her transmit key on.

“Major, I have a request from Professor Remiss to observe the eastern quadrant as Guidon, Vortex, and Ranger pass overhead. He wants you to measure their orbits with your laser range finder. Ours is malfunctioning at the moment along with everything else. Radar and sonar echoing is down also. Can you manage that while in transit back to base?”

Gideon heard the request and froze. He frantically looked at the timepiece on the lower portion of his left wrist and then back at the western sky. It was barren, devoid of anything but the immense star field.

“Damn!” he said, as he bounded forward using the elongated hops he had come to be very efficient at. He saw the deep crater that housed the base a quarter mile away and knew it would take him forever to get there. He should have recognized what was happening when he had seen the ships only moments before, but he was daydreaming about the planet below and hadn’t made the connection, a sign that he was starting to lose his edge since the war with the barbarian species had ended.

“Lydia, get an emergency call out to the battleships. They have company coming their way from their stern.”

“What are you talking about?” Lydia asked, confused, possibly thinking Gideon was joking because they all knew the enemy and their fleet of saucers had been incinerated along with Ophillias and their home.

He continued his loping strides, the lighter gravity of the lunar world making him fast and light. “Damn it, Lydia, I just saw three ships pass overhead not five minutes ago. They couldn’t have been ours. Our three aren’t due for another ten minutes. I’m betting it’s three enemy saucers!”

“Oh, God-”

“Hit the emergency klaxon, get a call to Ranger, and then get the scientists and other personnel into the deep bunkers!”

There was panicked chatter on the radio, but Gideon ignored it as he fought his way toward the white shimmering base hidden in the crater ahead. He feverishly hoped that Lydia could get the men and women of the lunar science teams into the four-mile-long bunkers beneath the complex where the bulk of their technology and food was secured.

As he leaped from spot to spot he kept glancing spaceward, hoping to find their three warships still safe in their orbits. How could three enemy saucers have escaped the destruction of their home world? he thought as he tried in vain to lengthen his strides. They had thought the entire enemy force and their orbiting fleet of saucers had been incinerated by the suicidal act of destroying Ophillias, but now he knew that assumption had been wrong.

He had to stop. He went to his knees because he was finding it hard to breathe. He looked around as the moon became a wavy and jumbled relief of gray and white. The mountains in the distance shimmered and turned to haze. His head was hurting and he was now struggling for air. Gideon had the presence of mind to look at the O gauge. The illuminated numbers and their backup needles jumped in his vision, so he brought them closer to his faceplate. He saw immediately that he had gone past redline on his reserve and knew he would never make it to the base. Loud and jumbled chatter pierced his ears as he slowly slid over onto his side. He should have known how much faster he would use up his oxygen by running. He tried to stand but only managed to roll onto his back, his survival pack digging into the soft soil. He felt himself let go mentally. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.

“Fool,” he said with the last breath he could muster.

“Fool!”

He heard the echo and was confused. He smiled as his self-deprecating curse came through the speakers in the side of his helmet.

“I told you, but no-you have to take chances!”

As his eyes started dimming around the edges, he felt himself rolled onto his side and then jerked into a sitting position. He heard a slight hissing that hadn’t been there a moment before. Cool air rushed into his helmet. He came around as the headache and agony in his extremities started gnawing around the edges of his brain, and then directly behind his eyes, fingers, arms, and legs.

“Maybe you’ll listen to me from now on you idiot!” the voice said as he was shaken roughly.

His eyes opened and he saw the helmeted person kneeling at his side. He swallowed, trying in vain to get rid of the cottony taste in his mouth as he stared at his reflection in the gold-colored visor. He saw a small, gloved hand reach out and lift the outer glass of the helmet. Then he found himself staring into the soft features of Lydia. She wasn’t smiling as she raised one of the empty tanks she had pulled from his backpack, then brought her arm back and launched it away into the light gravity.

“Next time I’ll just leave you out here, Major.”

“Okay, okay,” he said and then remembered what was going on. Before he could ask about the status of the situation he looked up and saw three bright dots taking form just over the eastern horizon at about a hundred miles in altitude. He struggled to stand.

“Take it easy. Do you want to pass out? I can’t carry you all-”

“Look-our ships,” Gideon said. He pointed skyward and at the same time lowered a middle visor in his helmet that magnified the image of the three ships far above them.

Lydia turned in her overlarge suit and saw the bright specks of Vortex, Guidon, and the much larger Ranger as they hurtled on.

“Damn, they’re still running in formation. Didn’t the base contact them?” He turned an accusing eye on the young scientist.

“Everything is down, radar, sonar, communications, everything. I told you things were getting weird!”

“I should have known,” Gideon said. “They’re not down, they’re being jammed, and I should have realized that.” His eyes never left the three ships flying in a wedge formation toward the base. Their altitude wasn’t even staggered. They were still about a hundred miles high and sailing wing abreast, the two smaller pocket battleships slightly behind their flagship, Ranger.

“Maybe-”

That was as far as she got as Gideon grabbed her and pushed her to the lunar dust. As he did so, the pocket battleship on the left side of the formation erupted silently into flame and floating debris. The eeriness of the enemy strike was so sudden and quiet it was surreal. Gideon saw another salvo strike what remained of the smaller pocket battleship Vortex, and her sizzling hulk vanished in a white hot explosion that sent chunks of lightweight metal flying in a torrent of faster-than-sound missiles of aluminum and plastic. The debris struck the lunar surface far below, sending up enormous geysers of dust and rock. The two remaining battleships were caught unawares and reacted far too slowly after taking hits from the explosion. Ranger started her turn, her bow thrusters firing at full throttle as she started to slow, and then Guidon did the same a moment later. Both were attempting to turn and face the sudden and unseen threat. The major shook his head, knowing they would be too late.

“They’ll never make it,” Gideon said softly. He lifted Lydia to her feet and pushed her toward the complex of huts hidden behind the wall of the crater.

The three enemy ships that Gideon had seen before reappeared. Without viewing them up close he knew the silverish saucers would be old and scarred from many engagements on and around Ophillias and their home world. He watched as their exotic weapons opened fire. The first six shots were evenly dispersed among Guidon and Ranger as they turned their bows around to bring their main batteries to bear. The large turrets swiveled to line up on the three enemy saucers.

Gideon watched in horror and then flinched as the first laser beams struck the larger of the two ships. Pieces of the ship’s pressure hull and of the main deck composed of spiderweb girders exploded outward. Noiseless and horribly bright, Ranger returned fire with her twenty-inch twin forward cannon, quickly followed by a salvo from their number-two forward mount. A bright flash of greenish light exited the crystal-tipped barrels, followed by an expanding gas slug of nitrogen that was used for cooling the large bore and diamond tip at the end of the great cannon. The nitrogen froze immediately as it exited the barrels, creating a blanket of fog that from a distance resembled smoke. The twin laser shots from each mount were infused with particles made up of two thousand ball bearing-sized steel balls that passed through a hole in the crystal refractor. This volley was soon joined by twin shots of infused light from the smaller fourteen-inch cannon of Guidon. Major Gideon saw the first enemy saucer vanish in a gut-wrenching, metal-shredding wreck as the laser slugs punched large holes in it. The three-hundred-foot-diameter saucer started to lose its orbit, sliding toward the lunar surface in a silent death plunge.

The second saucer in the enemy line broke from the remaining twin formation. It made a run directly at the lunar surface and the small base inside the crater. The major heard the chatter and screaming on the radio. Whatever jamming had been placed on lunar-space communication was now inactive as the captain of Ranger was heard asking the condition of his sister ship Guidon. Gideon, still holding Lydia’s hand, stopped and looked up as the battle raged directly over their heads. In the distance, maybe fifty miles away, they saw the silent impact of the first enemy saucer as it slammed into the lunar surface and blew to pieces. The eerily quiet death in the moon’s vacuum belied the shaking violence of the impact.

Above, the enemy saucer that had broken away started firing toward the lunar surface. He could see the green-tinted intermittent lasers as they struck the outer walls of the crater.

Bright flashes overhead announced that Ranger had fired again. Finally, the heavily damaged Guidon answered the bell and also fired, producing the eye-fooling slowness of the faster-than-light weapons. It was still amazing to behold as the laser blasts streaked toward their target. The lone enemy saucer in a high orbit tried to maneuver out of the way of the particle weapons fired at it, but it was too late. The four rounds struck the top of the saucer’s pressure hull in an enormous shower of flame and sparks fueled by oxygen released from the ship. Gideon and Lydia watched as the giant saucer broke into two distinct pieces and started an out-of-control fall toward the moon’s surface.

As Guidon and Ranger started ejecting thousands of gallons of water that transformed into ice crystals in an effort to cloud and diffuse any return fire, they began turning toward the remaining saucer.

For the first time the major let out a yell of triumph. They just might fend off this last, desperate attack. But his joy was short-lived as two things happened simultaneously. First, five distinct lines of green laser fire struck the base camp inside the crater. All Gideon could see were chunks of moon rock and white pieces of composite material from the enclosures-and then, to his horror, un-space-suited bodies sailing into the black night. The crater looked like a volcano spewing forth not red-hot magma like the planet below but man-made structures and men themselves as the lasers struck their oxygen and weapons storage areas. The second thing that happened was that the saucer now cascading in pieces to the moon below had fired all of her advanced lasers in the last second before her own death. As Gideon and Lydia dodged debris from the base camp, Guidon exploded above them. The death of their battleship was so sudden and so complete they didn’t realize at first what had happened.

The remaining enemy vessel was placing laser shot after laser shot into the base camp from a half kilometer up, where the saucer had slowed almost to a hover to maintain altitude long enough to destroy the last remaining enemy colony.

The major glanced skyward at the spot where Guidon had vanished. He could see no debris remaining larger than a city block. But he did see the burning and smoldering Ranger as it majestically righted herself after receiving the near-death blows from Guidon ’s destruction. The reinforced armor of the smaller ship had peppered her hull with millions of particles as it exploded. The molten debris had set Ranger ’s two forward turrets afire before exploding outward and sending the crews of the four massive guns spinning into the cold death of space. Gideon gripped Lydia’s hand with first shock and then pride as Ranger fired her main engines and started her turn for the enemy saucer far below.

“She has no forward armament!” Lydia cried out.

Gideon looked at Ranger as she sped toward the enemy warship. The entire superstructure forward of her bridge was glowing red-hot from the dual assault of enemy fire and the brunt of Guidon ’s final death rattle.

“What is she doing?” Lydia asked.

“The only thing she can do. She’s going to ram the bastards.”

“He thinks the base is still intact. Can we call her off?”

“She’s doomed anyway. She’s hurt too badly,” Gideon said as he watched the terrible race far above him. Suicidal ventures were quickly becoming the norm of his civilization.

Lydia reached for the radio transmit button on her wrist and started calling frantically. The enemy saucer, apparently seeing the threat coming its way, had started to rise back into a higher orbit, blasting at the heavily damaged Ranger with her now retargeted lasers. Gideon looked down at the diminutive blonde, who had started crying as she failed to raise Ranger. The major reached out and pulled Lydia’s arm down. She struggled and fought with him, finally collapsing against his chest, shaking, giving in to the hopelessness of the situation. Gideon’s eyes went from the charging Ranger to the big blue planet below them. He shook his head and held Lydia closer just as Ranger slammed itself bow-on into the enemy saucer. The resulting explosion from the fuel and munitions of both vessels sent out debris in a deadly arc that smashed into the lunar surface, causing ten thousand small eruptions in the siltlike dust of the dead moon.

The final battle for his home world ended silently, with less than ten minutes from beginning to end. Over six thousand men and women had vanished in a final insanity-driven burst of mayhem.

Gideon let his knees fold. Both he and Lydia fell to the dusty surface and then they sat that way, holding each other for long minutes.

It was twenty minutes after the explosions subsided that Lydia stopped crying, and with effort raised her head. She saw the blue planet, which was just starting to set. Half the world was covered in fine white clouds and the other half lay in darkness. She turned away after a moment and clung to the major even tighter than before.

“What were they calling the planet?” she asked. “I mean, were they still going to use the same name as the one we were brought up with and learned in school?”

“As far as I know it was still the same,” Gideon answered. He looked at the blue planet, setting for the lunar day. He suddenly stood and pulled Lydia to her feet.

“Come on, we have a lot of work ahead of us! Those downed saucers might have those mechanical sons of bitches on them. Soon they’ll activate-and they don’t negotiate.”

Lydia didn’t question the large man as he pulled her along toward the crumbling crater where the science facility once sat. She did turn and watch the last of the blue planet sink away to nothing.

“We need to name our new home something, maybe the essence of what it really is,” Lydia said in her quiet and disillusioned state.

“We have to get there first, and then you can name it any damn thing you want.”

It was almost two full months after the last surviving members of the human race left for the new world below that the war pods embedded in the destroyed superstructures of the downed enemy saucers activated. They came alive only because their programmed brains hadn’t sensed any movement from the saucers that had crashed on the lunar surface. Designed as storm troopers for a race of cowardly yet advanced aggressors, the pods started dropping free of their modules into the lunar dust.

Only seventeen of the mechanical soldiers had survived the destruction of the saucers and their masters. Twelve of the ten-foot-diameter pods shot free of the mangled remains of the saucers and went to their programmed destination-the planet below. Their sensors immediately picked up advanced electrical sources that the primitive world should not have on its surface. They locked on to the signals and shot into space with fiery engine bursts, their destination Earth. The mechanical killers’ programmed orders from their masters were to eliminate the last vestiges of mankind.

The last five pods rolled out of the wreckage in ball form. Three started roving the lunar surface searching for the enemy they had been programmed to kill, while the other two rolled toward the last place their telemetry had told them humans had been-the crater. Each of the five pods, after not discovering their enemy, settled into the lunar dust, their mechanical bodies curled into fetal positions inside their shells. Their duty would be to wait, no matter how long, for man to return to the surface of the lunar world.

The minister of armaments for the Third Reich stood silently in front of the most powerful man in Nazi Germany other than the Fuhrer himself. The smallish, sheepish little man sat behind his desk with not so much as a single oiled hair out of place, and a uniform that had been recently cleaned and pressed. Even while his world was falling apart and burning around him, the small rat managed to maintain an air of superiority. The man behind the desk studied the last page in the brown folder that had been delivered to him only moments before. The reich minister for armament production, Albert Speer, stood waiting for a reaction by the former chicken farmer who was now serving as the head of the most powerful entity outside of the German army, the SS.

Heinrich Himmler adjusted his glasses as he read. When he was done he made a show of placing the paper perfectly in line with the previous pages of the report and then slowly closed the folder. He tapped the thick binder with a single finger as though he were coming to some monumental conclusion derived from careful thought. However much Himmler tried to disguise his demeanor, Speer knew the calculating little bastard did nothing, not even speak, without thoroughly thinking it through beforehand. The demonstration he was putting on, in the reich minister’s view, had become tiresome.

“I must say that I do not appreciate being hijacked on the way to the Reich Chancellery.”

Himmler smiled and looked toward Speer with a fatherly look. “Such a word-hijacked? I merely asked my men to inquire if you would join me before filing your report on Columbus prior to your presentation to the Fuhrer, just so we could chat awhile. And since so much of the operational success of this project has come from this office, I felt a briefing by you, to me, was not out of the question.”

Speer looked around the spartan office of this prolific mass murderer. He removed his brown saucer cap and placed it under his left arm, all the while feeling uncomfortable in the cold space of his surroundings. His discomfort was also due to his closeness to the chicken farmer-a nickname for Himmler that had caught on among the intellectuals of Hitler’s inner circle, a group that Speer knew was ever dwindling.

“I have ordered the excavation stopped, and for the site to be destroyed immediately, the remains of the artifacts buried,” Speer said, as defiantly and calmly as he could. He watched the practiced reaction of Himmler as the impish little man looked at him with a trace of a smile. “At least until we can negotiate our finds with the Allies. After all, I would rather think the Fuhrer would prefer not to have the artifacts fall into the hands of the Bolsheviks, wouldn’t you?”

“So I have read in your report, Herr Reich Minister,” Himmler said, ignoring his statement about the Red Army. “I wonder if such an action is warranted at this time.”

Speer noticed the comment wasn’t phrased in the form of a question.

“The discovery of the bodies and of the technology came at too late a date. The properties of the ancient weaponry have yet to be unlocked, and coupled with the fact that we were unable to ascertain the age of the bodies I felt it necessary to destroy the site and bury all until we can turn the information we have over to the Americans or the British.”

“I believe that to be a hasty conclusion to the excavation. After all, it has shown very much promise, yes?”

“If we are not careful the Russians will discover what we have failed to properly evaluate, and if that happens the West will be in serious trouble.” Speer saw the twitching of Himmler’s left eye under his wire-rimmed glasses but continued saying his piece. “We have no choice in the matter. In case you are one of the ones holding on to your glorious dreams of a Thousand Year Reich, Herr Himmler, I hate to be the bearer of bad news-the war is lost. It was lost the moment our beloved Fuhrer declared war on Russia while still entangled with the Allies. The problem, as you know, was exacerbated when the United States came to the aid of the Allied cause. I have buried the mine because the technology and the truth of the world’s past will not save our country now.”

“A history lesson?” asked Himmler. “Political ideologies and our current military situation are not subjects I need to be briefed on, Herr Minister.”

“Still, it seems a point worth reminding you of.”

Himmler smiled, trying to bring Speer back into his rightful demeanor of fear and subservience, if only because he needed the reich minister now more than ever. Himmler knew if it hadn’t been for this brilliant architect, Operation Columbus would never have been launched. A partnership had been formed in the early days before the war with the Allies between Speer and himself when the discovery in Ecuador had been made. It was the brilliance of this man that kept Operation Columbus viable right under the Allied noses. Himmler grudgingly respected the man, but like most intellectuals, Speer was weak when the hard truths had to be faced.

“Let’s not quibble. I believe you need to be brought up to date on a few developments that have cropped up here at home since your clandestine trip to South America.” Himmler folded his hands in front of him, trying to speak as clearly as he could. “The Fuhrer has decided to personally conduct the operations concerning the defense of Germany from that monstrosity you designed and built for him below the Reich Chancellery.”

Speer was taken back but tried not to show it. He closed his eyes momentarily and wished he had been sitting, as that would have made hiding his surprise much easier.

“He is going into the bunker?” was all he could say.

“Yes. It seems the Russian army will not allow us to conduct business aboveground these days. Very inconsiderate of them, wouldn’t you say, my dear Albert?”

“Your point, please.”

“My point is that we should not be so hasty in destroying the one element of our research that could be very beneficial to certain members of the Fuhrer’s inner circle. Columbus would be something that either the Americans, British, or in the most dire of circumstance, the Bolsheviks, would trade our lives for, wouldn’t you agree?”

“That could be a possibility. However I see very many problems.”

“Really? I see no such obstacles to our dealing away the one thing that will change all of history as we know it-possibly even the future.”

“One such problem is that during my recent evaluation in South America, I barely escaped with my life. The man that you said should not be a concern to me almost caught me and my men on the beach in Argentina. He was informed of my being in country by that Harvard boy you said wasn’t a threat to our operations in Ecuador. Thus far, Herr Himmler, you have been wrong on every count. And also may I remind you that the country of Ecuador is not one of Germany’s allies. They are fully in the hands of the Americans, and the country is tightly controlled by this American colonel, this Lee-a man chosen personally by William Donovan of the OSS to head operations there.”

“This Colonel Lee will cease to be a problem before we bring out the artifacts. His man in Ecuador, this Hamilton chap-well, we are arranging for that young man to cease being an annoyance. I suspect neither Colonel Lee nor this Hamilton fellow will interfere in the removal of Columbus.” Himmler opened the folder and looked at the last page of Speer’s report. “And I have ordered the last cave formation to be excavated.”

“Why not trade Columbus for our purposes with the artifacts in place? Why take a chance on allowing this very formidable man in South America to have even the slightest chance of discovering just what it is we have? I also believe opening the final cave formation to be a mistake. It will take too much time, and that is a commodity we have very little of.”

“Because if we offer the trade before Columbus is on German soil, the Americans will just take it and then hang us all anyway. This way they have to strike a deal. And the last cave may hold the secret to this trove of technology, wouldn’t you think? Now, perhaps you will step back from the project and let my capable offices handle the final phases.”

Speer placed his cap back onto his black hair and stared at Himmler. The reich minister for armaments saw the small man’s smile twitch once more as he calmly placed the carefully prepared report on Operation Columbus into the wastebasket.

“As I said, you will reap the benefits, as will I, after we trade our fantastic finds for our lives. When the time is right, perhaps when the inevitable becomes a reality, and after the American agent Lee and his apprentice are eliminated, our plans to bring both the technology and other artifacts out of Ecuador will be achieved. The delay will also offer the time we need to break into this last chamber inside the dig.” Himmler looked up in a dismissive way as he slowly and deliberately reached for another report. Then he extended his right hand into the air with his palm facing out. “Heil Hitler! And please, Albert, give the Fuhrer my regards, and tell him that I have been delayed by Party business. Frankly, that bunker smells rather bad to me.”

The large man was stationed at the mouth of the Lujan River just to the north of Buenos Aires. The night was warm and the sea calm as he watched the small breakers. Earlier he had seen not one, but two British destroyers as they passed on their run up the coast. His bosses in Washington had figured out the schedule for the patrols and discovered that the British pattern never varied. Unfortunately, the German navy had also figured out the same pattern and was using it to their advantage. They could have warned the British about the flaw in their patrol patterns, but the Americans liked being able to figure out when the U-boats would attempt dropping off a landing party just off the mouth of the Lujan. The large man had already captured several couriers attempting to make it ashore with messages vital to the German war effort. On this night, and thanks to one of his most trusted informants in Buenos Aires, he would catch another.

The American adjusted his binoculars and scanned the area in front of him. As he turned left he frowned and cursed under his breath. The conning tower of a U-boat was just disappearing into the sea. He had missed the blackened silhouette in the distance, and since the boat was submerging it meant that its human cargo had already been delivered.

“Damn it!” the man said as he swung the binoculars to his right, watching for any telltale sign of the boat’s cargo. There was nothing. He replaced the field glasses in their case and then reached into his leather jacket and brought out his Colt. 45 automatic. He chambered a round as quietly as he could. Reaching behind himself he removed the safety on another Colt in his waistband, and then, as was his habit, he finally adjusted the dirty brown fedora on his head. After looking around with caution he started walking along the tree line that fronted the river and the sea beyond.

The OSS had had numerous successes gathering the information they needed on what the German high command and its inner circle planned on scurrying out of Germany after they surrendered. The plans included escape to Argentina, Venezuela, and Brazil. The large American figured this courier was delivering the same cargo as the last three: new identity papers forged through the offices of the SS and Gestapo. If not that, then it was probably the hard currency of the Allies, so the escaping war criminals could live the life of luxury and power they had grown accustomed to since 1933. He suspected the latter, thanks again to his female informant, who had overheard the plans from one of the SS operatives in the city.

The American stood six foot four inches and had the brown-colored skin of a man who had served long days in the extreme Southern Hemisphere. Since he had been transferred out of Germany two years before, he had successfully conducted operations for the OSS-the Office of Strategic Services-in six different countries with the assistance of his staff of ten men.

The large man suddenly stopped and knelt low to the sandy ground. The natural cover was something he wasn’t comfortable with as he watched the barren area to his front. His backup had not arrived as scheduled and that made him apprehensive.

He heard a noise behind him as a small bush hit the trunk of a tree. There was no wind to make it do so. He immediately turned and pointed both Colt. 45s at the dark silhouette in front of him.

“Don’t shoot me, Garrison,” said the female voice from the darkness.

“Damn it, Isabel! What are you doing? Get the hell out of here!” Lee hissed.

The woman he had known for two years, Isabel Perione, the very best OSS informant they had in the region, came forward cautiously. To Colonel Garrison Lee, she looked out of place in pants and shirt. Her usual attire was evening wear smuggled out of Paris by the OSS and used as payment to the Argentine spy.

“I am sorry, Garrison. I had to come. Two of your men were taken right from the Club Dubois in the city.”

“What do you mean by taken?” Lee asked as he watched Isabel’s eyes in the soft moonlight.

“All I know is that your men were removed from the club and taken away. I know they were supposed to meet you here.”

“Haney and Rafferty are too damn good to get snatched from a public place,” Lee said. His eyes never left the woman, nor did the guns he held waver.

“Nonetheless, Colonel, your men will not be here for you.”

Lee was about to respond when he heard voices. He realized whoever they were, they were speaking a heavily accented form of the castellano Spanish of the Argentine region.

He risked moving two small branches of the bush they were hidden behind, using the barrel of one of his Colts, all the while keeping the other automatic pointed in the general direction of his informant. He knew beyond a doubt that the best thing to do would be to back away right then, call the operation a bust, and return to Buenos Aires to learn about the situation from his only two-man team in the region. However, he needed to see who he was dealing with.

Lee counted six men. They were only ten yards away. Four of them were Argentines; the other two men were dressed in dark clothing and woolen hats, the sort used by men just coming in from the sea. The smaller of the two was holding a satchel and the taller, a very lethal-looking submachine gun. Automatic weapons weren’t the norm for anyone sneaking into Argentina. Lee looked at his. 45 and shook his head, then half turned toward Isabel.

“We have to let this one go, doll face. I’d say the better part of valor tonight is-”

He heard the click of a hammer being drawn back and felt a gun being placed to his head.

“I would hate to put a bullet hole into what I know is your favorite hat, Mr. Lee. So if you would, please release the hammers of both of your Colts as gently as possible. I am not the only one with a weapon on you.”

“I must say,” Lee said, as he did what was ordered, “you were good, Isabel.” He finally turned and saw the Argentine woman with the pretty face and perfect body holding the gun, now pointed at his nose. The more menacing view came from another man he hadn’t counted in the small circle of men to his front. He was also carrying a submachine gun. Garrison added his and Isabel’s number value to the equation-nine altogether. “Have you been accepting dresses from another man?” Lee asked as he slowly stood to his full height.

The woman smiled, showing her perfect white teeth as she backed away from the most dangerous man she had ever known.

“Yes, many dresses, and a small monetary amount to tide me over after the war.”

The man with the submachine gun gestured for Lee to raise his hands.

The American did as he was told, feeling sick at being caught so easily. As he stood, the. 45s were taken from him by Isabel, who watched for any sudden movement. The man with the heavy artillery called out in horrible Spanish and the six men stopped and turned as he was pushed out of the small grove of trees with his hands in the air.

“We have caught the Oso of an American who has been preying on your agents,” Isabel said from behind him. He had to smile when he heard the nickname the Argentines had bestowed on him-Oso, Bear. He figured that compared to the short sons of bitches around him, he was a bear-sized American. Well, there was one German that was as big as he was, the one next to the small man with the satchel.

The Satchel Kraut, as Lee now thought of him, approached and looked him over. He turned to his colleague and muttered in German, “The OSS is getting more brazen every day. And attempting to take us right from the beach? Such treatment by a colleague.” He laughed.

“Kill him and be done with it. We have to be in Quito for the second part of the operation in two days time. We have no time for this.”

Their final destination: Quito, the capital of Ecuador.

The smaller German turned to face the American and tilted his head. His glasses and black leather jacket shone in the moonlight. He smiled as he removed the wool hat.

“Before you are disposed of, may I say that you have quite an admirer in Herr Himmler, Colonel Lee?”

The American reached up and tilted back his brown fedora, making the other six men, along with Isabel, flinch. The smaller Argentines brought up their only weapons-four large machetes. All of their uneasiness at his supposed killing prowess brought a smile to the American’s lips.

“Anyway, I wanted to inform you of that fact, Mr. Garrison Lee,” the small German said with a grin. “Before you are shot.”

“That’s Colonel Lee to you, Fritz.”

“You fools, stop your playing. This man is a killer,” Isabel said. “I know. I’ve watched him do it.”

The American’s smile was infuriating to the large German who stood behind the man he was there to protect, the smaller Kraut with the satchel. “According to our reports in Berlin, you were quite a thorn in our operations here in South America, Colonel Lee. It will be a feather in our caps, so to speak, to have been the ones to eliminate such a man who has caused our organization such hardship.”

“Organization? You’re being far too kind to yourselves. You must mean the SS, or what we in the states call Murder Incorporated.”

“Witty, Colonel Lee-I hope that wit will be available to you in the moment of your death,” the small man said. He turned away and whispered something to the larger German and then turned to face the woman. “As for you my dear, we are not in the habit of rewarding spies who assist in the killing of our agents.”

The large SS man finally smiled. He brought up his submachine gun and shot three rounds into Isabel’s head and chest. She fell backward and Lee caught her before she hit the ground. As he did so, his plan was formed.

Without a second’s hesitation, Lee spun Isabel’s lifeless body and tossed her into the third German. He dove for the sandy ground, grabbing for the small. 32 caliber pistol that Isabel had dropped at the moment of her death. He shot before striking the ground, hitting the German in the chest. He twisted to his backside and fired another shot, hitting the nearest of the Argentine guides, dropping him and the machete he was holding.

The small German grabbed two of the Argentine guides by the arms and started running. The larger man knew his orders, but they were shouted out anyway as the man with the satchel made his way through the beach scrub.

“Kill him!”

Lee rolled as the submachine gun opened up. One bullet struck his calf as his own bullets hit another of the Argentine men. Lee grabbed the man’s body and used it as a shield, bullets stitching the dead man’s back. Lee was momentarily stunned when the corpse reared its head as one of the heavy caliber rounds struck its face. The head hit Lee’s nose painfully, bringing a flood of tears across his vision. He fired blindly with the dead man still against his chest. One of the small bullets hit the last Argentine in the right eye, flinging him backward. Lee rolled again, knowing the last man standing, the German with the machine gun, was aiming right at him. Just as he expected several bullets to slam into him, he heard the loud click. The SS man’s weapon had jammed on him. Lee suddenly found the strength to stand. Then he realized that somewhere along the roller-coaster ride of his derring-do he had lost the small. 32. He looked at the German, who was trying desperately to clear his machine gun.

“Jamming right when you don’t need it to is a common failure of that particular weapon type, isn’t it, Fritzy?” Lee swiped at his eyes and then charged the large man just as he tossed his weapon away, grinning as he too leaned forward and charged Lee.

The two large men collided like charging locomotives. Lee lost his fedora from the impact. The German was powerful, but he was like most SS officers, unused to tangling with someone who fights back, giving Lee the advantage. Several blows to the German’s back and ribs brought on a fit of coughing. Then Lee brought his hand up into the blond man’s face and pushed up on his nose, crushing it into his brow. With the German grunting in pain, Lee took the man to the ground and then just as quickly brought up his right hand with the fingers extended outward. With every ounce of strength he had remaining he brought the fingers down and into the German’s Adam’s apple, sending his fingertips into the hardened cartilage of his throat. The pressure Lee brought to bear didn’t stop until his hand had sunk to the SS officer’s spine.

Garrison Lee, a former lawyer, and then one-term U.S. senator from Maine, rolled free of the dying man and lay beside him. His hand moved in the sand and he soon found one of his Colt. 45s lying next to Isabel’s body. Then he saw his hat and forced a smile, a tired expression that didn’t come naturally at that moment. He slammed the hat onto his head and then cocked the weapon and waited, seeing nothing more threatening at the moment than the moonlit trees around him. He lay still as he tried to get his breathing under control.

He slowly reached out with his free hand and touched the wound on his leg. He knew the bullet had gone all the way through his calf just to the left of the tibia and assessed that the blood flow was of an acceptable level. He raised himself into a sitting position and was in the process of trying to undo his belt buckle for use as a tourniquet when he heard movement to his front. The man he had hit in the face with the. 32 wasn’t as dead as Lee had thought. The man was up and charging.

“This isn’t my night,” Lee said as he brought the. 45 up and aimed as quickly as his adrenaline-drained body would allow. He aimed with his left hand and fired the first of three rounds into the man’s face, chest, and abdomen. Still the Argentine came on.

Lee tried to roll to his left as he once more fired the Colt, but he wasn’t fast enough as the machete arced toward his exposed face. At the last second he turned his head as far to the left as he could, letting the man’s body fall upon him. The dying man’s momentum brought the large machete down on the right side of his face. The steel blade sank to the cheekbone and sliced cleanly through his right eye, brow, and then his scalp, knocking the fedora from his head. The pain hit immediately as he fired two more rounds into the man out of pure anger and fright.

Lee rolled the Argentine off his body and then turned over on his back. With the smoking Colt still in his hand he reached up and covered his face. He felt the blood flowing freely through his fingers and knew he had lost his right eye. He screamed out more in rage than pain. He was angry because he had been caught off guard and then wounded so badly he would more than likely bleed to death before his men found him.

Garrison Lee struggled to shut out the pain. He tried his best to focus on the moon above him. It flashed in and out of focus as he closed his left eye and placed pressure on his right. He tried to keep the eye open but soon allowed the blood loss to take its revenge on his stupidity. His last action for the night was to reach out and take hold of his battered fedora, his large hand crushing it to his body. He had allowed the German courier to escape with another communique to Ecuador. As Lee slowly lost consciousness, he kept his hand over his face and cursed out loud about the large slice the man had put through his hat.

As he finally passed out, Garrison Lee had no way of knowing that Operation Columbus was about to receive its final orders.

Benjamin Hamilton watched the train station from a small cafe down the block. He alternated between watching the station and looking at the eleven snowcapped volcanoes that surrounded the capital city. He wished he were skiing instead of doing the most boring job of his life. He had made choices, and this was the inglorious end of the most important choice of his life. He’d had a chance at being a Regular Army officer after his graduation from Harvard Law School, but he had opted for the OSS, the United States intelligence service, and working for one of its more persuasive minions, Colonel Garrison Lee. Now he found himself far from the exciting life he had been promised, since Lee had sent him to the slowest, albeit most beautiful, region in South America. He had hoped for duty alongside the legend, Lee himself, in the south, but instead found himself watching for the occasional Nazi who just happened to wander into his operational zone.

As his green eyes went back to the train depot, he thought about the message he had received from the main OSS operative in Brazil, relaying the news about Lee being missing and suggesting he be on the lookout for a Nazi named Heinz Goetz, an SS general they suspected of being in this hemisphere. Goetz was possibly coming to take something out of Ecuador. Hamilton examined the only picture Washington could forward of Goetz and saw that the small SS man had cruel eyes. He figured that, between the cruel eyes and his small stature, Goetz should be easy to spot if his destination was, indeed, Quito. There was no information or even an educated guess about what this Goetz might be removing from Ecuador, just that it might be more than one item.

Ben placed the photo back into the inside pocket of his jacket and then zipped the coat up to his throat against the chill of the day. As he watched the train that had just pulled in, he raised the cup of rich coffee and drank.

As he sat there waiting, Ben thought about the only thing that had occupied his mind for the past three years-his new wife, Alice. He had only been with Alice for three days after their wedding before he was shipped out for training at Quantico, Virginia, and then to Fort Knox, Kentucky. He missed his eighteen-year-old bride more than anything in his own young life, and couldn’t wait for the damned war to be over so he could get back to her. No matter what Garrison Lee said or how much he begged, the OSS was not the life for him, not if it meant being away from Alice.

His thoughts were interrupted by two large trucks speeding down the street. He half turned and watched as they pulled up to the loading platform at the station. He looked around, trying not to move his head, as though the trucks were of no interest to him. He saw three large Western-looking men start shouting orders in broken English to fifteen Ecuadorian workers as they piled out of the back of the first vehicle. They all ran for the covered bed of the second and started unloading crate after crate. Ben turned to his left and whistled. A man who was sitting at a shoeshine stand lowered his newspaper with the banner headline, HITLER DEAD! The medium-sized man saw Ben nod his head toward the trucks.

The man stood, tossing the boy shining his shoes a quarter, a real prize for the kid or for almost anyone else in the country. He stepped down and then gestured to his right. Three men joined him. They walked to a car parked along the street and opened the trunk. As Hamilton watched, he unzipped his coat and made sure the Colt. 45 he had was there along with his spare clips of ammunition. He zipped the jacket back up as the four men removed two Thompson submachine guns and two large shotguns. They double-checked their loads and then the lead man walked casually over to the train station. Hamilton stood and tossed a dollar on the table, then slowly made his way out of the cafe, electing to go around the far side of the small station and its loading platform.

“One more mission, Alice, then your husband is coming home,” he said to himself with a smile as he dodged the few cars along the main thoroughfare of Quito.

The four men approached the truck that was being loaded. Two men split off and checked the back of the first truck. Four wooden crates had already been placed on the platform. The first two approached a large blond man who was laughing with another European-looking man as they leaned against the back of the truck being unloaded. The third was in the back supervising the work.

The sound of a shotgun being charged with a lethal round brought all the activity around the trucks to a halt.

“Gentlemen, we are the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. We need to see a bill of lading before you transport these items out of Quito.”

The two men at the back of the truck straightened and the third poked his head out of the back and smiled.

“The FBI, in Ecuador?” the large man asked, hopping expertly down from the bed of the truck. The speaker’s words were in very passable English.

“We’re here at the invitation of the local government and the people of Ecuador, sir. Now, the bill of lading, please.”

The third man kept smiling as he took in the guns and the other two men who came up from the first truck on either side. The Ecuadorian laborers stepped back as the confrontation ensued. The blond started removing a thick pair of gloves.

“Would you mind if I saw some identification, gentlemen?” The man’s smile broadened as he shot a quick glance at the train station.

The lead agent slowly lowered his shotgun and reached into his leather field jacket. He brought out a green ID card with “FBI” written in bold, golden letters.

“Looks real enough,” the man said, leaning closer to the ID card, “Agent Ferguson.”

Two of the agents suddenly turned as the doors to the station house opened and a small man with a long black leather coat emerged. He carried a satchel and his glasses reflected the light of the afternoon sun.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

As Ben rounded the far side of the platform, he saw the small man who stood on it looking down at the scene below. Hamilton fumbled for his. 45 and at the same time he brought out the picture the OSS in Brazil had forwarded to him a day earlier. Ben smiled as he recognized General Heinz Goetz. The SS officer was even shorter than his description.

“No problems here, Mac, as long as you have the proper paperwork for these crates,” the lead agent said, placing his ID back into his jacket. “Why, you boys didn’t even have these things weighed in. I believe the Ecuadorian government requires the weigh-in of all freight.”

“I have a bill of lading and weight certificate right here, gentlemen.” Goetz half turned his head and nodded toward the interior of the station. Then he opened his satchel.

Ben saw movement and froze. Then he jumped forward toward the first truck.

“No!” he shouted loudly.

Just as Ben made his appearance, Goetz removed a Walther pistol and fired point-blank at the lead agent, then before the rest of the FBI team reacted Goetz slammed his body down onto the wooden platform just as the large glass windows behind him shattered as machine gun bullets started raking the three remaining agents and several laborers at the back of the truck.

As Ben ran around the blind side of the second truck, one of the agents was thrown backward into him. Ben saw that he was still alive and started pulling him back as bullets started to find their way back to his vulnerable position. Hamilton aimed as best he could with the wounded agent in his arms and then fired, but the agent’s weight pulled his aim off considerably. Not that it would have mattered. As he stumbled backward he saw ten men emerge from the station house and all of them had machine guns. They were raking not only the agents, but the Ecuadorian workers who were trying to flee in a panic.

Ben lost his footing and went down, pinned beneath the agent’s weight. Still, he was able to raise the. 45 in his right hand and start firing low to the ground. He managed to hit the feet and ankles of the two men at the back of the truck. As they hit the gravel-covered ground, the OSS man placed two rounds each into their heads and then he ejected the spent clip and inserted another. Hamilton then started pulling the wounded agent along as best he could as he heard men taking position around the first truck. He knew they would soon be surrounded.

“Don’t kill the American. We need him.”

Ben Hamilton heard Goetz shout at the remaining man who had accompanied the trucks. Ben shrugged the agent, who was now dead, off him and stood. He retraced his steps and then took quick aim at Goetz, who was standing on the platform looking as if he were Julius Caesar. Hamilton placed pressure on the trigger and that was when he was brutally pulled backward, hard enough that the. 45 flew from his hand. He lost his balance and fell, a strong arm pulling at him, his coat collar used like a suitcase handle to drag him through the gravel. Ben tried to warn whoever was pulling him that there was a man taking aim at them, and just as they reached the corner of the platform, the man pulling him to safety emptied a Colt. 45 into the assassin. Finally, as they rounded the wooden platform, Ben was pulled to his feet.

“What were you going to do after you shot Goetz?” a strong voice asked as he was pushed toward the open door of an idling car. “Take the honorable way out and blow your head off?”

Ben was pushed through the open door as the man hurried around to the driver’s side of the idling car and smashed the accelerator down. The car sped away.

“I thought I taught you better than that. You live to fight another day, dumbass!”

As Ben tried to get his breathing under control, the rear window exploded inward and the driver swerved as he twisted the wheel hard to the right. Hamilton risked a look up at his rescuer. All he could see was a large bandage. Blood was seeping through as Colonel Garrison Lee turned toward him and angrily looked him over.

“Are you hit?” he asked. He then turned the wheel in the opposite direction and slammed on the brakes, throwing Ben up against the dashboard. “Are you hit, Hamilton?” Lee asked again, looking through the rear window frame.

“They said you were missing,” Ben stammered, checking for any leaks he may have sprung.

“Not missing-just beat half to death and cut up some. Now, are you hurt?”

“I don’t seem-”

“Good, we’ll talk later about how there seemed to be just about an entire SS regiment in your country of responsibility and you not knowing about it,” Lee said. He removed the empty clip and inserted another into the handle of his. 45. He tossed Hamilton another ammunition clip. Then, as Ben watched, Lee laid his head against the steering wheel. He took some deep breaths. Blood had started a pretty good flow through the thick gauze across the right side of his face.

“Are you all right, Colonel?”

Lee laughed with his forehead still on the steering wheel.

“Do I look all right, Hamilton? I mean, I thought you were a Harvard grad.”

“What happened back there?” Ben asked, nervously looking through the windowless panel in the back.

“I don’t know, Hamilton,” Lee said, straightening as he heard the train pulling out of the station. “Do you have any idea what in the hell was so important to Goetz that he risked being shot or captured thousands of miles away from home?”

“Well, sir, there’s the crates-”

Lee looked over and finally a smile broke out across his shattered face.

“Really, Hamilton. You think so?”

Ben caught on quickly that the colonel was making light of his obvious observation and he felt embarrassed having made it. Lee, with blood starting to course down his right jawline, put the car in gear and sped off in the direction of the eastbound train. Hamilton saw how gingerly the colonel was working the brake and the gas pedals, then he saw why. There was another bloodstain on his right pant leg at the calf. So the report was true. The colonel had indeed been ambushed and almost butchered in Argentina. How he could be doing what he was doing was far beyond what Ben could imagine.

“Look, we have one chance at this. You have to get on that train and stop it. The only thing I would be good for is throwing the car in front of it,” he hissed. He turned onto the narrow gauge tracks and started riding the rail, with two wheels on and two off. The ride was bumpy and with each jolt Hamilton could see Lee grimace. “What has your training taught you?”

Ben charged a round into the. 45 and then thought about what he had to do. “Can you run the front bumper of this thing right into the ass end of the train?” he asked as he rolled down the right-side window.

“That’s my intention, Hamilton, and you can’t jump onto that damn thing sitting in here.”

Ben tucked the Colt into his waistband and then took off his thick jacket. As the car rumbled down the tracks its wheels were catching the ties, sending shockwaves through the suspension of the battered Ford. Hamilton slid easily if bumpily out of the window. He used his hands and feet and started to kick and pull.

“Hamilton? What in the hell are you doing?” Lee called out, trying to focus on ten things at once.

Ben glanced back inside as the car jumped once, then twice, almost throwing him from the Ford. He finally braced himself. “I’m getting ready to jump onto the train.”

“Damn it,” Lee said, shaking his head. Then he took the wheel with his left hand and with his right brought his own automatic up and fired three times into the windshield on the right side. Then he started punching the glass with the barrel of the gun until the glass was gone. “That may be a little easier, don’t you think?”

Hamilton slid back into the car and then, feeling like a scolded school kid, pulled himself onto the hood. Ben immediately saw that this wasn’t going to be like the serials at the movies. With the car being jolted first left and then right, and also up and down, he was finding it hard to stay in one place on the hood.

“Look out!” Lee shouted.

Ben turned and saw a man step out onto the back platform of the train to light a cigarette. It was one of the men who had opened up on them from inside the train station. His eyes widened as the match he was using blew out. He had started to reach for a sidearm when Ben, his reactions this time far faster, aimed his Colt and fired four rounds. The first three hit nothing but air as the car was jolted from side to side. The fourth caught the German in the center of his chest. Lee watched as the man’s weapon fell. Then, in slow motion, he leaned over the small railing and plummeted from the train. Ben was almost thrown from the hood when the car ran over the man’s body.

Lee gunned the engine. As steam started spewing forth from under the hood, partially blinding Hamilton, the Ford’s front bumper slammed into the train. Ben was thrown forward, losing his grip on the single windshield wiper. He started sliding down, unable to grab on to anything because of his gun hand.

Garrison Lee saw what was about to happen. He slowed the car until there was twenty feet of distance and then accelerated once more with the engine screaming in protest.

“Get to your knees and get ready,” Lee shouted. “Hold on to nothing.”

“What! Are you nuts?” Hamilton pushed the Colt back into his pants, then stooped and faced forward, following his orders no matter how crazy they sounded.

The last ten feet between car and speeding train was covered in less than ten seconds. The front bumper slammed into the train once more. The impact was so hard that without a handhold Ben was shot forward like a catapult. His eyes widened as he passed through the steam of the overheating engine and then the railing was right there. He grabbed at it as Lee backed the car away. With his heart racing faster than the car’s engine, Ben hung on to the thin railing as his feet bounced from railroad tie to railroad tie. Finally, he started to pull himself up as Lee’s car bounced once, twice, and then hopped the tracks to the right side of the caboose. Ben started climbing up the railing to the platform. As he slid to the floor he tried to catch his breath. Looking around, he wondered how he was going to get inside with at least ten armed men waiting for him. Then he saw the answer.

Garrison Lee was using the last of the car’s momentum to catch up with the passenger cars. As he looked to his left with his good eye, he saw the shocked face of the small SS general, Goetz, widen in astonishment. Lee grimaced, raising his. 45 and shooting into the windows of the Pullman. Glass was flying as at least three of the wildly placed bullets hit their targets. The unsuspecting Germans never saw it coming. Lee didn’t know if he had hit Goetz, but suspected he hadn’t.

Ben knew when to act. He took a deep breath and then stood. His legs were no longer shaking and his heartbeat, while still fast, had calmed enough that he could put his makeshift plan into motion.

Hamilton turned the knob and stepped inside the caboose. He saw a shocked conductor and caboose man as they cowered in a corner. Ben placed a finger to his lips and then ran forward. He went through the next door and onto the open platform between the two cars. He once more took a deep breath and then stepped through the adjoining door. He saw men starting to pick themselves up from the center aisle, and at least two more firing their submachine guns from an open window. Ben opened fire, taking out the most obvious threats first-the men at the windows. Then he fired twice more at two men who were attempting to stand. Then, as he saw Goetz start to run down the aisle, Ben aimed. Click. His Colt was empty. He looked around. He noticed a wounded German prone in the aisle and Hamilton saw what he was reaching for. He kicked out viciously with his right boot, catching the man in the chin and sending him to the Thousand Year Reich. He reached down and recovered the machine gun. Without hesitating, he jumped over the dead and dying guards and ran after General Goetz.

Outside, Lee knew he had to get on that train. The car was as near to death as he himself had been four days earlier. He saw a break between cars coming up and slammed the steering wheel to the left. The Ford once more hit the berm on the tracks and jumped three feet. Instead of sliding back down, the small car hugged the side of the speeding train. Lee reached out and took hold of the railing that protected passengers going from one car to the next. The Ford suddenly jerked right and he lost his hold. Cursing, he tried again, once more slamming the slowing car into the side of the train. The engineer in front started blowing his whistle and the train sped up. Lee was fast losing his window of opportunity to get on the train and help young Hamilton.

“Damn it,” he yelled, ripping the soaked bandage from the right side of his face. He reached out again through the window, this time holding the steering wheel steady with his wounded leg. He took a firm hold of the railing and pulled. As he did so his right leg straightened and the wheel began to spin crazily. Lee was pulled out of the window and left dangling by one hand as the speeding Ford turned sharply to the right and then simply rolled over, crashing into the tree line that ran beside the feeder road. The OSS colonel found himself in the same situation his onetime student Hamilton had been in a moment earlier as he dangled from the train. His right leg was screaming in agony and he knew his strength could not hold out much longer. He felt his fingers starting to lose their hold on the rail. He closed his eyes and felt the blood from the damaged stitches on the right side of his face begin to flow in earnest. He cursed himself for his lack of strength. Now he would fall and be crushed underneath the train’s wheels. It wasn’t dying that bothered him. It was letting young Hamilton down. He silently wished him luck as his fingers slid from the railing.

Just as he felt his hand let go, his fall was stopped. He was still dangling as he looked up and saw why. Hamilton had come from the car and reached out and grabbed Lee’s hand at the last second. Lee saw him struggling with his weight and against the forces of the speeding train. Still Hamilton pulled. Finally Lee was able to grab the railing with his right hand. Then, before he knew it, he was pulled aboard. Both men collapsed and sat breathing hard. Hamilton swallowed and then looked over at Lee, who was sitting with his chin on his chest. Ben saw the horrible wound on the right side of the colonel’s face. He grimaced and then stood with the help of the machine gun.

“If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I believe General Goetz went thataway.”

Lee reached out and tried to grab Hamilton’s pant leg but missed. He fell to his knees.

“Damn,” he said, reaching into his waistband and pulling out the Colt. As he tried to sit up, he found he had to use the railing again since he had no strength left.

Ben cautiously opened the door on the next car. Looking back at Lee momentarily he saw the big man trying to sit up. He knew from looking at Lee’s condition that he would have to take Goetz alone. He opened the door. He saw the crates that had been loaded and then he saw Goetz ducking behind the largest of them.

Hamilton closed the door and went to one knee. He watched, waiting for Goetz to show the top of his head. Ben had been first in his class in target shooting and hoped his skill hadn’t diminished in the years he had been inactive here in Ecuador. As he waited, Goetz remained hidden.

“Mr. Hamilton, I believe?” Goetz called out.

He listened, but didn’t say anything in return. Ben saw an opening and duck-walked to a crate that was against the far wall of the freight car. He took up a position behind it.

“Mr. Hamilton, my name is Goetz. I am aware of your record, my boy. I am also aware of the qualifications of the man that trained you. And I also know that Colonel Lee is still alive. Imagine my consternation seeing him driving a car at fifty miles an hour and shooting at me.”

“I imagine you almost shit your pants. I mean, I would if I knew Lee was coming for me.” Ben used the loudness of his voice to edge closer. He sped across to the next closest crate and hunkered down.

“Ben… may I call you Ben?” Goetz raised his head for a split second and then quickly ducked back and in that split second Hamilton saw that the right lens was cracked on Goetz’s wire-framed glasses. One advantage of this was that the German would have a hard time seeing. Lee had taught him to quickly count down the advantages and disadvantages of any situation he found himself in.

“Sure, why not be on a first-name basis with the man who’s going to kill you?” Hamilton said, looking away from Goetz so as not to give him his exact location.

“Those are hasty words, Ben, especially for what I have to offer the United States government.”

Hamilton resisted the urge to speak again. This time he rose up as high as he dared and peeked over the large crate. He brought up the machine gun and waited for Goetz to show himself one last time.

“It’s a miracle, Ben. In these crates I have a miracle. Your government would be happy to have what I possess, young man.”

Hamilton knew Goetz wasn’t going to risk another peek above his own crate. The young agent knew he would have to flush the general out. He aimed at a tight spot where he guessed Goetz would appear.

“What one man possesses one minute, another possesses the next,” he said. “Whatever is here, General, we’ll soon know all about it.”

“That is true. But what comes with the crates, Ben, is five years of research by the best German minds. It will save you years upon years of study to come half as close as we in understanding what it is we truly have-as I said, a miracle.”

“All right,” he said as he aimed still tighter on the area he thought the voice was coming from. “I’ll bite. What have you got, and why in hell should we care about it?”

“Because every human being on this planet wants to know, needs to know… and I dare say, would kill to know. Just a minute’s truce, Ben, that’s all I ask. Then I’ll throw my hands in the air and I’ll become your prisoner.”

Hamilton thought a moment. The man was small and overweight and this was probably the only time he had ever fired his weapon against a real man and not at some helpless woman or child.

“Here is my only weapon,” Goetz said and then slid out onto the wooden floor a small caliber pistol. “There, Ben, I’m unarmed. Now I will stand and I will show you a sight you will tell your grandchildren about.”

Ben watched as Goetz stood up. He had his hands raised. His left was empty and in the right he carried the large satchel. Hamilton stood but kept the submachine gun pointed at Goetz.

“The satchel, drop it,” Ben said as calmly as he could.

Goetz slowly lowered the leather case to the top of the crate he had been using for cover. He then raised the now empty hand over his head. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to lower that weapon, my young friend?”

“I feel better with it pointed right between your eyes, Herr General.” Ben stepped out from his cover.

“Since the Fuhrer has left the war effort, I think it a good time to surrender,” Goetz said as he stepped further into the center of the car and slowly started to lower his hands. The car swayed as it went around a bend, throwing Ben’s weight to his left. Goetz noticed that no matter how jumbled the ride, the submachine gun never left its mark.

“I’m sorry, General, but my company doesn’t take prisoners. We keep score in other ways.”

Goetz saw Hamilton in a light that made him feel very uncomfortable. “Young man, your organization and mine can do business in this matter. I am willing to offer these artifacts,” he said with a gesture, which elicited a menacing forward thrust of the weapon in Ben’s hands, making Goetz flinch. “As well,” he added, “as the expertise behind their discovery and examination. To help you in your decision, I will say that over two hundred German soldiers were killed very recently by machines-machines designed to fight as men. Mechanicians designed millions of years before man walked our planet. Perhaps I may show you?”

“No, General, you may not. You and your kind may find sympathetic ears in my government, you may even find those that will turn a blind eye to what you and other murderers have done in Europe, but I’m not one of those people. I intend to kill you, and the only deal I’ll make with you is if you want it easy or hard. I prefer hard, maybe both of your kneecaps first. What do you say?”

“You’re insane, young man; you are throwing away knowledge that will astound your superiors!” Goetz said, his eyes never wavering from the machine gun.

Ben gestured for Goetz to move away from the large crate where he had placed the satchel. His eyes were drawn to the strange symbol marking the sides and top of all of the crates in the compartment. Four circles, each smaller than the one before it, each partially eclipsing the one behind it.

As the general moved to his right, Hamilton felt movement behind him. At that exact moment one of the guards sprang up from behind a row of crates Ben had not been paying attention to. The man must have been there the entire time. Ben turned and fired. The machine gun spewed forth bullets in an arc that caught the man across his chest. Too late, Hamilton saw Goetz rush forward, producing a long and lethal knife as he did. Before Ben could bring the machine gun to bear, Goetz brought the knife up and into the young agent’s stomach, slicing deep into his abdomen. Several more shots sprang from the weapon Ben was holding but all they did was slam into the largest of the crates.

“You see, we are pretty good at conducting business also, my young friend.” Goetz withdrew the knife and rammed it into Hamilton a second time. Ben felt his body go numb and he let his weapon fall from his hands. He thought he could smell the German’s hair oil and the powder he used against being chafed by the South American wind. As he slid down Goetz’s small frame, he tried desperately to stay on his feet. He reached out and grabbed for the top of a large crate on top of another the same size. Ben’s mind started swirling, even the sound of the train seemed distant, but he could swear the crate he snatched at looked like a coffin. He finally held on hard enough that he thought he had arrested his fall when Goetz pulled the long knife free of his insides. As he continued to fall, he pulled the crate free and Hamilton fell along with it to the train’s shaking floor. The crate broke open and its contents fell over Ben. It and he rolled and then all was still.

As Ben was starting to lose consciousness, he smelled dust, old mildew, and dirt. As he tried to focus he could see rocks and black shoes. The shoes moved as the sound of large caliber rounds filtered through Hamilton’s dying breaths. The shoes Ben was looking at started dancing and then they magically flew away. As he closed his eyes against the flying dirt, Ben thought he heard cursing. As he opened his eyes again and tried to sit up, he came face-to-face with a grinning skull. Ben blinked and tried to clear his eyes. When he opened them the skull remained. It was encased in something round-a helmet, he thought. Yes, a helmet. The view was confusing because everything-the skull, the helmet, even bits and pieces of clothing-looked to be made of stone. He was questioning what he was seeing when his body was pulled up. He blinked again and then he saw Garrison Lee was looking at him. His wounds had opened up and he was bleeding heavily.

“We better get you to a doc,” Ben said, so low that Lee had to get close to his mouth to hear the words.

“I’m fine, Hamilton,” Lee said as he shook his head.

“I guess I could have done better,” Ben whispered.

“No, you did fine. You remembered your training. You helped capture the man who will probably have his way in the end as far as my life is concerned.” As he said this last, he felt the river of blood pouring out of the open wound on his face. “I’m proud of you, boy.”

Ben tried to shake his head but found he couldn’t. He tasted the blood in his mouth and then tried to focus on the colonel.

“I think I bit my tongue,” he said, the words trailing off to nothing, and the light in his eyes dimmed.

Garrison Lee looked at the young face of Ben Hamilton for the longest time. He brushed a strand of dark hair from his face and then after a few minutes lay him gently next to the strange body and even stranger-looking rocks that the Germans had unearthed. As he did he heard General Goetz moan and cough. Lee, without even looking at the injured German, raised the. 45 automatic and emptied his remaining rounds into him. He then turned and slowly collapsed from his own wounds. His body slowly fell and landed next to Ben, and also next to the most important archaeological find in the history of the world. Lee saw they all had the same symbol stenciled onto them-the four circles in a straight line. As the blood flowed freely from Lee’s fully opened wounds, his good eye fell on the symbols stenciled on the crates. He tried to focus, but the blood loss finally took him down into the black abyss of unconsciousness.

In the far corner a corporal, a clerk attached to the SS division in Ecuador, stood and with a frightened expression made his way out of the car. Joss Zinsser, who was no more than a boy, moved away, one of the last witnesses to what had been uncovered in Ecuador.

As the last visages of the real world twirled and spun, Garrison Lee wondered about the fate he had chosen for himself.

Operation Columbus had been momentarily halted on train tracks outside Quito, but would not remain there for long. Soon a secret that belonged to the entire world would be reburied behind steel and concrete.

The woman sat in the same chair in the same spot in the room that she had been in for the past three months. She sometimes read books, and at other times just watched the slow rise and fall of the patient’s chest as he breathed steadily. He was no longer being fed oxygen underneath the small plastic tent. His wounds were healing and his color was improving. She watched patiently as Garrison Lee slowly recovered from the massive loss of blood he incurred while on duty in South America. The woman had waited day in and day out.

The young woman had dark brown hair that was usually tucked up under a large hat. For the first two months she wore one of many black dresses as she sat and waited, never standing and checking on Lee with a physical touch, but always watching. Gone now were the black mourning dresses and in their place were nice, clean, sensible skirts.

As she sat she heard firecrackers somewhere off in the distance. It was the Fourth of July and she was marking her sixtieth day at Walter Reed. As she looked down at her small and elegant hands, she heard something over the pop of firecrackers. She looked up and saw that Colonel Lee was moving under the blanket. His head turned first to the left and then slowly to the right. She saw the large bandage covering the entire right side of his face and the forehead area. The blood had stopped seeping through as soon as the doctors got the infection under control last month. The bandages were now clean and dry. His one good eye blinked in her direction. She could see that he was having a hard time focusing after so long a sleep. She stood and walked slowly to the bed, placing a hand on Garrison’s cheek. She smiled.

Lee, as he finally focused on the young woman standing next to him, thought that the smile he received was a sad one. He tried to remember where he knew this beautiful face from. He had met this young girl before. He swallowed and tried to speak. The woman reached over and brought a large glass of water, using a straw to guide it into his mouth. Garrison took two long sips and then lay his head back. Once again the woman touched his cheek.

“You rest now. You’ve been hurt for a very long time.”

As his eyes fluttered shut, he tried to see the woman clearly. Her face was partly hidden in shadow because of the big-brimmed hat she wore. He gave up and let sleep take him once more.

Garrison Lee sat up when the nurse brought in his breakfast. He examined her face closely. It had been two days since he had awakened for good and ever since then he found himself looking at each female face as they came in to feed him, take blood, or just check his wounds. The woman this morning was not the same one he had awakened to three days ago.

A knock sounded at the door and the girl stepped back. She smiled and then nodded that whoever it was should come in.

Lee, with a half spoon’s worth of oatmeal in his mouth, saw a heavyset man walk into the room and remove his hat. He knew the man well.

“Well, it’s about time you woke up.” The big man stood over Lee as if examining him. “And, you don’t look as bad as everyone made out. I’ve gotten worse wounds while getting a haircut and a shave.”

Lee placed the spoon on the tray and looked the man over.

“Then you damn well ought to get another barber.” He looked at the large man with his one good eye. “How are you, Bill?” Lee asked, his voice still raspy.

“Tolerable, Lee, tolerable. Everyone thinks we can relax now that the war in Europe is over, but to hell with that, I say. We’ve still got one hell of a problem in the Pacific.” He leaned over after nudging the young nurse out of the way. “And to be frank with you, my boy, the Reds are starting to rear their ugly heads in Berlin, not to mention a dozen other places.”

Lee closed his eyes. “Well, they can’t say you didn’t warn them about that one, sir.”

“Damn right I did, Lee.” William “Wild Bill” Donovan, the head of the Office of Strategic Services, shooed the young hospital nurse away and then sat on the edge of the bed. “Well, until you get out of here you can keep this in your pocket, my boy. Too bad you can’t show it to anyone or wear it on some fancy uniform.”

Lee was handed a small case. He clicked it open with one large hand while his eye studied Donovan. Finally he looked at what was inside the case. A set of silver stars gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lighting. He snapped the case closed as though he had discovered something distasteful.

“Congratulations, General,” Donovan said as he stood.

Lee set the new rank on the table with his oatmeal and then pushed the table out of the way.

“Yeah, I thought you would be all enthusiastic and giddy as a schoolgirl over the promotion.”

“Promoted for getting my agents shot all to hell? Getting a kid knifed in the belly? Yeah, I’m giddy as hell over that.”

“Felt you let them down, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, for your information, our young Mr. Hamilton stopped one murderous bastard in that Nazi general.” Donovan leaned over and looked Lee in his one good eye. “And you better damn well give that kid the respect he deserves for doing his job.”

Donovan turned and started for the door.

“I’m afraid I fell asleep before the end of the book. What in the hell was in those crates?” Lee asked as he reached for the box containing his new general’s stars.

Donovan turned and all humor and anger was absent from his face.

“By the time those Hoover boys got their tails back up, the crates were gone. We assume the German agents did what General Goetz couldn’t. They probably made their way back to Germany somehow.” Donovan looked down at his feet. “Anyway, we’ll talk later. Right now there’s someone who’s been waiting to see you.” He turned away as he buttoned his suit jacket and placed his hat on his head. “And try to use some of that etiquette you used to have when you were a senator. She’s a classy young woman.”

“Bill?”

“Yeah,” Donovan said as he turned back to face Lee. He flinched as he was almost hit by the small jeweler’s box Lee had thrown at him. He fumbled it and then caught it.

“Shove that star up your ass.”

Donovan at first smiled, and then he laughed out loud.

“That would hurt, General Lee.” Donovan turned and left as his laugh echoed back into the room. “By the way, I have another job planned for you, or rather the president has.”

As Garrison turned away, not dwelling on what Donovan or the president was cooking up, he heard the footfalls of high heels on the floor. When he looked up he saw a woman in a large hat standing at the doorway. She hesitated only a moment and then stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. She stood planted just inside the doorway. The hat hid her face and the small veil attached to it made her look mysterious, but Lee knew who she was. She was the same woman he had awakened to three days before.

“I understand you’ve been a constant companion of mine these last couple of months,” Lee said.

The woman pushed the veil up over her hat and centered her attention on the man in the bed for a few moments before approaching him.

“I just wanted to see if you’re as big a son of a bitch as Ben said you were.”

Garrison Lee looked for the longest time at the young, beautiful woman before him. Then he swallowed as the memory of their first meeting came into his mind. He had come to her parents’ farm a million years before wanting to talk with her young husband about patriotism and how he could best to serve his country. His remaining eye could not hold her image any longer and he looked down.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” was all he said.

She slowly sat on the edge of the bed where a moment before the man who was soon to be known as the father of the CIA, Wild Bill Donovan, had been. She removed a large hatpin and then her hat. Her hair was done up in a bun and her face was clean of makeup save for lipstick. Her face needed none as far as Lee was concerned.

“Tell me about Ben.” She saw the uncomfortable look cross Lee’s face. “Not about how he died, about how he lived. You knew him far better than I, you see.”

Lee looked up and took the woman in.

“He lived, Mrs. Hamilton. In the short time he had, that boy lived.”

The widow of Benjamin Hamilton looked down and saw Garrison Lee clearly for the first time. She knew him to be someone who cared about his people, but also a man who hid that attribute well. She felt she knew him immediately and far better than anyone else ever would. It was that single eye and its penetrating glow. She never shied away from it and would listen to him speak for hours.

“General, I think you can call me Alice.”