David Golemon - Ancients

Captain Van Valkenburg never made it back to his cabin and the safe that contained the whereabouts of the Key. He died on the bridge of his ship, knowing that the secret of the Ancients would go down with the Arizona . Of the 1,177 men of the great warship, fewer than 200 survived, and not one of them knew of the great secret taken with her to the muddy bottom of Pearl Harbor, on December 7, 1941.

The Brit and the American, wearing the uniforms of Waffen-SS colonels, waited beside a bombed out building three hundred yards away from the German chancellery. The artillery barrage was relentless. The Russian army had just closed the circle of death that very morning. Berlin was now surrounded by the whole of the Red Army, and the order of the day was to smash the German capital until no stone stood upright.

"Maybe Moeller and Ivan got the hell blown out of them," said the American as he ducked back behind a wall of fallen masonry just as a shell burst in the road a hundred yards away.

"We'll know in about thirty seconds. The barrage should lift to our right. That's when they should show," the Londoner said as he looked at his wristwatch.

"This is a lot of risk just to deliver a message to a dead man, if you ask me."

The Englishman smirked as he looked from his watch to Harold Tomlinson, his American counterpart in this madness. "Ours is not to wonder why ..."

"Don't hand me that 'do or die' crap. Our part in this little war ended when we pulled out in 1941."

Suddenly the shelling lessened enough that they heard the sound of a motorcycle winding its way toward them.

"Right on time. Bloody amazing coordination if I do say so myself," Gregory Smythe said as he spied the motorcycle with a sidecar attached approaching them erratically.

As the driver and rider stopped and ran for cover, the artillery barrage started up again, shattering buildings and tearing into the last of the German home guard.

"Someday I hope someone explains to us how the Coalition Council pulled off this little stunt," the American said as he hurriedly waved the Russian and German to the protective side of the broken wall.

"Friends in high places, I imagine, even in the Soviet army," Paul Moeller said as he slumped against the wall. "But that didn't stop those German children and old men from shooting at us."

"Viktor Dolyevski, when we enter the bunker, may I suggest that you not utter a word. I think even the slightest Russian accent may set these fools off. Our masters may think we are expendable, but I do not."

The big Russian just nodded at Smythe as he placed his black helmet on his head and slapped at some of the dust he had gathered on the ride through the lines.

"Well, gentlemen, this way to the chancellery," Smythe said as he gestured to his left.

The four counterfeit officers were led into the alcove 130 feet below the chancellery building. A sour smell permeated the inducted air and a mildewed presence hung in front of the men like an angry ghost.

A colonel who had a decidedly skeletal look about him had taken the wax-sealed envelope from Smythe and arched his brow, and then had quickly ordered the Coalition visitors to be disarmed. As they were unceremoniously searched and prodded by the overly large SS guards, the four men could hear the sound of drunken laughter coming from somewhere in the back of the cavernous bunker.

"What could have been, reduced to this," Smythe said sadly, as he looked around the sparsely appointed waiting room.

Before anyone could answer the Englishman's comment, the SS colonel returned and smartly clicked his polished heels together and half bowed. Behind him stood a short man in a gray, very plain uniform. He was hatless and his hair had been oiled so heavily that it shone brightly under the harsh bulbs hanging from the cement ceiling. Behind him was a skinny soul who had the face of a ferret. This man was of course recognizable not only to the visitors in the room but to most people the world over. Joseph Goebbels, Hitler's Minister of Propaganda, was sneering at the men before him.

"I must know what it is you are here to see the fuhrer about," he demanded, looking from one face to the other. His eyes lingered upon the countenance of Dolyevski a moment longer than on the American, the Brit, or the German.

The smell of cologne was thick in the air and radiated from Goebbels, but it was the underlying smell of sweat and fear that was sickening above all else.

"We are not here to talk with the likes of you, Heir Minister, but must speak with that fool you call--"

The Englishman held a hand up to the American's face to silence him.

"Our business is with your fuhrer, no one else," Smythe said, shooting Tomlinson a withering look.

Goebbels looked at the American with disdain.

"This man will take you to him," he said as he stepped aside, the movement hampered by his clubfoot. "But make no mistake: your business here will change nothing."

The four representatives of the Coalition exchanged amused looks.

"My name is Boorman. Will you gentlemen follow me, please." He gestured for the men to follow him.

The two secretaries outside the single door looked as if it were a normal workday. They did not flinch when a woman located somewhere in the labyrinthe depths of the bunker screamed. Both secretaries looked up, not with smiles but with nods at Boorman.

"You may go right in. He is very pleased the representatives of the Coalition have arrived," said Traudle Junge, the younger of the two secretaries.

The American looked at the not-too-bad-looking woman for a moment and smiled. She just stared at him until he became self-conscious and followed the others.

Before Boorman had a chance to open the thick door, another woman opened it, hurried out, and smiled as she passed the five men. Her blond hair was perfectly coiffed and her makeup was impeccable.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," she said as she fluttered her thick lashes and moved off to confer with Hitler's secretaries. Eva Braun did not give the visitors so much as a curious second look.

The four men entered the antechamber of Hitler's personal quarters. They smelled fresh flowers and the ghostly remains of Ms. Braun's perfume as they stood rigidly before a man who was ghostly white and as frail as a man twenty years beyond his age.

"You gentlemen have five minutes to state your business. The furher has a defense meeting with his generals at that time," Boorman stated flatly.

Smythe almost laughed at the statement. He felt as if he had stepped into the antechamber of the Mad Hatter instead of the leader of the Third Reich.

Hitler was using his right hand to write something; he kept his left hand out of sight. The glasses he wore looked bent and out of shape. Finally, he looked up with medicinally dilated eyes, dead eyes, the eyes of the insane.

"Why would traitors to my reich show themselves here?" he asked quietly as he removed his glasses, but refused to look at the four men.

"The Coalition Council is aware of your plans to escape this bunker; we have also come into intelligence that you and your people plan to make for the Argentine coast. We are here to tell you that this thing will not happen."

Hitler closed his eyes and allowed his right hand to disappear under his desk to still the left hand and arm, which shook uncontrollably.

The German guest spoke up. "The Coalition has ordered that you remain here." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a large box, and placed it on Hitler's desk. "The contents of this box are far more lethal and will end this fiasco with more assurance than anything that quack doctor of yours may prescribe. Since you will not be taking your U-boat cruise to the Americas, you are to take your life within twenty-four hours of this meeting, or the Soviet army will take you as prisoner, a sentence that many in the Coalition insist upon anyway. Some believe these pills are too easy."