David Golemon - Ancients

He heard the man in the shadows clear his throat. In the dimly lit room the young lieutenant couldn't see the nod of the man's head toward one of the brutes standing in front of him. Then one of the men reached out and pulled the tape from his mouth. The pain was sudden but was something the lieutenant could handle. He had expected it. He did his best to give the giant of a man the appropriate glare of rage. The brute only smiled and nodded, as if he understood.

"Your father, he sent you a package three weeks ago, yes?"

The naval officer tried his best to penetrate the shadow where the voice had escaped. He shook his head and tried to clear it. The chloroform used to subdue him earlier was still clouding his mind, but not as much as these men might have believed. He knew he had to fight for time to understand what this was all about.

"I will inquire only once more. Your father sent you a package three weeks ago, yes?"

The man in the shadows crossed his legs, the only part of him to emerge from the darkness since the lieutenant had regained consciousness. The young man wanted to smile. The mysterious man was actually wearing spats on his shoes. Who wore spats anymore? He cleared his throat instead of allowing the smile to cross his face.

"My father lives in Boston.... I ... I haven't received anything from him in five months."

Silence.

The man who had ripped the tape from his mouth took two steps behind the chair, and without warning a flare of excruciating pain shot from the ring finger of his right hand to his elbow.

The young lieutenant let out a scream. Then, as he managed to open his eyes, he saw that the large man was holding something up for him to see. It was his finger, and on the finger was his Annapolis ring, class of 1938. The ring was removed, the finger thrown unceremoniously into his lap. The man who had so deftly cut his finger off placed the ring on the little finger of his own left hand, then he held it up to the dim overhead light and admired it.

"Now, Lieutenant, I will go through the bother of asking again. Your father sent you a package three weeks ago. Yes?"

"My father and I don't speak."

"Yes, we know the family history, young man. He was not too pleased with your choice of careers. Nonetheless, he entrusted to you a package. Now, are going to confirm to us you received this package?"

Keeler lowered his face to stare at the bare concrete floor. He heard the honking of horns and curses of servicemen as they passed on the street above. How he wished he were among them right at this moment.

"Mr. Weiss, please remove his thumb. That should effectively end Mr. Keeler's naval career."

The white class-A navy uniform jacket seemed to close around him like an anaconda. It grew tighter as the large man moved toward him.

"Yes ... Yes! He sent the package to me!"

"There, that wasn't at all difficult, now was it, Lieutenant."

The boy lowered his chin to his chest. He had failed his father and the family once again.

He heard the man stand up and then finally step from the dark shadow in the corner.

The man was small. He wore a dark suit with very expensive lines. His dark, oiled hair was impeccably combed straight back with the part slightly left of center.

"If it will ease your mind, Lieutenant, your father will never learn of your failure here tonight. He is dead. Your younger brother would have joined him for his journey, but he was off at school. His death will wait."

He heard the words said in their German accent, but they failed to hit home for a moment. He looked up at the approaching man and narrowed his eyes to mere slits, forcing away his tears of frustration and physical pain.

"What?"

The small man stopped and looked down at him, his features very serious. "I said he is dead. Tortured until he admitted sending to you the item we have sought for sixty years."

"What ... what are you talking about--what item?" the boy hissed.

"Oh, that's right, you were a wayward boy and not privy to certain aspects of your father's more ... secretive activities. However, that is unimportant. What he has sent to you will be in our hands momentarily, and his death will be but a footnote in the history books."

The man walked over, poured a glass of water, then turned to his captive. The boy looked at the clear glass and tried to swallow. He was thirsty, had been since he had been snatched off the street hours before. The small well-dressed man nodded to the two thugs, and then he felt his hands being untied; but instead of relief at his sudden freedom another bolt of pain shot through his hand as blood rushed to the open wound. He pulled his arm forward and clutched his hand.

"Mr. Krueger, assist the lieutenant."

His right hand was roughly pulled away from his body and a white cloth was wrapped around the stub where his ring finger had been.

"There you go. Now drink this." The water glass was held out before him and he took it and swallowed the cool liquid in three large gulps.

"Now, one more question and Mr. Wagoner and Mr. Krueger will show you to the door, Lieutenant. Where is the package that contains the bronze plate map? It has hieroglyphs you most assuredly could not understand."

Keeler knew he was a dead man. However, he did know something that was going to give him one last defiant punch. His father had trusted him far more than people knew.

"It's in a safe aboard my ship." The boy smiled, this time wide and knowing. Then he grew serious and looked at the small man. "I don't know about fashion in Hitler-land, pal, but no one wears spats anymore--kraut!"

"One more time, you grinning fool: where is the plate map?"

"Somewhere you'll never get to it," the boy said, his smile growing.

The small man nodded and the lieutenant was pulled to his feet.

"You'll take us to the harbor and point out which vessel it is, and then we'll see if the map is out of our reach."

"Fuck off, Nazi. I'm not telling you a damn thing."

"Young man, this may surprise you, but I am not in the employ of the Nazi regime. I am German, as you know. However, nationality has nothing to do with us. Our goals, while similar to Herr Hitler's, are far grander."

"To me, you're just one step removed from my father; you both share the arrogance of class."

The man smiled and then looked as if he had decided something.

"My organization has many members, the likes of which may even be high up in your own government. Even your father's people share some of our ancient ideologies. To compare Hitler to us or even to your father's people? My dear boy, don't make me laugh." He leaned closer to the American. "Without us, that fool in Berlin would never have made it to power." He straightened. "I am through being gentle. What ship?"

This time the large man enthusiastically went to work on Keeler.

An hour later, a large car pulled into a secluded area across from Ford Island inside Pearl Harbor Naval Base.

There were two ships anchored at the end of the very long line of warships at battleship row. A smaller vessel was silhouetted in the starlight next to a second, much larger ship, whose graceful lines and majestic towers silhouetted against the setting moon made her glimmer in the darkness.

Krueger examined several photos of American warships. "Is that it?" he asked.

"No, that's the repair ship, Vestal. The vessel we seek is the larger one to her starboard beam," said the man known as Weiss.

"That foolish American attorney was far wiser than we anticipated, sending the plate map here to his wayward son, and then that smart bastard placing it in his captain's custody, very resourceful indeed."

The German closed his eyes for a second and then opened them and looked into the harbor. He was looking at one of the most famous ships in the world, many times serving as the flagship of the Pacific Fleet. He continued to watch as more laughing and joking American sailors rounded her stern in a whaleboat to board after a night of drinking. His jaw muscles clenched as the last words of the American naval officer echoed in his head: