___________As it originally appeared_________________
He picked me to go next. I'll start us off and you are all invited to contribute. So here goes...
The landing craft bucked and pitched as it sped toward its destiny on Omaha beach. Nearby shell bursts sent sprays of water, drenching the occupants within.
Dr. Solomon crouched as near to the bucking floor as he could and flinched at every explosion and ricochet. He looked at the soldiers in front of him and felt sick knowing how many of them would not survive the day. The craft made a final jarring lurch and the big ramp went down, men charging forward into the bloody waves of Normandy.
Bullets pinged off the enormous steel crate beside which the diminutive Dr. Solomon sought cover.
"You're up doctor!" shouted the lieutenant.
"I should have just settled down and opened an ice-cream shop," he thought to himself. He was only supposed to observe these people. His Prime Directive was not to get involved in any way. But since the explosion and fire that had destroyed his laboratory and left him marooned among these people he had come to know and like them, even love them. Day after day he watched his friends and neighbors go off to war, never to return. His heart sank with every radio report. Against his better judgment he looked up his friends in the history database. He knew exactly where, when and how each of them would die. That was when he decided to violate his mandate, an act punishable by death if he should ever be found.
With trembling hands he threw back the bolt on the giant crate and swung open the door. His invention might save some lives. It would most likely change the course of the war. It would very probably change the course of history-- and that was unforgivable.
The crate shuddered as his invention came to life. It seemed the vibration would tear the landing craft apart if the Nazi artillery shells didn't do the job first.
High above the beachhead from the relative safety of a German pillbox an SS observer peered through binoculars with interest at the little landing craft and its occupants. He saw the door of the unusual box swing open. Something stirred within it.
"Mein Gott!" he gasped...
All guns turned. The redirection of bullets fired upon the craft as the newly deployed forces strived to engage the enemy. Though many were instantly mowed down before they could wade their third step out into the waters. The incoming rounds did not let up. The Lieutenant's horrified expression was not so much the direct result of witnessing the sudden loss of his men's lives, but because of the doctor's invention. With every ping of incoming rounds a pool of blue light ate up the bullet while it was still in mid-flight; about the stranger and his cargo. Like some kind of "force field". The doctor turned to the young Lt. and said, "--
"Get to a field radio as fast as you can, and tell your men to cease fire.Everybody on the beach must get down." [The] Lieutenant was looking at the crate in a trance. What the hell is that Doc? Lieutenant did you read me all your men must lay down there arms. I turn this thing on. I dont know how to turn it off. or if it knows the difference between us and the Germans.
?"Stand aside lieutenant, we've got work to do."
The machine lumbered forth, crab-like, incoming fire absorbed completely by its force-field. The more bullets it absorbed the larger and brighter the protective dome of energy grew. Soon it had expanded to enclose the landing craft and its surviving contingent of soldiers. It scuttled down the ramp, into the water and up onto the beach providing an oasis of safety for the ever growing number of soldiers who clustered around it.
Though the rippling screen of energy devoured the shells of every weapon directed against it, outgoing fire was not affected. The advancing American forces no longer in danger took their time and placed every shot with deadly accuracy.
Perhaps this is enough, thought Dr. Solomon as he and Lt. Hanley watched from the landing craft. If I only shield our boys, if I use only passive interference, it won't be so bad for me if the Council finds me, he told himself.
Just then a mortar shell exploded among a group of soldiers just beyond the protective dome. Bodies and parts of bodies were thrown high into the air. Solomon cringed.
"Watch this," he said, thumbing a toggle switch on the black control box he held in his hands. The machine reared up on its steel legs, doors within its chest swinging open, the barrels of some strange, unknown weapon emerging, pulsating with energy.
Dr. Solomon pressed a red button and a beam of blinding green light shot from the strange machine ambling up the beach toward the German defenses.
Lt. Hanley stared in disbelief. "Sweet merciful Heaven, the damned thing works," he said to nobody in particular. "I gotta hand it to you doctor, that's really something," he said, turning to face his companion. But Dr. Solomon did not hear him. His attention was fixed on a small indicator screen on his control box. He looked worried.
The mechanical beast swung its weapon wildly, as if it were confused. "Didn't you hear what I said?" Dr. Solomon implored. "The men must cease firing!"
The lieutenant keyed the mic of the field radio and screamed, "Cease fire! Cease fire! Pass the word. All units stand down!"
The orders were screamed through bullhorns, barely audible over the sounds of battle. Slowly firing from the American forces subsided and the infernal machine swung it's gaze back to the German lines.
But suddenly a shell from a naval vessel from somewhere in the English channel split the air overhead. Dr. Solomon's machine reared up again and swung to face the direction of the ship.
Feeling like the weight of the world up on his shoulders. Like a man who started something that he could not stop. Reaching in his pocket. The doctor pulled out what looked like a egyptian medallion. Doctor looking over it. thinking, I wonder if Moses new what the hell he had. 5 thousand years ago.
As the mechanical Turned and began firing towards the naval vessel, the Doctor studied the glowing image in his hands. "Do I let it change history, will this add to my mistakes, or do I stop it all now? How do I decide?" He looked desperately around him, as the Nazis again fell before his invention. He needed a sign, something to tell him what to do....
He felt a sharp sting as if a bee stung his neck and swatted his hand to his throat. He nearly dropped the precious control box and barely managed to grab it with both hands before it smashed to the deck. His eyes widened as he looked down at his blood covered hands and realized the strange bubbling noise was coming from him. He sank to his knees and pitched forward onto the hard steel plating. With his waning strength he tugged at Lt. Hanley's leg.
"Holy crap, Doc!" Hanley yelped, turning his attention from the amazing machine to where Solomon lay crumpled on the dirty deck in a rapidly growing pool of red. The lieutenant dropped to his knees and pressed his palm to the hole in the other man's throat. Solomon shoved the control box at him.
"I don't know how to drive that thing!" screamed Hanley, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. With his final reserve of strength Dr. Solomon sputtered, "History is... in... Your hands. You must contact... The Council... The Council..." His voice trailed off. A gold medallion with the image of a scarab minted on it rolled from his twitching fingers and clattered loudly on the deck. The mysterious Dr. Solomon was no more.
"jimminey Christmas, son-of-a..." Hanley growled through gritted teeth, not completing his thought. He grabbed up the control box and stood, completely dumfounded by the array of knobs, dials and switches. He swung back towards the battle, his panic academic as the mechanical beast was no longer on the beach. From atop the cliffs of Normandy great green flashes could be seen and with each flash more Nazi guns fell silent. The monster was headed inland, toward the villages of France, an uncontrolled and unstoppable juggernaut.
Hanley bent down a scooped up the medallion. He turned it over in his fingers, examining it. "Solomon said to contact the council," he thought. "Council of what?"
In the fading afternoon light of Omaha Beach, Lt. Jordan Hanley was a man in over his head.
A radio static squawked nearby. Without the immediate cover of the mechanical beast and the nearby German forces seemingly defeated; the Americans that were alive along the Beach of Normandy gathered their wits, and aided the wounded. Sporadic, makeshift camps began to emerged within minuets of the silence. The young blonde hair farm boy from Indian, Jordan James Hanley had done more growing in the last hour than he ever experience his entire life. He began yelling orders for his remaining men to advance forward in an effort to locate the dead doctor's invention. He knew his mission, he was uncertain of the Beast's course.
Looking at the blood smeared control box and its array of switches took a gamble and depressed a small red button on the side. Scanning the horizon before him no longer saw the green flashes of light illuminate the darkening skies overhead. A small ping began to sound as a yellow indicator blinked with three second intervals. "Darn thing's got a homing devise on it." The Lt. said aloud. Next to him a Sargent came up, stopping his own near salute looked around, "Sir, Sargent Bakerson reporting - what the hell was that thing?" Trying to come up with a credible response, the Lt. said,"-
?"Our best hope of winning this thing, Sargent - a new weapon. Gather your men, we're fixing to move out in a few." "Aye, Sir." After returning his salute, Bakerson began directing sixteen men. As they gathered themselves and gear into a formation, the Sargent took point. Hanley stood post, "At ease. Men - follow me." Causually he passed them, heading up the steap embakment in search of the mechanical device, he now refered to as "The Beast".
?"Mike Six Four Charlie. You copy? Over." Belched another squawk of static from a radio. The reluctant private who had assumed the mantel of Radio Telephone Operator noded to the Sargent at his left shoulder. Bakerson called up ahead to the Lt., "Sir, call coming in." Again it squawked out, "Mike Six Four Charlie, Do you copy? over. This is Delta Six Tree Sierra. Copy? over."
Taking the handset, the Lieutenant answered back, "Delta Six Tree Siearra, this is Mike Six Four Charlie, reading you loud and clear, over."
?"Mike Six Four what is your location? Over." "Delta Six Tree, I am one click above entry point Alpha heading northeast." "Belay that Mix Six Four you are to link up with Echo Company's Charlie at point Brovo Two. Do you copy that? Over." Looking a little pissed, the Lt. replied, "Rodger that Delta Six Tree, we are to link up with Echo at Bravo Two. Over and Out!" Shoving the phone reciever back at the Sgt. Hanley barked, "Change of plans men." Then pointing down the cliff line they started heading dew south.
An hour later they came upon a crater. The area way a mess of gear and body parts, men were slaughtered everywhere. Picking through what could be salvaged and arranging what bodies they could for burial, the Lt. made preparations for camp as the day edged toward nightfall. Getting the mike from the RTO, Hanley called out, "Delta Six Tree Siearra, this is Mike Six Four Charlie, you read? Over."
A moment later he was answered, then replied into the handset, "Rodger. Look Delta Six Tree, Echo is a zero here. You copy? Over."
A long stretch of silence. Then a moment or two later, "Mike Six Four you are to link up with Lima at rally point Foxtrot Two. Do you copy? Over." "Delta Six Tree - Copy that: Foxtrot Two; link up with Lima Company's Charlie. Over and Out." Looking at his men desiring so much to rest, could only nod at his Sgt. who pointed at the sky and made a circling motion then pointed out. With slumped packs, re-geared up and moved out following the Lieutenant. Changing course once again they headed northeast.
After about forty-five minuets later they again came up on yet another slaughtered group of American soldiers. A young man was placing a makeshift cross of sticks on a grave as the new platoon arrived behind him from the south. Ignoring them he continued patting the cross headpiece into place. The Lt. approached him asking, "What happened here, Private?" "Do know, Sir." After dropping his salute, added, "This spidery looking tank sprayed everyone with a green light and most of them just exploded or lost limps. Sorry, Sir I hid scrambling for my radio and things. My Lt. is dead, Sir - they're - they're all dead - Sir." The young man before Hanley was beginning to take on a distnt stare.
"You did good, Private; nothing else you could have done, son." Then, "What's your name?" Without missing a beat, he came to attention replying, "Private First Class Patrick O`Reilly, Sir - RTO!"
?"You playen me, PFC?" The Lt. looked at the young colored soldier's blood and dirt smeared face with a wary smirk. "No fool'en, Sir. Named after my grandfather, Boston born and bred, Sir." And then a bold, proud grin came over the Private's face as he added, "I take after my mama's Georgian roots, Sir." Shaking his head, the Lt. exhaled, "Too long a tale, Private. Go hook up with Sgt. Tracy for some rations, look like you could use some." Naturally relaxing to At Ease, Patrick began to walk away, then a step of two returned to the Lt. with, "Thank you, Sir."
?"-omon - ooou." Break of static, "no means -" Whistle and squelch, "ever" static noise, "age" then the radio called out again in a distant voice, "jet! Do you understand me!" Patrick was standing over his radio trying to angle the antenna just right as both Sargent Bakerson and the Lt. came up. Hanley strained a bewildering look at the speaker trying to descern the speaker's voice that suddenly repeated itself clearly.
"Do you hear me? Solomon, you are by no means whatsoever to engage the Phoenix Project! Do you understand me!"
By then the Lt. was trying to contact the voice, "Who is this? What is your call sign, over?" But only silence answered in return, not even static - the radio just went dead. Feeling a chill run through him as he listened Patrick's words all he could do was stare, "Sorry, Sir - Nothing." Then facing the Lt. the Private continued; standing up, "Sir, yesterday at 2300 hours, my Lieutenant, Marlowe received a call from that same voice, Sir. An hour later a messenger approached him with a package, and I overheard him tell the Lt to link up with your unit and give it to a Doctor Solomon who was attached to Mike Company." Unwrapping the brown paper package, Jordan marveled at what he now held. A flat silver ring about five inches in diameter inscribed with photographic symbols topped and bottomed with letter esk characters. The ring itself could move within another ring clamped with four squares: north, south, east and west. The North clamp was large with a "window" where a letter/symbol appeared perfectly matched up. Northeast, northwest, south west, and south east were talon like nails that reached toward the middle without touching, almost forming a "window" at their tips.
As if hoping the private had more information about the mysterious medallion shaped ring, the Lt. looked up. Patrick hadn't a clue. Dismissed, he returned to his coffee as the men had began to bed down for the night. A fire watch sentry stood guard over them all pacing back and forth with weapon at the ready.
From his place in the tree, the young boy looked over Jordan's shoulder at the amazing disk. It was pretty, and kind of scary - but it had to be imoprtant. Why else would so many men die? He decided to move higher into the tree to keep a watch on Jordan and then men, so he could take that shiny, bewildering disk. It just might feed his family for a while, if he could find the right buyer. Silently, he inched into a more comfortable position, and waited.
?"THAT's IT, Stop there!" The Sentry yelled out while aiming his rifle at the young boy up the tree. He began kicking at the feet within the sleeping bags, "On your feet, intruder alert!"
?"Sarg over here!" Arriving Sargent Bakerson, said,"----------
?"Kid, just who the hell do you think you are? Dumbass, creeping up on soldiers!" The child looked at him, totally unfazed, as the Sgt began to express his displeasure in the most creative stringing of curses the soldiers had ever heard. When he stopped to take a breath, the boy said -----
?"Please sirs, I meant no harm. My family is hungry. The Bosch occupy my farm. They took my brother away. I have not eaten in two days."
The sentry hauled the thin, dirty boy to the tent where Lt. Hanley had set up his command post.
"Kid says he ain't eat in two days," Said the gruff-voiced sergeant.
Lt. Hanley looked at the sad faced boy practically dangling by the ragged collar caught in the grip of Sgt. Bakerson's huge, hard fist.
He scowled and said impatiently, "I don't have time for this. Bakerson, get the kid some chow and send him on his way."
He turned his attention back to the unusual package that had been delivered by Private O'Reilly. He was at a loss as to what it was or what it did or how it related to his runaway robot. He examined it closely in the lantern light. His thoughts were broken by his radio operator who suddenly appeared by his side.
"Sir, patrols report no contact with the machine and the fly-boys say the same thing. It's like the damn thing just disappeared. Too dark now to spot it from the air, they say they'll resume the search at first light."
Lt. Hanley squinted at his RTO. "You have any idea how far that thing might travel overnight Corporal?"
"No sir."
"Yeah, well neither do I, but from the way it got off the beach Hell bent for leather, it could be anywhere."
The French boy upon overhearing this twisted free from Bakerson's grasp and ran to Lt. Hanley.
"Sir! Sir! I have seen your machine not half an hour ago. At first there was only a horrible thrashing sound in the hedgerow. It split apart, but there was nothing there. Then some of the Bosch raised an alarm and ran to see what was happening. Suddenly the machine appeared, like a great silver dragon spitting green flames. It killed the Germans and then disappeared."
"What do you mean disappeared?" Asked Hanley.
"It is to say that one moment you could see it and the next you could not."
"You mean that thing can go invisible?" Marveled the radio operator.
"Yes! Invisible! That is the word." The boy seemed pleased at his mastery of English.
Lt. Hanely's frustration was growing.
"Well, swell," he muttered. "How are we going to track it now?"
"Pardon me sir," Said the boy, "The machine is-- what is the word? Invisible... but its tracks are not. It was headed straight for the village of Saint-Lô. I can show you!"
Hanley leaped to his feet and began barking orders.
"Bakerson, round up a jeep! Corporal, grab your gear and send for Private O'Reilly! Get back here on the double! We roll out in three minutes!" He clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Kid you really earned your chow tonight-- and there's plenty more where that came from!"
There was a voice in the darkness.
"Col. Schroeder?"
The flight from Peenemünde to Berlin had been bumpy and unpleasant. Verner Schroeder was not a comfortable flyer and this was his first chance for sleep since he was called from his work to meet with the Fuhrer.
His work, like Dr. Solomon's, was top secret, of a military nature, and quite likely to change the course of history. These were not the only things the two men had in common. Like Dr. Solomon he was supposed to observe this particularly tumultuous period of human history, and like Dr. Solomon he was trapped in this time-period when the explosion that destroyed Dr. Solomon's laboratory rippled through the entire network of portals and laboratories of the Council of Historical Reconnaissance, trapping any agents in the field wherever and whenever they might be. But unlike Dr. Solomon, the former Professor-- now Colonel-- Verner Schroeder's violation of his Prime Directive had not been of his own free will.
Schroeder was considered an oddity among the researchers of The Council. Strictly an academic, he hated field work, preferring to study history from the safety and comfort of his library, far from the bad food, poor sanitation, primitive technology and frightening medical practices of times long past.
The accident had changed all that and Schroeder, trapped in Germany, had been compelled to turn his considerable scientific abilities to the advancement of the Nazi agenda, a distasteful situation at which he continually balked. Unlike Von Braun, his colleague at Peenemünde, He could not in good conscience turn a blind eye to the party's outrages as long funds flowed for research.
As an SS colonel, Schroeder had influence and authority, but his Gestapo "liaison" was always close at hand and his contact with the world outside Germany was limited. He had tried to track Dr. Solomon, to keep him in check, but with the outbreak of war in Europe in September of 1939, that had become almost impossible. In the early Spring of 1942 Schroeder had gotten word from another field agent that Dr. Solomon had met with Vannevar Bush, of the Office of Scientific Research and Development. But from that last scrap of information Dr. Solomon and his whereabouts had disappeared into the fog of top secret black projects.
"Herr Colonel, I hate to disturb you," Said the timid voice again.
"What is it?" snapped Colonel Schroeder. "Any news from the French Coast?"
"No Herr Colonel. There has been no word at all, from any units on the Atlantic Wall. The radios have all been strangely silent since just after the first reports of the allied landings at Normandy."
"So much for the Fuhrer's impenetrable Fortress Europe, eh Hans?" Sneered the colonel, rubbing his aching temples.
"It is something else, Herr Colonel... A message."
"Well? What is it?" Snapped Schroeder.
"The Phoenix has risen."
Schroeder bolted upright in his bed.
"Mein Gott! What has Solomon done? He has no idea of the nature of the forces he has unleashed. Quickly, Hans! My boots! We must leave at once. Perhaps even now it is too late."
"Colonel Schroeder, what does this mean? What are we going to do?" Asked a startled Hans.
"We can perhaps save the world instead of trying to destroy it, but we have no time to lose-- machen sie schnell!"
Out there, in the darkness that covered the beaches and fields of France, under piles of rubble and in hastily dug graves, something unnatural was beginning to stir. The phoenix had indeed risen.
The full jeep was bouncing down the rubble scattered roads in the predawn hours with its headlights off - blackout. Silence was the mood as Lt. Hanley sat there thinking of the events of the day and how all the twist and turns lead him to his current actions. Taking the Ringed Compus out of his shirt pocket he again investigated the pronged points, and the movable outer ring as it slid soundlessly through the top "window". The strange markings fascinated the man. What could they mean? After a spray of creek water washed the jeep, another thought jumped through the Lieutenant's mind. Remembering the golden Egyptian medallion and its image of the beetle - scarab minted on one side and an Eye on the other; Jordan removed it from his other pocket. Strange. There was one symbol in the middle of the Eye, and the same three symbols on the Compus' East, South, and West locked blocks that held the movable ring in place. Puzzeling it all out in his mind, the Lt. grinned - looking at the driver, "Eyes on the road Sargent."
Hanley held the ring up in front of him with his left hand and in his right he held up the medallion. As the jeep raced over a branch in the road they all jumped in their seats. With that, the Lt. merged hands; sliding the medallion "behind" the ring with the compus "on top of" it seemed to make scene to him - somehow. There was a click. Like a magnetic feel to it. "Strange!" Came his audible whisper.
"Dam right it's strange." Bakerson blurted out, " Ain't nothing right about this whole mission - Sir." The Lt. smiled back and said, "------
THE STORY CONTINUES...
