Ongoing Revelations In The Deserts of Iraq
Frank Glen and Maxwell Matheson continue their investigation
Frank Glen was lying on a canvas cot in the tent near the entrance of the tunnel when he awoke with the worst headache he had experienced in his life. From the angle of the sun against the horizon, it appeared to be late afternoon and there was a blue haze covering everything.
“You’ve given us quite a scare,” Stephanie told him. She laid a wet rag across his forehead.
“How long have I been unconscious?” Frank asked.
“Over four hours.”
“What happened down there?”
“It was some kind of high-frequency signal which somehow knocked us all unconscious,” Matheson, who was standing where Frank could not see him, responded. “We were all out for about five minutes, but you’ve been unconscious for hours.”
“I feel like someone has taken a sledgehammer to my head.”
“Just relax,” Stephanie told him, pushing his shoulders back down on the cot.
“What’s going on down there?” Frank asked.
“My father and Mr. Jamison are down there as well as three Iraqi engineers.”
Frank could see that even more trucks had arrived, and they were parked in two rows to the left of his cot.
“What is going on with all these trucks?” he asked.
“We can answer all your questions once you’ve had a chance to rest,” Matheson answered.
“I don’t think you can answer all my questions,” Frank objected.
“Would you like some water?” Stephanie asked him.
“I think he needs something a little stronger than water,” Matheson proposed.
Matheson held out one of his small liquor bottles and the sun reflected off its polished surface and nearly blinded him.
“I don’t think I need anything else to dull my senses.”
He lifted his shoulder up a moment and supported himself on his elbows. Then he pivoted his legs until he was sitting on the cot. He immediately became dizzy and bent over his head almost to his knees.
“Am I going to get over this?” Frank asked.
“We all had the dizziness,” Matheson told him.
“What time is it?” Frank asked.
“It’s nearly four o’clock,” Stephanie answered.
He pushed his head upward and held it for a minute until he gained his equilibrium.
“What would I do for a nice hot shower?” he asked.
He stood up slowly from the cot and then began to explore his entire field of vision. He immediately noticed that the Iraqi army contingent had grown to over a hundred men.
“I don’t have a good feeling about so many soldiers being here,” Frank commented.
“They’re here for our protection,” Stephanie explained.
“From whom? We’re in the middle of the desert for Christ’s sake.” He paused. “What’s to keep them from turning their guns on us and eliminating all witnesses.”
She began to chuckle. “You’ve been watching too many of these American action motion pictures. No one is going to harm us. As I told you before, we have an arrangement with the Iraqis.”
Frank tried to imagine what kind of arrangement it could be. He knew there was a sanction regime in place against Iraq and he couldn’t see how the Jamison Foundation could have any legal arrangement with them. But he was reluctant to pursue the matter in greater depth.
“I still don’t know why I’m here,” Frank acknowledged.
“You’re here as I told you before to bear witness to all this,” Stephanie told him.
“Yeah, but I’m extremely sceptical about what I am seeing.” he acknowledged.
“That’s probably why you are here, to write a credible article about what we’ve discovered here. Who but a sceptic could do that dispassionately,” she answered.
“Yes. But I need photographs,” Frank asserted.
“Not yet. We still have the Iraqis with whom to contend. There is also more, and I shall tell you about that shortly.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer,” Frank responded.
Stephanie handed him the canteen which he opened and drank two large swallows of water. His head was still throbbing, but he was determined to push the pain from his awareness.
“So, are we going back into the mine?” he asked.
“Soon,” she responded. “But for now, we wait.”
“I always hated waiting,” Frank began to explain. “It seemed like I had to wait for everything in my life. The good times seemed to be over in an instant and the bad times lingered on what seemed like forever.”
“I know how it is to wait,” Stephanie responded.
Matheson seemed occupied. He was scribbling notes in a small black notebook. Frank stepped behind him to get a glimpse of what he was writing, and Matheson immediately closed the notebook.
“I’m not trying to be nosy. I was just curious,” Frank affirmed,
“That’s precisely what you’re doing. But it’s OK,” Stephanie responded
Frank stretched his arms and legs out a moment and then began to shuffle back and forth.
“A bit restless,” Matheson observed.
“Always. I wonder if it’s that attention deficit disorder, or whatever they call it. A lot of the time I just find it difficult to keep still,” Frank acknowledged.
“You should try some centring exercises,” Stephanie proposed. “I sometimes practice them to relax.”
“Yeah, a good dose of Eastern mysticism to dull the mind and cloud the senses,” Frank countered.
“I wouldn’t sell a little Eastern mysticism short,” Matheson rebounded. “It’s been proven through studies that people who meditate live longer.”
“Yeah, but it hasn’t been proven to me that living longer is necessarily a good thing,” Frank countered.
Frank spoke these words half-heartedly as though one accustomed to cynicism, but still unsettled over it.
“You know I wasn’t always this way. As a child I was quite a zealous believer in the supernatural and in magical powers. I saw the universe as one vast awesome mystery, impenetrable to the human mine, but communicable through the spiritual senses,” Frank explained.
“And you grew up and became wiser,” Stephanie interjected.
“In a manner of speaking,” he responded. “But becoming wiser is not such an easy task!”
“And you’re prepared to dismiss everything, even what you’ve seen here, because it doesn’t fit with your comfortable paradigm. What if I could show you conclusive proof of an ancient, more technologically advanced civilization. Something there is no way ancient man could have produced, and for that matter, what we could produce today,” she answered.
“That would be quite a discovery, if true. But nothing I have seen so far convinces me,” he acknowledged.
“We found something this morning,” she began, “which I think may change your mind about certain things.” She halted for a moment. “Mr. Matheson, bring the box from over there here.”
Matheson walked into the tent and emerged with a small wooden box about one and a half feet on all sides.
“What is this?” he asked.
“You’ll soon see,” Frank answered.
Matheson opened the lid and removed a metal sphere about six inches in diameter with strange symbols etched around its circumference. He also removed a small metal pedestal with a curved cup on top, obviously designed to hold the sphere.
“Hold this a minute, Frank,” Matheson told Frank and handed him the sphere.
“It’s quite heavy,” Frank noted.
“What do you think it is?” Matheson asked.
“How would I know?” Frank answered.
“Well, take a guess.”
“I’m not good at guessing games. And you found this down there?” Frank asked.
“We found dozens of them,” Matheson answered,
“So, what are they?” Frank asked.
“They are. I don’t know how to put it. Information storage devices,” Matheson announced.
Frank rotated the sphere in various directions, but aside from the symbols in a ring encircling it, he could see nothing else across the smooth metal surface.
“Try placing it on its stand,” Matheson recommended.
Frank set the stand on a smooth rock and then set the sphere down into the cup. Staring childlike at it for nearly five minutes, he perceived no activity, nothing he would classify as information.
“I don’t see anything,” Frank acknowledged.
“It takes a few minutes,” Matheson explained. “Just be patient.”
Frank continued to look at it as both Matheson and Stephanie looked on, and when nothing happened, he was beginning to think this was an elaborate gag, until suddenly, in some inexplicable way, the sphere began to rise up from the cup and it hovered an inch above it. Then it began to spin, first along one axis and then along several axes, with the band of symbols forming a symmetric pattern which changed in shape and size before his eyes. The effect of watching it was almost hypnotic, then barely audible at first, he could hear an indistinct hum, which grew more intense and irregular, until he could hear what sounded like the intonation of words, with clear shifts and stops, though in a language he could scarcely imagine.
“It’s quite a toy, isn’t it?” Matheson expressed.
“That’s an understatement,” Frank asserted.
Frank put his hand out to stop the ball and it burned him as he touched it.
“I’m sorry. We should have warned you,” Stephanie finally spoke.
“So when does it stop?” he asked.
“In a minute or two,” she answered.
They all watched it spinning until it slowly began to lose momentum and it finally came to rest back in the cup. At this moment Stephanie cupped the sphere in her hands and placed it and the stand back into the box.
“You’re not going to tell me this is some ancient Sumerian artefact. This is certainly beyond credibility,” Frank commented.
“We don’t know who manufactured these devices. But the Iraqis certainly didn’t do this,” Stephanie asserted.
“Is this a language?” Frank asked. He pointed to the symbols on the sphere.
“It’s still too early to tell exactly. But we’re going to record the sound and have a professional linguist examine it.”
“So we have gold mines, and talking balls and helicopter propellers. Anything else you’re keeping from me,” Frank noted.
“It’s amazing to me, Mr. Glen. How can you be faced with such awesome discoveries and remain so nonchalant about it all? Don’t you have any idea what this means?” Stephanie asked.
“I’m still thinking this is some elaborate hoax. I’m sorry. Please don’t take it personally,” he affirmed,
“What would it take to believe what you’re seeing?” she asked.
“It’s going to take more,” Frank responded.
“You admitted that you believed this Nigel had dreams which predicted the future. Why did you believe that?” Stephanie asked.
“Because I had no other plausible explanation for what happened. I studied it personally. I eliminated other options. You act as though I have some propensity to disbelieve in the supernatural. You’d be surprised what I am willing to believe if the evidence is there. But this is all too much for me. It goes against everything I’ve come to believe after twenty years of reporting.” He paused. “I know why the magazine sent me here now, because many of my colleagues believe I’m some wild-eyed mystic. I was a serious reporter once. I wasn’t writing about the Anunnaki, or haunted houses, or people who could supposedly bend spoons with their minds. If you want me to accept this, you have to lay out a case for me. Show me the chain of evidence as though it were a trial. I’m not averse to changing my convictions.”
“You know there was nothing but sand here five years ago, as far as the eye could see and we’ve unearthed everything here. My father spent his entire career in hopes of finding something like this. It’s not a hoax. This place is real. What we have found here is real.” She was on the verge of crying.
Sir Richard, Jamison and Hassan emerged from the tunnel followed by a dozen or more soldiers carrying small wooden boxes, which Frank presumed carried other spheres. They began stacking them into large wooden crates with Arabic letters painted on the sides. When they had filled three crates nearly completely, the soldiers hammered them shut and then loaded them into a large military truck, which Frank watched pull away from the site and begin driving back toward the base camp.
“What are they doing with them?” he asked Stephanie.
“They’re taking them to Baghdad for further examination.”
Sir Richard gestured to Stephanie to bring the last sphere. After carefully placing it back into his box, she carried it a hundred meters back to him. Then Sir Richard gestured by placing his fingers in his mouth that there was food waiting for them all back at the base camp.
It was a quarter after five when they arrived at the base camp, with Stephanie, Frank and Matheson in the Land Cruiser and Sir Richard, Hassan and Jamison in the Mercedes. Sir Richard was the first out of the vehicles and he opened the door for Jamison, who stepped out arrogantly from the Mercedes. The prospect of eating with Jamison did not appeal to Frank. But he was hungry and fatigued. Forcing himself to disembark the car, he entered the wooden structure with the others.
“It’s not what you’re accustomed to, James,” Sir Richard said apologetically, “But we do have a palatable meal planned for you.”
“It’s more than adequate, Sr. Richard,” Jamison responded.
Stephanie gestured where Glen and Matheson were to sit across from each other and she sat down next to her father on the eastern side of the long wooden table. Her father and Sir Richard sat down across from each other, with Hassan across from Stephanie. Then an Iraqi man began to set out plates, glasses, and silverware for all of them.
“So, what do you think of the metal balls, Mr. Glen?” Sir Richard asked almost taunting him. “Stephanie showed you these curious devices.”
“To be honest, Sir Richard, I don’t know what to make of them,” Frank answered.
Sir Richard removed the metal pedestal from the box and set it on the table.
“I could demonstrate it again,” he volunteered.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I can sense you’re sceptical about the device,” Sir Richard noted.
“Now that’s an understatement,” Frank responded.
“I’m sure at this point it must be producing significant dissonance in your psyche. I would characterize you, Mr. Glen, as a romantic, not a true skeptic at all. You feign this persona of disbelief, when beneath the surface you believe in magic.”
Frank was annoyed that Sir Richard seemed amused by his conundrum.
“We’ve suspected such devices existed for over a hundred years now. Many of the ancient texts speak about singing spheres, but archaeologists dismissed them as mythology.”
“He thinks this is some elaborate hoax,” Stephanie interrupted, and she and Sir Richard began to chuckle.
“This is not Piltdown man, or the Hitler Diaries,” Sir Richard continued. “You say these things because you weren’t here when we unearthed these ruins, and you didn’t see us find the spheres. As I tried to explain to you before, most people in the world live in a little box of perception.” he stopped and drew a box with his finger on the tabletop, “only seeing what is comfortable for them to see.”
The Iraqi servant brought out a huge roast turkey, which he set at the centre of the table and which he then began to carve into slices. He brought out a bottle of wine and wine glasses.
He opened the bottle and began to pour each of them a glass.
“With the Islamic restrictions on alcohol, you know how difficult these were to acquire,” Sir Richard explained.
“Saluda,” he continued, lifting his glass in the air. Stephanie reciprocated and they all in imitation did likewise. Only Frank raised his glass half-heartedly.
“What happened to Marcus and the other man?” Frank asked.
“They’re running an errand in Baghdad for my father,” Stephanie answered.
After taking a small sip, Frank spoke more firmly, “I have only one question, for Mr. Jamison, if you don’t mind.”
Jamison whispered something to Sir Richard and then shook his head.
“No questions, Mr. Glen,” Sir Richard answered.
“It’s not personal,” Frank affirmed.
“No questions,” he repeated.
The Iraqi man served each of them turkey and baked potatoes and asparagus and then left them alone.
“I don’t see how it would hurt to answer a couple of questions,” Frank whispered to Matheson. “I don’t see how they can expect me to write a story about this and keep me completely in the dark.”
“Mr Glen,” Sir Richard commented. “We can hear what you’re saying.”
“That’s precisely my point. You take me halfway around the world. You show me these incredible artifacts, all in a country we are technically in a state of war with. I ask how is this possible? Who could arrange financing for all this? And your daughter tells me, Mr. Jamison has an arrangement with the Iraqis. What kind of arrangement? I’m sorry. Before I can write one word about any of this, I need to have straight answers.”
“I can’t believe you’re being so impertinent,” Stephanie scolded him. “This is not the time for such discussion.”
“Alright,” Jamison finally spoke. “I’ll answer the question.”
“You don’t have to, James,” Sir Richard interposed. “Mr. Glen. We knew about your reputation for tenacity. But you are a guest here. We would appreciate you showing good manners for once in your bloody life.”
“It’s all right, Sir Richard. I’ll answer him.” Jamison paused a moment.
“Thousands of children die every day in Iraq from lack of food and medicine, from a sanction regime that I am publicly opposed to. I provide through my foundation over a million dollars a year in medicine and food to keep many of these children alive, and yes I have built a hospital in Baghdad. That is the arrangement I have with the Iraqis. Forgive me for wanting to keep my charity a secret.” He paused. “Now if the American government wants to prosecute me for this. So be it. I don’t care.”
Glen sank back into his chair. “I’m sorry.”
He said very little about the remainder of the meal. But even though he believed what Jamison had said, he knew there must be more Jamison hadn’t said.
“You really shouldn’t feel so bad about what happened,” Matheson tried to console him. “I had many of the same questions. But I didn’t dare to ask them.”
“There is a fine line between courage and foolhardiness,” Frank noted.
“Yes, but even if he is doing the charity work he claims, there has been a tremendous payoff to him, in access to these archaeological sites. It could still be barely a part of the story,” Matheson asserted.
“I understand these things. But I let my emotions get involved again. I don’t see how I’ll get any further answers. I wish I could be more objective,” Frank answered.
“If that were truly possible. I don’t believe in this myth of objectivity. People bring to the table whatever baggage they carry with them,” Matheson explained.
“I must be carrying a damn wardrobe closet.” Frank hesitated a moment. “I can’t tell you how many stories I’ve blown because of personal baggage. I fully expect them to ship me back to the States. I’ve been very good at losing assignments.”
“I don’t think so,” Matheson disagreed.
“I remember this paper in Wichita. Everything was going wonderfully for me. They liked my work and then this one story came along. The editor asked me to change the slant just a little to coincide with the editorial position of the paper. I refused to compromise, as I always refuse to compromise. Journalistic integrity I kept mumbling, as if there really is such a thing, as if newspapers are more than position papers of the owners. He fired me. It was like a weathervane of where my career was going, through stops and starts and numerous detours. Until this Nigel story came along and I’m finally a working journalist again. Of course, I’m now a spooks reporter. After Paranormal Magazine published that first story, you don’t know how many magazines I peddled the story to, most people laughed at me, until Newsmaker Magazine took the bite. I still don’t know why. Look I feel like a walk. You’re welcome to tag along,” Frank asserted.
“My pleasure,” Matheson responded.
“Let’s go up that hill again and look out on the desert. You remember how to get there?” Frank proposed.
“Of course. But we should tell the others we’re leaving,” Matheson acknowledged.
Matheson left after a moment and reentered the structure. He returned in a few minutes with Stephanie.
“I didn’t mean to say you were impertinent,” she apologized. “Mr. Jamison has been so kind to us. I just couldn’t bring myself to offend him. “
“I don’t think a man in his position is easily offended. I’m sure he’s had much tougher questions than mine. Look we’re walking up the hill over there. (He pointed to the east.) You’re more than welcome to join us.”
“No. Not tonight. I have too much to do. Perhaps tomorrow night,” she answered.
“So you’re not going to send me packing?” Frank asserted.
“Of course not. My father likes you, even with your impudence.” She paused. “I should warn you, if you do go up there tonight, it’s very easy to get lost out here. Even I was lost once not so long ago.”
“I have a compass,” Glen responded as he removed a small circular box from his pocket. “I’ve been in many places where it has come in handy, I can even read a map, if need be.”
“Well then, you look all set. Good luck, Gentlemen. I will see you later.”
She pivoted on her left foot and returned to the structure.
“I think she likes you, Frank if that’s any consolation.”
“Yes, but I think she has someone else on her mind. I’ve developed a sixth sense about such things.”
As the two men began to walk toward the hilltop, Matheson took a small pocket flashlight and began to shine it on the path in front of them. Glen walked in short regular strides, his shoes sinking an inch in the soft sand as his heels rolled against the leather insole inside.
“Have you ever been in the desert before, Frank?” Matheson asked.
“Yeah, once in Arizona. But it looked nothing like this. I know why the ancients thought it was the dwelling place of daemons. It can be a scary place at night.”
“I was in the deserts of North Africa once, near Casa Blanca. It was a scary place at night.” Matheson explained.
“It’s because we need water and we sense to the marrow of our bones, that this waterless place holds death for us. Death, the great equalizer, and none of us want to face it down,” Frank elaborated.
“Could we have a less morbid thought?” Matheson countered.
“I’m sorry. But it was what I was thinking,” Frank acknowledged.
They walked for nearly a half hour until they reached the base of the hill, and Frank was already fatigued. He crouched down on the sand for a moment to catch his breath.
“Come on. This was your idea. It’s not long before we reach the summit,” Matheson encouraged.
“It’s been a long day and I still have a tint of a headache from this afternoon,” Frank lamented.
They both climbed for another fifteen minutes until they reached the summit of the small plateau. In daylight, they all could have seen ten miles in all directions, but in the darkness, all they could see were the silhouettes of objects dimly lit by the moonlight. Above them was a sea of stars brighter than they could ever remember and Glen remembered a snippet of something he had read in school about the firmament stretched out as a testimony to God’s handiwork.
“Look at the stars,” Frank commented. “Have you ever seen so many stars? I wish I had paid more attention to my astronomy. There’s Orion, I think, and Sagittarius. (He pointed to the sky.) “You know I never believed in this astrological stuff. I never believed there was a fixed pattern to anything. But things have happened to me in the last year which makes me wonder. People long for explanations of why things happen to them, especially the bad things. I guess if you’re going to assign meaning to anything, it makes sense in a way to assign it to the stars. Can you imagine what it was like for a primitive man to stare up into the heavens, the awesome majesty of it all?”
“You’re something of a mystic, Frank. I’m surprised,” Matheson asserted.
“Beneath the surface of my cynicism is a little bit of the disappointed idealist. Expectations, Max. It’s all about unrealized expectations.”
Frank spun around to catch a glimpse of the southern sky.
“How long do you think they are going to keep us here?” Frank asked.
“You’re anxious to get back to New York?” Matheson questioned.
“I have people to see and a promise to keep,” Frank affirmed.
“Three or four more days, maybe. I still think they’re keeping things from us. After this I’m scheduled to go to Canada, and then to Kentucky to visit friends.”
“And you don’t mind spending all this time away from your wife?” Frank asked.
“Of course, I mind. But it’s the profession I chose.”
“Sometimes I wonder about that if we choose things, or if there is a certain determinism in what happens, a hand which guides us along a path,” Frank proposed.
“We’re not going to solve that age-old philosophical conundrum on this summit here tonight,” Matheson observed. “Do we have free will or do the fates lay out everything for us?”
“I took an epistemology course in college,” Frank began to explain, “where we discussed all those great unanswerable questions about how we see, and if we can trust what we see is real. Are our senses an accurate reflection of reality or do our minds create an illusion of reality? Maya as the Hindus call it. Whether it’s real or illusion, I could use a hot shower right now!”
Frank crouched down and found a comfortable place to sit on the ground and Matheson sat down beside him. They sat quietly for nearly half an hour.
“You know at some point you’re going to have to answer more questions about this ‘Omega’ group,” Frank told him.
“I expected that,” Matheson answered.
“But I’m tired now and in a few minutes I think we should be making our way back to camp to get some sleep,” Frank asserted.
“I understand,” Matheson acknowledged.