Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

Onboard the plane shortly after it took off, I watched Monroe go to each of the team and give them a folder with their role, and, no doubt, instructions on what they had to do, and to handle the equipment they were assigned.  The list I’d seen required a sound technician, a grip, a cameraman, his assistant, the director, the producer, which I took to be Monroe, and a few other production assistants.

None looked happy, and probably already knew what the cover story would be.  I didn’t see or hear any objections, each just took their folder and started on their homework.

She didn’t spend much time with Jacobi, just enough to tell him he was going to be the guide.  It was a role he was most suited to, and that of local liaison.  At least it would explain why he was with us.

After that, she came to see me.

“Was it your idea or Lallo’s?” I asked.  

“Lallo’s.  I’m as surprised as you, but you have to admit it’s a great cover story.”

“For a group who wouldn’t know one end of the camera from the other.”

“Plenty of time to learn.  You don’t have to worry.  All you have to do is be perennially bad-tempered and yell a lot.  I’m sure you can do that without having me tell you how to.”

“No. probably not.  Bamfield said it all the equipment worked.”

“When we take the C4, detonators, grenades, and a few other assorted armaments out it will.”

“You know where the other stuff is,” I said, hoping she understood that it was the diamonds I was talking about.

“Somewhere in one of the boxes.  It was best not to tell anyone, so if anything happens, we can’t give it away.  We can worry about that once we get past the border.  I suggest you get your head down.  At least one of us has to be sharp at the other end when we land.”

With that, she went back to her corner, ran her eye over the team now deep in their studies, then looked like she was going to get some sleep.

After a few hours, the enthusiasm to learn had died down, and each of the team members made themselves comfortable.  There would be more time to study on the other side of the fuel stop.  Everyone on board got what sleep they could, not that it was the best of places in the cargo hold of a C-130.  One destination we were all familiar with was that of Djibouti when we would set down to refuel at the airbase there.

It was a half-hour stop, and, as Monroe advised, we didn’t leave the plane.  It was best no one knew we were aboard or what we were doing, a feat I thought quite remarkable because if it was my airbase, I’d want to know.

But, as airbases went, it was the same as the rest.

Back in the air, we were heading for Uganda.  It was another 6 or 7 hours, so it was a good time to get some more rest before we landed.  I had no idea when the next time would be that there would be time for some shuteye.

I’d been keeping an eye on Monroe.  She appeared to be the liaison for everything, and had accompanied the pilot to the base tower, most likely to file the flight plan, one of several I imagine, and to report back to Bamfield.  It explained why the pilot returned without her, and she didn’t get back until 15 minutes before we were due to leave.

Should I be worried?  There wasn’t much point.

After an hour, I went up the back of the plane and sat next to Jacobi.  He had been ostracised by the rest of the team; an order given by Monroe for them to leave him alone.  He’d been escorted onto the plane by two burly military policemen, and his bag of equipment given to Monroe for safekeeping, so we were sure from the time he left the cell at the black site to getting on the plane he had communicated with anyone.

Even so, I was sure he had been in similar situations before, and he was still alive to tell about it.  If he had a plan, whatever that plan was, we would soon find out.

In the meantime, I thought he might have an interesting story to tell, and I had a few hours to kill.

He sullenly watched me come down the fuselage, and then sit next to him, loosely putting what passed as a seat belt on just in case we hit an air pocket.  The flight was not as smooth as it might be on a commercial airliner and was certainly a lot noisier.

“Have you spoken to the right people yet?” I almost had to yell in his ear.  

Lallo had said he was going to get Jacobi to call his friendly General in the Congo army to smooth the way, and it would be interesting to know under what circumstances Jacobi had explained our arrival at his border.  And another to tell the kidnappers we were on our way.  Monroe said he had made several supervised phone calls, but not exactly who to.

We had to pray that the General would be among those to also help us locate the targets and, once the exchange was made, assist us in our departure, for a small sum to compensate them for the inconvenience.

He knew why I’d come to see him.  “The captors know we are coming, and hopefully before the time limit has passed.  They will kill them this time if we don’t get there in time.”

“I’m sure they’d like us to think that, but you know as well as I do they need the ransom for their ongoing operations.  Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to plan f which is where they kill us, the hostages, and just take the ransom.  Either way, I hate to be the one who is only going to make things worse, but I don’t get to decide what’s right or wrong.”

“It’s how it works out there.  Everyone is available for a price.  If it wasn’t this lot, it’d be another or another.”

“Or the military, maybe, looking to cash in because the state doesn’t pay them enough.  That’s why we’re putting you at the head of the procession.  If we’re ambushed, you’ll be the first to go.”

“I admire your lack of faith in me.”

“You haven’t done anything to inspire faith, Jacobi.  But so long as you keep your word, and do everything right, I won’t have to shoot you.”

There was no horrified look.  He knew the score of being in the ‘Mr. In-Between’ business.  He would no doubt get a share of the diamonds for brokering the deal, on top of whatever Lallo offered him, and a cut of the General and his men’s fees for guaranteeing our safety.  I guess his business also had its hazards, wasn’t for the faint-hearted, and for those working all sides of the fence, a particularly exciting time.

Generals, soldiers, kidnappers, rebels, practically every man and his dog had an itchy trigger finger.

“It’s not me you have to worry about.”

“How so?”

“I didn’t betray them the last time, and that person was never identified.”

A good point.  “Then let’s hope no one else knows we’re coming, or what we’re bringing as ransom.”

He looked at me, a look that told me I thought he might just make a play for the diamonds himself and forget about the targets.  It was a very tempting ransom.

“You know how it is.  Spies are everywhere.”

“Just make sure you’re not one of them.”

I think I said it with just enough sincerity that he believed me.

“It’s not worth my while, I assure you.  Once you’re involved in a double-cross, you cease to be of worth to anyone.  I will not be the source of your problems if there are any.”

For a man who’d already been caught out in a raft of lies, there was nothing he could say that would make me trust him.  He was going to require an escort once we landed.

I had two perfect candidates for the job.  Williamson and Shurl.  From what I had observed on the ground before we boarded the plane, and in the plane, they stuck together.  I got the impression they knew each other.

After I left Jacobi, I told them what I wanted them to do.

It was the day for sullen responses.  They didn’t want to be babysitters.  Tough.

Next, I went and visited Mobley, sitting closer to the front of the plane, by himself.  Monroe had sat with him for an hour or so before we reached Djibouti, and it had raised a small flag.

I staggered towards him, the pilots deciding to take the rough path through the sky, and almost fell into the seat next to him.

He didn’t look at me the whole time, even when I’d sat down.  Was he pretending to ignore me, or had he decided he was above taking my orders?

“I’ve got a few hours to waste so if you think I’m going away forget it,” I said, loud enough to get his attention.

A slight flutter of an eyelid.  Not asleep.

“Monroe tells me you’re in charge of this motley crew,” he said, still not looking at me.

“Not because I want to be.  I’m not sure what your reason is to be here, and, frankly, I don’t care, but I really don’t want to be here.  I wasn’t given a choice.  I’m guessing you did from what I’ve been told.  We don’t have time to debate the issue.  What I want you to do is when we arrive at the base, is hang back, come up with whatever excuse will fly, and give us several hours head start.  You’ll be with one of Chiswick’s men.  What’s important is to check no one follows us.”

“You think someone might?”  A look of almost interest.

“I’m sure of it.  There’s no way we will get to the base in Uganda, no matter how far from civilization it is, and not be noticed, or worse, that someone already knows we’re coming.”

“What’s the ultimate rendezvous?”

“Over the border in the Congo.”  I passed him a hand-drawn map of the area, from the landing strip to the GPS co-ordinates of the exchange point in the Congo, but not the track that we would be taking, some of which I hoped might be by the river.  I think Monroe had given him as much detail of the job as she could, as she probably had all of them.

“Monroe in the loop?”

“She will be by the time we land.”

“Good.”

Eyes closed again; the conversation was over.

Time to have a talk to Monroe.

“Got some good news,” she said when I sat next to her.

“We’re turning around and going home?”

“Where is home?”

It was an interesting question.  I’d been bounced around so many airbases, I don’t think I’d had a permanent fixed address from the day I signed up.  Was it where I used to live?  No point going back, everyone I’d known back then had either moved on or died.  Technically I was now an orphan, and unlike others, I had no family of my own to go home to.

“No idea anymore, I’m afraid.  So, what’s this good news.”

“We have an exit strategy.  Bamfield told me to tell you everything is in place.  All we have to do is liberate a plane and we’re on our way home.  It’s the reason why Davies is on the mission, Bamfield says she can fly anything.”

“I’ve never heard of a plane called ‘anything’.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Any other details?”

“We’ll know exactly what the score is when we get there.  That’s all I know at the moment.”

“There’s more?”

“Hopefully through the pilot’s last contact with Bamfield.  Otherwise, it’s going to be just another boring day at the office.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Back on the alien vessel

…

If asking for and getting what you wanted was the technology of lesser beings, what was the other world’s technology like?

It was a question I asked myself, or perhaps a moment after, if the alien people we were currently talking to had difficulties with other more advanced people in their galaxy, where would we fit into the picture?

It was a worrying thought, because through time those that were inferior, in our world, were always subjugated by the more superior.

Granted we had spaceships making us seem reasonably advanced, but theirs were not like the one I was on.  We thought we were very clever getting the ship we were on into space, but out there, now, I certainly didn’t feel clever, or superior.

There was also the revelation that we had been observed for a long time, our progress monitored, and basically rejected as likely candidates for being welcomed.  Or being told we were not alone.

It must have been a dock to see us turn up one their proverbial doorstep, but not so great as out that they knew about us.  It was a case of our reputation preceded us, and it wasn’t the good, only the bad.

It would be true to say, given everything we’d done to our world through greed and selfishness, that finding off-world destinations for colonization was a definite requirement rather than an option, and along with that, to find and learn from other civilizations, especially those that had been in the same plight.

And having found what we had always believed, well, a lot of us anyway, that there was other life in the galaxy, it wasn’t going to sit well that we were basically in the ‘cane man’ stage of development as a civilization.

It was not much of a starting point for any sort of negotiation, diplomatic or otherwise, along with the prospect of meeting the other civilizations in this quadrant if it could be called that, basically from behind that proverbial eight-ball.

We were still no wiser as to where these people came from, or that it was near our first intended destination, Proxima Centauri.  We had a list NASA had compiled, earth-like exotic plants that were thought to be able to support life.

Several of the meetings between the world’s greatest scientific minds, when they were not off on one of their theoretical rants, all concluded that there should be life out in the universe somewhere, that all the known explanations of our existence were wrong, and we were descendants of aliens, possibly more than one species. 

It was a fanciful notion that drew interesting reactions from the Darwinians who believed we descended from the apes, the church, still stuck on their Adam and Eve theory, and others that we evolved after the ‘big bang’, or that our DNA arrived via a colliding meteor, which had me puzzled.

Now, I was not sure what I believed.

The Russian captain, now free of being threatened with an alien weapon, had completed a full circuit of the bridge, taken a moment to stare out into space, and where our ships were standing off, then come and join us.

I had a hundred questions, but the first was, “What was your mission?”

“Beat you lot into space.  To be honest we never expected you’d ever get that ship out of the space dock”

A year late, and people still arguing over staffing, fittings, weapons, technology, even bragging rights, if it hadn’t been for the Admiral, we might still be there.

“You didn’t answer the question, not specifically.  No one just wants to be first, and especially not brave about it.”

“Not yet.”

“I assume you’ve been in communication back home?”

“Communication wasn’t one of the strong points since no one really knew how to make instant calls work, so not really.  We’re basically flying by the seat of our pants.”

“I can see that, applying earth mentality to alien relations.  I would have thought you and your superiors would take a more diplomatic approach.”

“We tried.  You do realize were are technically inferior to this lot, and they don’t view us as being worthy of their time and effort.  Apparently, they knew exactly who we are, and where we were from, something I find hard to believe.”

“Did you visit the planet?”

“We were stopped by a patrolling ship, and they actually fired on us.”

I was not surprised.  We would have done exactly the same, in reverse.

“So, you started on the wrong foot and it only got worse from there.”

“What would you have done in the same situation?”

“Be less confrontational, but then, we’re on an exploratory mission, not one that takes whatever we can steal or in your case kidnap.  Did you realize who those people were?”

“They approached us.  Before we got to their planet we got a distress signal from what looked like a space station, quite a distance from the planet.  We didn’t know it was a prison, only that there were people in distress.  We rescued them, as anyone else would.  That’s when the proverbial hit the fan.”

“Did you know they had specialist knowledge?”

“Eventually, when the aliens came after us, I told them I needed to know why they were being so angry about a few criminals.  I offered them sanctuary if they were willing to share their knowledge.  They agreed.”

“They didn’t want to go home?”

“No.  They said they’d be killed by their own people.   We call it treason, they call it something else, but its more or less the same thing.  Now they’re going to kill all of us.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

Rolf Mayer had always had a dream to travel to other planets, and when he heard that the government was putting together a team of scientists with the express intention of building rockets, he gathered up his few belongings and traveled to Pennemunde to join the group being led by Werner von Braun.

At first, he had been turned away, but a chance meeting with von Braun changed his fortune.  

But, when Adolf Hitler came to power, it seemed that quest to reach the other planets became a quest to build a military weapon that would devastate an enemy city.  He had expressed his opposition to the project, but that was silenced when some Nazi party officials came from Berlin to give those scientists with reservations an ‘attitude readjustment’.

From then on all of the scientists knew when their allegiances lay and that there would be no time for traveling to the stars, even though, secretly, he drew on the experience and knowledge of the rockets they were building and testing to design his own rocket.  One day.

Then, as if only weeks had passed, the war had been declared, and the scientists had to work harder on creating a weapon which, in its first instance became known as the V1 flying bomb.  V, of course, stood for vengeance.

Later, when the enemy had bombed Pennemunde out of existence they moved to Nordhausen.  This place was different, underground where it could not be bombed, but there was something rather sinister about it.  Slave labor, prisoners from a local concentration camp were forced to work there, and the souls that he saw were not fit for work, or for anything else.

At Nordhausen, they worked on the V2 rockets, rockets in the true sense of the word, and it was abhorrent to him that they should be used for wholesale murder rather than their true purpose.  A promotion to Haupsturnfuhere in the SS and making him responsible for the horrific crimes being committed against humanity was the last straw.

He had enough information to create his own rocket based on the success of the V2, and it was time to leave, get away from this place before it killed him too.  There was only one problem, the real SS was watching, everyone and everything.  They trusted no-one, not even their own fellow officers.

Mayer was one of the scientists lucky enough to get a billet to the town nearby.  It was quiet enough, but he believed everyone living there knew what was going on, and worse, they knew about the concentration camp and the evil that went on inside.  Worse still, he knew everyone was watching everyone else, and reporting back to the SS anything out of the ordinary, including newcomers.

One such man came into the town, dressed as Obersturnfurer with one other SS officer in a car.  Everyone knew how impossible it was to get fuel, or if you had a car, a permit to use it except for essential services, or if it was requisitioned.

They were SS, so no one questioned why they were there.  But that didn’t mean that whispers of their presence didn’t filter around the town.  Just the very mention of the SS gave most people cold shivers.

Mayer heard about the two mysterious visitors when he arrived downstairs where he was lodging.  

“They were asking about the people staying here and wanted to see their papers.  I think they’re looking for someone, someone from the factory.”

“Nonsense.  They’re probably here to see some of their friends up at the camp.”

With that, he dismissed the visitors from his mind and went up to his room.  He unlocked the door and went in.  A moment later he realized his room had been thoroughly searched, and the mess left as a warning.  Had someone told the SS of his discontent.  He hadn’t said as much, but attitude and body language would have told a different story.

Then the door closed behind him with a bang, and the moment a hand touched his shoulder he jumped in fright.

There’s been a man behind the door.

“I suggest you do not speak or do anything that might bring attention to us.  Am I clear?”

Mayer nodded.

“Good.”

Another man, dressed in the uniform of a SS Standartenfuhrer, stepped out of the shadows in front of him holding a folder, the folder that contained his drawings and specifications for a more advanced V2 rocket,

Condemning evidence of him being a traitor to the Reich unless he could put a different spin on it.  He waited to see what the Standartenfuher had to say.

“This is damning evidence of your traitorous behavior.  We received information that you were stealing secrets from the Reich?  For whom, Mayer?  The British or the Americans?”

“I did not steal anything.  I work on the plans here in my spare time, away from that place.”  He realized the moment he said it, it might not be the best idea to be critical of anything, because it was always taken as a criticism of the Reich itself.

“Are you displeased with your working environment.  No one else has raised such issues.”

“No, no,” he added hastily, “it was not what I meant.  It’s just difficult to think clearly on problems when we’re under so much pressure.”

The Standartenfuhrer shook his head.  “Enough Mayer.  You are coming with us to explain yourself.”

“You need to clear this….”

“We don’t need anyone’s permission, Mayer.  We walk out of here, into the car, and not a word to anyone.  Any trouble I will not hesitate to shoot you.  Understand?”

Mayer nodded.

This wasn’t good.  Arrested by the SS.  There could be only one outcome.  It wouldn’t matter what he said, it would be the cells and then the firing squad.  He’d heard the rumors.

The other SS officer went first, the Mayer, then the Standartenfuhrer, down the stairs and past the owner of the boarding house.  The Standartenfuhrer stopped, and said, “This man’s papers, now.”

The owner stepped back into a room and came out a minute later and handed the Standartenfuhrer the document.

“No one is to be told what happened here.  Not unless you want us to come back and arrest your family.”

“Yes sir,” the owner said, very scared.

The proceeded to the car, got in, Mayer in the back with the Standartenfuhrer, and they drove off.  Only two people saw the whole event, and because it was by the SS, they were not going to tell anyone.

“Where are we going?” Mayer asked.

“Headquarters.  You will be wise to sit, be quiet and say nothing under any circumstances.”

Headquarters was in Berlin, at least that’s where he went to be made an officer of the SS, as a Hauptsturmfuhrer to give him the necessary authority to take charge of certain aspects of the production process of the V2 rockets.

And that included work on improving the guidance system.

But, he noticed they were not going north, but south.

© Charles Heath 2020

I’m back to writing, sitting at the desk, pad in front of me, pen in hand.
The only thing lacking, an idea

It’s 9:03 am, too early to start on a six-pack.

I need to try and concentrate on the job at hand, but it isn’t working.

Blogging, websites, Twitter and Facebook, all of these social media problems are swirling around in my mind.

The more I read the more it bothers me that if I don’t have the right social media presence if I do not start to build an email list, all of my efforts in writing a book will come to naught.  And especially so, if I don’t hire a professional to do my cover.  Another problem to add to the ever-growing list.

Then I start trawling the internet for information on marketing and found a plethora of people offering any amount of advice for anything between a ‘small amount’ to a rather large amount that gives comprehensive coverage of most social media platforms for periods of a day, a week or a month.  I don’t have a book so it’s a bit early to be worrying about that.

I move onto the people who offer advice for a cost on how to build a following, how to build a web presence, how to get a thousand Twitter followers, how to get thousands of email followers before the launch.

The trouble is I’m writing a novel, not a nonfiction book, or have some marvelous 30-page ebook on how to do something, for free just to drive people to my site.  I’m a novelist, not a handyman so those ideas while good is not going to help me.  And there are enough people out there telling the rest of us how to be a writer, how to be a marketer and then some.  The problem is, most of them are one long advertisement, offering the ‘real’ answers’ for money.

I’m not sure how many people have my email address, but I’m getting over a hundred emails a day, all asking me to buy some sort of guaranteed service.

Yet another problem to wrestle with along with actually creating a product to sell in the first place.

Except I’m supposed to be writing for the love of it without the premeditated idea of writing for gain or getting rich quick.

What am I missing here?

So should l be writing short stories and offering them for free to drive people to my site?  These would have to be genre-specific so it needs time and effort and fit into a convenient size story that will highlight or showcase my talent.

Or should I create a website for the novel and set up pages for the characters and get some interaction going that way?  It will be difficult without giving the whole plot away so if I do it will have to be carefully managed.  And, in doing so, it will be taking me away from what I’m supposed to be doing, writing.

Of course, I could get someone else to set all this up for me, but I haven’t got fifty dollars, let along the $5,000 they are asking.   Yes, I can create a free site, yes, I can find a cheaper option if I looked hard enough, but, again, it takes me away from my primary objective.

I don’t think I will have a good night’s sleep again with all of these social media problems I’m going to have.

Oh well, back to the book.  It’s time to have a nightmare of a different sort!

When I opened my eyes I was in a room, not immediately recognizable, because it looked like my room, in my parent’s house where I grew up, when I was a young boy.

The curtains fluttered on the other side of the room, around the edges a muted light that could have been the moon or street lighting.

It was warm, the breeze pushing pas the curtain material and washing over me in gentle waves.  I was hot and could feel the sweat on my brow.

It reminded me of the long summer days, the warmth stretching into the night, and the cool breezes that made the endless heat bearable, where the only covering you needed was a sheet, and then sometimes not.

There was movement, also, on the other side of the room, a figure curled up in a chair, the form of which was framed as a silhouette against the indistinct light, now a little brighter.  My eyes were rapidly adjusting, and shapes were becoming clearer.

I turned my head slightly and saw a door with a window in it, slightly ajar.  My bedroom door had never had a window,

I tried to speak but couldn’t, my throat dry, and made swallowing difficult.  It felt like something was stuck in my throat.

I tried to think, but it made my head hurt, and, then, a thousand images flashed before my eyes, or what seemed like a thousand, of a time I’d never known about.

Not until now.

Of a past that I’d known was lurking somewhere in my mind.  Of a missing period of my life that had been, up till now, locked away, and beyond my grasp.

And for a good reason.

It was awful.

No.  It was horrendous.

No.  It was worse than that.  Words could not describe the images, the feelings, the despair, the hopelessness.

And then I screamed.  Bound, in pain, feeling a charge of electric current run through me, trying to beg them to stop, only to find my mouth stuffed with a filthy, horrible tasting rag, making me gag.

Then it stopped, and I slumped back, easing the muscles that had tensed in pain, opening my eyes to see a man, Chinese, holding a knife over me, saying, “You will tell me what I want to know” over and over, then slowly pushing the knife near my shoulder, the pain unbearable as I screamed and begged for him to stop.

And as suddenly it started, it stopped.

It had to be a dream.  It had to be.

Then nothing.

I’m not sure about the knife wound, what impact or damage it may have or cause so some investigation is needed.

And that’s not where it ends.  More of the nightmare tomorrow!

© Charles Heath 2018-2020