Just when you think you’ve got a good start, it all comes crashing down.
Here’s the thing…
I’ve been planning the sequel for quite some time, and from time to time, I’ve been jotting down notes about how the story will go. I thought I had filed them all in the same place, and because I thought I had all of them, I missed a part.
This was confirmed when I found a synopsis, something I rarely make before writing a story, with details of several sections I obviously added when the thought came to me. Perhaps the idea of the synopsis was to consolidate all the ideas, at a time when I thought I was going to sit down and write the story.
Dated a month or so before covid came along, I suspect it all got set aside for the two or so year’s hiatus.
Now, the time has come, and today, I went n a detailed search of three computers, four phones, cloud storage, and the boxes that hold all the handwritten notes.
I have a reference to the section, and several chapters, but no writing. In the back of my mind, I have a feeling I’d written the chapters, but the evidence says otherwise.
Damn!
I’ll move on, and come back to it later. At the moment it doesn’t have relevance.
Oh, and Zoe has now become Mary-Anne. What is John going to think when he finally finds her.
…
Todays writing, introducing Mary Anne, 1,501 words, for a total of 3,610.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Is it possible to mix the two up? I don’t think so.
Great usually means: everything is great, or good, or excellent, whatever degree of goodness you want to put to it.
It could also mean something else, like: Well, you were a great help! when in fact you want to say how useless they were.
Large or little.
Like all creatures great and small, Why not say big or small. Big doesn’t quite have the same effect.
Of course, you could be a great person, well, what I really mean is distinguished. Besides, great could mean way above average, too. Or grand, or impressive, the list goes on.
And haven’t we all, at some time had a great-aunt. No not the good one, the ‘great’ one, denoting her seniority, not necessarily how nice she is.
As for the other grate, we can build a fire in it.
Or add an ‘un’ in front and ‘ful’ at the end, to denote what parents sometimes think of their children
Or get a block of cheese and ‘grate’ it into small shreds.
Or speak in a voice that grates on your nerves, possibly by that great-aunt.
At the end of the first book in the series, Alistair, Zoe the assassin’s handler, was killed.
As far as he was concerned, Zoe had reneged on the contract to kill a target, and for that, she had to be punished, just to let the rest of the team know they could not decide arbitrarily who or who they would not kill.
For her sins, Zoe had been captured and was about to be executed when John, the man who wanted to become her boyfriend, turned up on a luckless and unplanned rescue mission.
But as ad-hoc operations go, that one was very successful. Zoe, though badly injured aided John in a do-or-die escape.
Alistair learned to his chagrin, that a badly injured Zoe and untrained well-meaning friend trumped overconfidence.
Of course, Alistair’s death does not go unnoticed, and his mother, a renowned and very capable ex-KGB agent with connections, wanted to avenge his death. Her influence reaches as far as the upper echelons of the State’s intelligence services, and requests from her would never be ignored.
Such a request for information is made, and so starts the next book in the series.
Revenge.
Of course, nothing to do with Zoe or John, or their relationship, runs smoothly, and once again in pursuit of the impossible, makes it his mission in life to win over the assassin-on-sabbatical.
But first, he has to find her., and sort through the lies and treachery of his best friend who is also looking for Zoe, but for entirely different reasons.
…
Todays writing, the first three chapters, 2,109 words
If there was one thing Bryson hated, it was informing the next of kin of a death. And particularly when that next of kin hated the victim.
He had to admit, going up in the elevator in what was a sumptuous and expensive building of apartments, that the ex, in this case, had done very well out of the marriage breakup.
A quick search of the internet, as background, he discovered she was to battle him over what appeared to be hidden assets, and endure some rather terrible disclosures on her post-separation behaviour, in the process, but 20 million plus a penthouse worth 10 million more could make that humiliation bearable.
As for Bergman himself, and his role in the divorce proceedings, Bryson was not expecting much cooperation.
He had also called ahead knowing that unless he had a purpose to be there, he would not get inside the front entrance, let alone get up to the apartment to see her. Security, in the wake of the divorce revelations, made getting into the building the same as entry to Fort Knox.
That advance call told him almost everything he needed to know about her. If this was in medieval times, he would be wearing a full suit of armour.
He steeled himself, then rang the doorbell.
The door was opened by a maid, dressed in a maid outfit. Who insisted on that convention these days?
“Detective Bryson to see Mrs Bergman.”
“You might want to rethink how you address her. It’s now Ms Hollingworth.” A look of disdain on the maid’s face told him the weather inside the apartment was cold, with a wind chill factor of minus ten.
“Right.”
The maid stepped to one side and let him pass.
Just inside was a small vestibule, and a second set of concertina doors now open, displaying a rather ornate living space with marble floors, spectacular views of the city, and scattered works of art that screamed expensive.
Bergman was paying dearly for the divorce. One article suggested he needed better lawyers.
The maid closed the concertina doors leaving him alone in the room.
For about three minutes.
Mrs Bergman, no, get it right, Ms Hollingworth, no, damned if he was going to call her Ms Hollingworth, swept into the room, nothing short of a grand entrance.
Stacey Bergman, now Hollingsworth, was a chorus girl before she became a trophy wife. Yes, the trashy press still ran stories like that, and Bryson still read the trashy press, not only for the salacious stories but for information that could prove useful when dealing with society.
But that fanciful group were, he concluded a long time ago, the same as everyone else except they had money to burn. But like everyone else, they still had the same failings, jealousy, greed, and the one difference to the common man, they could afford to hire someone else to commit the crime, and then hire the best lawyers to divert the blame.
This woman before him was everything that was wrong in the world.
She stopped by the settee, put her hands on the back-head rest and surveyed him, a look of distaste on her face.
He told himself not to be fazed by such intimidation.
“What is it that couldn’t be said on the telephone?”
“I regret to inform you that your ex-husband, James Bergman is dead. I am sorry for your loss.”
He had expected some form of an emotional response, but she didn’t even blink. He had a feeling she probably never felt anything for him.
“Don’t be. I’m glad the bastard is dead.”
“Be that as it may, we are treating his death as suspicious, and in doing so we will be interviewing everyone he has been in contact with recently. Can you tell me where you were between 10pm yesterday and 5am this morning?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Defiance. He’d expected as much.
“No. Not here. But I could have an arrest warrant issued and we could do it downtown after a discreet call to certain members of the press, but I think you’re more reasonable than that. Be assured, this is a murder investigation, and I will do what I have to.”
He wasn’t initially going to go hard on her, but she was typical of the over-privileged who believed the rules were different for them. He could also feel the intense dislike for him in her unblinking stare, while she considered his words.
“I was here, at home.”
“Can anyone corroborate that, like your maid?”
“No. You have my word.”
He tried hard not to let his contempt for her position show though.
“When was the last time you saw your ex-husband?”
“About a week ago at my lawyer’s office. Another round of talks that fell on deaf ears.”
“No communications since?”
“One phone call two days ago with another ridiculous offer so I told him he could go to hell.”
There was hostility in her tone. The hostility could fuel a motive for murder.
“A word of advice. You might want to keep your legal team on standby because you’re high on the list of suspects. Given the hostility you’re harbouring, you have a motive. Not having corroboration of your movements at the time of the murder doesn’t help your case. I suggest you try to be less hostile and more cooperative. Don’t leave the city, I will have more questions.”
The man opened the concertina doors. His interview was over.
Or was it.
“Something else that comes to mind, Detective. He had a girlfriend, I didn’t hear what her name was, or who she is, other than once when I heard him making a date at a restaurant in the city, in one of the Hilton’s. Probably got a room too. If he cheated on her too, maybe she had a good reason to kill him. I didn’t care that much because I needed him alive so I could take him for everything he owns.”
Succinct, and quite possibly the truth, Bryson thought. He wouldn’t be much good to her dead if she was in it for the humiliation.
“If you do think of a name, call me.” He left his card on the table, then remembered something else he needed from her. “Do you have your husband’s phone number, and the name and location of his business?”
Another long stare at him, a withering glance to a lesser man he thought, then she went over a desk by the far wall, pulled out a monogrammed piece of notepaper from one of the drawers and scribbled on it.
She held it out and he came over to collect it. A phone number and a business name. “Don’t know the address?”
“Brooklyn somewhere, I think. Didn’t really care. I have no head for business, and he had no interest in telling me.”
An odd arrangement, but then, some wives were like that. “Thank you.”
At the end of the first book in the series, Alistair, Zoe the assassin’s handler, was killed.
As far as he was concerned, Zoe had reneged on the contract to kill a target, and for that, she had to be punished, just to let the rest of the team know they could not decide arbitrarily who or who they would not kill.
For her sins, Zoe had been captured and was about to be executed when John, the man who wanted to become her boyfriend, turned up on a luckless and unplanned rescue mission.
But as ad-hoc operations go, that one was very successful. Zoe, though badly injured aided John in a do-or-die escape.
Alistair learned to his chagrin, that a badly injured Zoe and untrained well-meaning friend trumped overconfidence.
Of course, Alistair’s death does not go unnoticed, and his mother, a renowned and very capable ex-KGB agent with connections, wanted to avenge his death. Her influence reaches as far as the upper echelons of the State’s intelligence services, and requests from her would never be ignored.
Such a request for information is made, and so starts the next book in the series.
Revenge.
Of course, nothing to do with Zoe or John, or their relationship, runs smoothly, and once again in pursuit of the impossible, makes it his mission in life to win over the assassin-on-sabbatical.
But first, he has to find her., and sort through the lies and treachery of his best friend who is also looking for Zoe, but for entirely different reasons.
…
Todays writing, the first three chapters, 2,109 words
My hobby was something that only a select few had, and that was searching rubbish dumps for useful items.
But there was one exception.
I didn’t search the average rubbish dump, only those I knew were used by organisations and companies that dumped old technology,
If I was lucky, it would be a government department, and the stuff deemed no longer useful to anyone. I often found old computers, without memory or storage of course, but otherwise intact, and I had an excellent museum of computers, from almost the very first.
It was amazing what some companies disposed of, and in one instance I picked a complete, working, mainframe computer. It filled a substantial part of the barn.
Then there were a half dozen communication radios, not the sort that had a short range, no, these devices had almost worldwide coverage. They were also long-wave radio receivers, and I was able to pick up AM radio stations all over the word, and, sometimes, CB transmissions. It came with several sets of manuals, very thick books that made it daunting reading, so they remained in a wooden crate until boredom set in.
But the radios, were, for now, my new toys to play with.
Late one night I was switching between frequencies, looking for anything that might be interesting, and just caught the end of a transmission, “This is a code Zanzibar, I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Will call same time tomorrow.”
Code Zanzibar?
It had to be someone out there somewhere in the world playing a prank.
Perhaps there would be more, so I would tune in tomorrow, fifteen minutes earlier to see if there was any more to the message.
Meantime, full of curiosity, I wondered if there would be anything in any of the books that came with the radios.
I didn’t sleep that night, going through each one practically page by page because the indexes were missing. It was one of those unexplainable oddities, that made me wonder if there was anything in them that the owners hadn’t wanted anyone to find. That in itself seemed even more odd because if it was the case, why didn’t they destroy them?
Somewhere around shortly before dawn, tired, and bored from reading, I fell asleep.
After yet another bollocking from my father about letting my foolish hobby get in the way of work, I had to work extra hard to make up for it and was too tired to continue my studies. I meant to read more before the transmission time, but luckily remembered to set the alarm,
When the alarm went off, I woke with a jolt and nearly forgot why I set it. I got to the radio just before the transmission.
Then I heard it.
“This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.”
I flicked the switch to send a message, and said, “This is station M. This is station M. Can you identify yourself?”
I had discovered in the documentation that the radio set had been set up in what was designated Station M, and that it was one of 26 around the country.
There was no reply, just the same message, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.” For exactly three minutes, then the sign-off, “Will call same time tomorrow.”
Back to the books, I was in the middle of the sixth of seven volumes, at page 1,457, of 2,500 when I saw the heading “Warning Codes”, and then shuffled through 26 pages until I found “Zanzibar”.
When I read the explanation my heart almost stopped.
“Zanzibar – The threat of an alien attack is imminent – designates that actual alien aircraft have been positively identified and heading towards earth”
What the…
When I read some of the other codes, it showed varying descriptions for a number of events involving aliens, and at first, I thought this referred to other countries than our own, but then, on another page I realised that aliens meant aliens from outer space.
And the fact everyone but a few debunked the idea there was other life out there, it made no sense. That transmission could not have come from anywhere on Earth. At least, I didn’t think so, because there had been nothing in the documentation about similar stations in other countries.
Still utterly gobsmacked, I kept reading and found a page where certain information hadn’t been redacted. That was something else. Before the books had been thrown away, a lot of information had been redacted.
Why hadn’t it been destroyed, if it was that sensitive?
This page had a name, Professor Edward Bones. It looked like it had been missed.
Perhaps I could call and ask him what this all meant.
I spend hours trying to match the surname with the locale of where I found the stuff, thinking the original Station M would be nearby. It wasn’t easy because the name wasn’t in the current phone book, so I had to dig a little deeper and find where historical phone records were kept.
That got me the Professor’s address and phone number, and the University he worked at. A search on his name told me he was associated with SETI which had to do with tracking communications, if any, from outer space.
I called the number, but it was decommissioned. No surprise. If I did the math, the Professor would be a hundred and twenty-two if he was still alive, I did the next best thing, I went to the address.
It was a hundred and fifty miles, a long way to go and pin hopes on finding something. The university was on the other side of the country so going there was out of the question. It was hard enough to get my father to let me have the day off for this trip.
It was a gated community just off the main highway, a group of houses set aside on their own, now looking rather worse for wear. There was no longer a gate, but the was a guard house, holes on the roof and broken windows, a divided driveway with what was once lawn and flower beds, all now overgrown leading to a fountain in the middle of a roundabout that led, one way to houses, one way to a shopping centre and the other, sports fields.
It looked to me like this was a purpose-built community, perhaps to look after the radio receivers, waiting for a call that may never come.
And just had.
I drove to the Professor’s house and parked out front. It looked in better condition than those on either side, and when I looked in, saw signs of habitation. Someone was living in it. Not the professor’s ghost I hope.
I waited.
It was nearly dark before a battered Ford pickup stopped in the driveway and what looked to be an old man get out.
He saw me as I got out of my car, and come towards him. He didn’t look surprised, which was worrying.
“Did you know Professor Bones,” I asked? It was unlikely.
“My father, yes. Are you from the government? I have nowhere else to go.”
“No. I’m not. Did you know much about what your father did?”
“Why? Is this going to be another character assassination piece? Are you a reporter?”
“Me? No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I came to ask someone, anyone, if they knew what Cade Zanzibar really means. It can’t possibly mean there’s an imminent alien invasion.”
His expression changed instantly, and it was clear he did know what it meant.
“How do you know anything about Station M, that was top secret, and no one knows, no one still alive that is, other than a few fools back in Washington.”
“I rescued the radio receivers and documents from a dump. I collect old technology. It was just sitting there. I took it home, connected it up, and listened. For the last two nights, there’s been this transmission, ‘This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent’.
“My God. Where are they now?”
“My place.”
“Where?”
I told him.
“We have to go. Now. Take me. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
It was the stuff of science fiction comics. Transmission had been received, many years back, from what was believed an alien race under attack from another. He hesitated before he said it was believed there was life on Mars, but selling the idea there were Martians didn’t go too well. However, the government decided to piggyback onto the moon landings, and several other missions, one on the Moon, one to Mars, one to Jupiter and another to Saturn.
Not on the planets. But space stations orbiting the planets, sort of early warning stations. That first transmission had the implied threat that the aggressive aliens were heading towards Earth.
Apparently not as fast as was suspected. The stations were built, volunteers were sent on the premise they might never come home, and supplies were sent via a launching pad on the moon. While we were still discussing the possibility of launching missions to the other planets, it had already been done, And no one knew.
Expect the Professor, who lost the plot when the government shut down the program and virtually abandoned these people in the outer space stations.
And that was the purpose of Station M. To maintain communications with the space stations, and the moon base. When they were closed, the stations disappeared. Where I visited the Professor’s son, that was the whole base, kept isolated, and under very tight security.
“All I can think of is that one of the space stations is still in operation, manned by someone who has to be one of the oldest people alive, or they figured out how to automate a message given certain parameters. Anyway, if there’s a transmission tonight, we’ll soon find out.”
All I could think of was that I’d just unearthed the biggest secret of all time. One that it was likely I could never tell anyone about.
Unless there really were aliens coming to attack us.
A minute or so later, the transmission came in, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent”.
Bones had already looked over the units and certified they were in full working order and showed me the sequence of switches that turned on two-way communications.
After the message, he switched to transmit, “This is Station M, repeat, this is Station M receiving you. Please advise details.”
He switched back to receive and static burst out of the speaker. This went on for a minute, then a weak voice. “Is that you Freddie?”
“Yes. The Prof’s son. Who are you?”
“Alistair Montgomery. I was last to arrive when I was six. There are two of us left. I think Saturn and Mars have ceased. What happened back there?”
“Funding. Lack of results. Bean-counting accountants thought ramping up for wars at home was more important. We knew it would happen one day.
“Five years, Freddie.”
“Your transmission? Code Zanzibar. Is it relevant, or just to get our attention?”
“It’s real. We saw about 50 large ships go by on the long-range radar. Heading for the earth, not moving very fast. I estimate they would take several days to reach to outer limits of our Thermosphere.”
“They didn’t come to see you?”
“No. Sad, because I was hoping to be the first to meet an alien. That might yet be you.”
“Are you going to be OK up there? I can’t tell you we coming to get you.”
“We knew what we were signing on for. But it would be nice if you could keep in touch/.”
“Do what I can. Over and out.”
He went around the back of the unit, and I heard what sounded like the ejecting of a cassette tape. When he came back, he showed it to me. “This should make the bastards sit up and take notice.”
He grabbed his coat. “We have to go. Take me to the nearest airport.”
We made it outside to the car when three black SUV’s pulled up abruptly and a dozen armed men got out and surrounded us.
Then a man in a suit got out of the lead vehicle and came over.
Bones recognised him.
“I didn’t think it would take you long. Been monitoring for transmissions, have you?”
“We knew your father didn’t follow orders but had no proof. Who are you,” he glared at me.
“I rescued the radios.”
He sighed. “Bloody contractors. Never do as they’re told.” He shook his head. “Cuff them and throw them in the car.”
They might have, had it not been for one minor matter. In the half-light of night, it suddenly went quite dark, except for the car headlights, until suddenly the whole area was lit up like a movie studio. We all looked up and…
My hobby was something that only a select few had, and that was searching rubbish dumps for useful items.
But there was one exception.
I didn’t search the average rubbish dump, only those I knew were used by organisations and companies that dumped old technology,
If I was lucky, it would be a government department, and the stuff deemed no longer useful to anyone. I often found old computers, without memory or storage of course, but otherwise intact, and I had an excellent museum of computers, from almost the very first.
It was amazing what some companies disposed of, and in one instance I picked a complete, working, mainframe computer. It filled a substantial part of the barn.
Then there were a half dozen communication radios, not the sort that had a short range, no, these devices had almost worldwide coverage. They were also long-wave radio receivers, and I was able to pick up AM radio stations all over the word, and, sometimes, CB transmissions. It came with several sets of manuals, very thick books that made it daunting reading, so they remained in a wooden crate until boredom set in.
But the radios, were, for now, my new toys to play with.
Late one night I was switching between frequencies, looking for anything that might be interesting, and just caught the end of a transmission, “This is a code Zanzibar, I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Will call same time tomorrow.”
Code Zanzibar?
It had to be someone out there somewhere in the world playing a prank.
Perhaps there would be more, so I would tune in tomorrow, fifteen minutes earlier to see if there was any more to the message.
Meantime, full of curiosity, I wondered if there would be anything in any of the books that came with the radios.
I didn’t sleep that night, going through each one practically page by page because the indexes were missing. It was one of those unexplainable oddities, that made me wonder if there was anything in them that the owners hadn’t wanted anyone to find. That in itself seemed even more odd because if it was the case, why didn’t they destroy them?
Somewhere around shortly before dawn, tired, and bored from reading, I fell asleep.
After yet another bollocking from my father about letting my foolish hobby get in the way of work, I had to work extra hard to make up for it and was too tired to continue my studies. I meant to read more before the transmission time, but luckily remembered to set the alarm,
When the alarm went off, I woke with a jolt and nearly forgot why I set it. I got to the radio just before the transmission.
Then I heard it.
“This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.”
I flicked the switch to send a message, and said, “This is station M. This is station M. Can you identify yourself?”
I had discovered in the documentation that the radio set had been set up in what was designated Station M, and that it was one of 26 around the country.
There was no reply, just the same message, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.” For exactly three minutes, then the sign-off, “Will call same time tomorrow.”
Back to the books, I was in the middle of the sixth of seven volumes, at page 1,457, of 2,500 when I saw the heading “Warning Codes”, and then shuffled through 26 pages until I found “Zanzibar”.
When I read the explanation my heart almost stopped.
“Zanzibar – The threat of an alien attack is imminent – designates that actual alien aircraft have been positively identified and heading towards earth”
What the…
When I read some of the other codes, it showed varying descriptions for a number of events involving aliens, and at first, I thought this referred to other countries than our own, but then, on another page I realised that aliens meant aliens from outer space.
And the fact everyone but a few debunked the idea there was other life out there, it made no sense. That transmission could not have come from anywhere on Earth. At least, I didn’t think so, because there had been nothing in the documentation about similar stations in other countries.
Still utterly gobsmacked, I kept reading and found a page where certain information hadn’t been redacted. That was something else. Before the books had been thrown away, a lot of information had been redacted.
Why hadn’t it been destroyed, if it was that sensitive?
This page had a name, Professor Edward Bones. It looked like it had been missed.
Perhaps I could call and ask him what this all meant.
I spend hours trying to match the surname with the locale of where I found the stuff, thinking the original Station M would be nearby. It wasn’t easy because the name wasn’t in the current phone book, so I had to dig a little deeper and find where historical phone records were kept.
That got me the Professor’s address and phone number, and the University he worked at. A search on his name told me he was associated with SETI which had to do with tracking communications, if any, from outer space.
I called the number, but it was decommissioned. No surprise. If I did the math, the Professor would be a hundred and twenty-two if he was still alive, I did the next best thing, I went to the address.
It was a hundred and fifty miles, a long way to go and pin hopes on finding something. The university was on the other side of the country so going there was out of the question. It was hard enough to get my father to let me have the day off for this trip.
It was a gated community just off the main highway, a group of houses set aside on their own, now looking rather worse for wear. There was no longer a gate, but the was a guard house, holes on the roof and broken windows, a divided driveway with what was once lawn and flower beds, all now overgrown leading to a fountain in the middle of a roundabout that led, one way to houses, one way to a shopping centre and the other, sports fields.
It looked to me like this was a purpose-built community, perhaps to look after the radio receivers, waiting for a call that may never come.
And just had.
I drove to the Professor’s house and parked out front. It looked in better condition than those on either side, and when I looked in, saw signs of habitation. Someone was living in it. Not the professor’s ghost I hope.
I waited.
It was nearly dark before a battered Ford pickup stopped in the driveway and what looked to be an old man get out.
He saw me as I got out of my car, and come towards him. He didn’t look surprised, which was worrying.
“Did you know Professor Bones,” I asked? It was unlikely.
“My father, yes. Are you from the government? I have nowhere else to go.”
“No. I’m not. Did you know much about what your father did?”
“Why? Is this going to be another character assassination piece? Are you a reporter?”
“Me? No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I came to ask someone, anyone, if they knew what Cade Zanzibar really means. It can’t possibly mean there’s an imminent alien invasion.”
His expression changed instantly, and it was clear he did know what it meant.
“How do you know anything about Station M, that was top secret, and no one knows, no one still alive that is, other than a few fools back in Washington.”
“I rescued the radio receivers and documents from a dump. I collect old technology. It was just sitting there. I took it home, connected it up, and listened. For the last two nights, there’s been this transmission, ‘This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent’.
“My God. Where are they now?”
“My place.”
“Where?”
I told him.
“We have to go. Now. Take me. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
It was the stuff of science fiction comics. Transmission had been received, many years back, from what was believed an alien race under attack from another. He hesitated before he said it was believed there was life on Mars, but selling the idea there were Martians didn’t go too well. However, the government decided to piggyback onto the moon landings, and several other missions, one on the Moon, one to Mars, one to Jupiter and another to Saturn.
Not on the planets. But space stations orbiting the planets, sort of early warning stations. That first transmission had the implied threat that the aggressive aliens were heading towards Earth.
Apparently not as fast as was suspected. The stations were built, volunteers were sent on the premise they might never come home, and supplies were sent via a launching pad on the moon. While we were still discussing the possibility of launching missions to the other planets, it had already been done, And no one knew.
Expect the Professor, who lost the plot when the government shut down the program and virtually abandoned these people in the outer space stations.
And that was the purpose of Station M. To maintain communications with the space stations, and the moon base. When they were closed, the stations disappeared. Where I visited the Professor’s son, that was the whole base, kept isolated, and under very tight security.
“All I can think of is that one of the space stations is still in operation, manned by someone who has to be one of the oldest people alive, or they figured out how to automate a message given certain parameters. Anyway, if there’s a transmission tonight, we’ll soon find out.”
All I could think of was that I’d just unearthed the biggest secret of all time. One that it was likely I could never tell anyone about.
Unless there really were aliens coming to attack us.
A minute or so later, the transmission came in, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent”.
Bones had already looked over the units and certified they were in full working order and showed me the sequence of switches that turned on two-way communications.
After the message, he switched to transmit, “This is Station M, repeat, this is Station M receiving you. Please advise details.”
He switched back to receive and static burst out of the speaker. This went on for a minute, then a weak voice. “Is that you Freddie?”
“Yes. The Prof’s son. Who are you?”
“Alistair Montgomery. I was last to arrive when I was six. There are two of us left. I think Saturn and Mars have ceased. What happened back there?”
“Funding. Lack of results. Bean-counting accountants thought ramping up for wars at home was more important. We knew it would happen one day.
“Five years, Freddie.”
“Your transmission? Code Zanzibar. Is it relevant, or just to get our attention?”
“It’s real. We saw about 50 large ships go by on the long-range radar. Heading for the earth, not moving very fast. I estimate they would take several days to reach to outer limits of our Thermosphere.”
“They didn’t come to see you?”
“No. Sad, because I was hoping to be the first to meet an alien. That might yet be you.”
“Are you going to be OK up there? I can’t tell you we coming to get you.”
“We knew what we were signing on for. But it would be nice if you could keep in touch/.”
“Do what I can. Over and out.”
He went around the back of the unit, and I heard what sounded like the ejecting of a cassette tape. When he came back, he showed it to me. “This should make the bastards sit up and take notice.”
He grabbed his coat. “We have to go. Take me to the nearest airport.”
We made it outside to the car when three black SUV’s pulled up abruptly and a dozen armed men got out and surrounded us.
Then a man in a suit got out of the lead vehicle and came over.
Bones recognised him.
“I didn’t think it would take you long. Been monitoring for transmissions, have you?”
“We knew your father didn’t follow orders but had no proof. Who are you,” he glared at me.
“I rescued the radios.”
He sighed. “Bloody contractors. Never do as they’re told.” He shook his head. “Cuff them and throw them in the car.”
They might have, had it not been for one minor matter. In the half-light of night, it suddenly went quite dark, except for the car headlights, until suddenly the whole area was lit up like a movie studio. We all looked up and…
I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.
This might give some clues to the players, and the events.
…
So, the question is, how did I find myself in such a situation.
It came down to choices, as it always does.
And, from the very moment I met Wendy Mauson, I knew life with her, if it came to pass, would be interesting.
She was a popular girl; one of the cheer squad that made their presence felt at most sports. Her usual boyfriend was Garry Frobish, star quarterback and mainstay of the football team. I played basketball, after a fashion, because I had not had the necessary growth spurt in those vital teen years, I found myself relegated to guard, of which there were many.
How did we meet? By accident. Garry, Wendy, and I were all at the same party, Garry made a mistake, they had a huge fight, and I was there. It was not one of those right time right-place events, she just picked me as the most level-headed of those on offer that night. But, I had no illusions, and whilst it was on again and off again over the next year, her real interest, and love of her life was Garry.
So, how did I finish up with Wendy? Wendy and Garry came together as a couple at the prom, and it looked like it was a perfect match. Until he got her pregnant, she wouldn’t get rid of the baby and he dumped her. Who was next, me. Did I know she was pregnant? No. That I discovered much later, at a hospital in tragic circumstances.
But, blissfully ignorant, and universally loved by her family, we were married. And not long after a son, Dale, was born.
I should have recognised the signs in the few months after the birth, where she was rather self-absorbed for a time. Had I investigated it, I would have discovered that she had been seeing Garry again, but that, too, wasn’t discovered until much later too.
But despite the ups and downs, we managed to get along as a family once she settled into the idea of being a mother until Dale was old enough to go to school. Then she went back to work, in the office of the company that was owned by Garry’s parents.
I thought it a coincidence, but, like I said, she managed to keep it all under a shroud of secrecy for many years.
Until the unlikely happened, as it always does. Secrets are not secrets if more than one person knows about it, and if there are more, well, it doesn’t take long for it to become common knowledge.
One of Dale’s friends told him, under the category of ‘can you keep a secret’, that my wife and Garry were ‘old’ friends, and that it had been going on for years. How this ‘friend’ knew about it was never explained, but it turned out to be true.
I spoke to her about it, and she assured me that, yes, they did meet, but it was not like ‘that’. I gave her the benefit of the doubt but followed her a few times observing them together, and it seemed to be as she said.
Then Dale was killed. It was a senseless accident that in any other situation would have seen him walk away with just a few scratches. He was rushed to the hospital and since he was a rare blood type, they tested me, and his mother. Neither of us was a match, which seemed odd. But even when they found a donor, in actual fact Garry, though I didn’t know it at the time, it was too late. In fact, when I identified the body, there was not a mark on him. He had sustained a slight bump to the head which activated an aneurysm.
A week after, when we had the funeral, and everyone came, commiserated, and left, the doctor remained. An old basketball friend, he gave me a piece of paper and told me to read it later. I did. DNA proved that Dale was Garry and Wendy’s son, not mine.
Even then, I was willing to let it go. Wendy had taken Dale’s death hard and decided the only way she could recover was to go away for a while. And not with me. Not a surprise, because we had been arguing a lot, over money, and the way she spent it like it was water, and I thought she had found someone else, and that was who she was going away with.
But, taking her sister was supposed to throw me off the scent.
I guess if you were going to try and continue hiding a secret relationship, you would take steps to prevent the other from finding out. Perhaps her grief had got in the way and clouded her thinking, or she was just in a hurry to leave.
Three weeks later, a phone bill arrived at home, for a phone I certainly didn’t have, so it had to be hers. On it were calls and texts to two numbers, one was Garry’s, the other to a man who was simply a code name. Whilst she had left me numbers of the places she was staying, and with instructions only to call if someone was dying, I did try once, and a man answered.
I put two and two together.
And kept it to myself. Along with all of the evidence, which consisted of a number of accounts, one from a hotel, several from car rental companies and a rental agreement for a flat, one that cost a considerable amount each month, and, when I checked through the finances, which I left her in charge of, I discovered large discrepancies in what she said we had, and what was there.
And, with all the accounts from her recovery ‘holiday’ put on the ‘no limit’ credit card which had to be paid, it took what was left. I was left with the choice of going bankrupt or selling assets. I did the latter, first the condominium in Bermuda, and then the lakeside holiday shack by the lake up country. We rarely used either, so I took the gamble she wouldn’t find out.
Then she came back, I handed the accounts back to her and said nothing. As far as she was aware, the main accounts had sufficient funds to pay the bills, and any money I’d earned in her absence had been squirrelled away.
Perhaps, by that time, I could see the end was nigh.
As it was when Garry was found murdered and set off the chain of events that saw me being implicated in his murder, by Wendy, but for reasons she thought I didn’t know about.
That was about to change when I was summoned to a meeting at her lawyer’s office. I didn’t know she personally had one. Then, there was a lot about Wendy I knew nothing about.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 