Chapter 1 - Rheinholdt's Revenge
Berlin, Germany 1945
My God, the man is mad, thought Himler. When did he go mad? He seemed so competent when he was elected. “Mein Kampf” was a revelation, and he wrote that in prison. Well, now he is mad and there is nothing we can do besides carry out his orders. The first sign was his continuing the attack on Russia when it was winter. Didn't he rail against that as Napoleon's big mistake? I know he thinks that this time will be different, but isn't that how history repeats itself? The attack did start in summer, but then he delayed by trying to take care of the Balkans. His ego is taking over. He giggled after we signed that treaty with Russia, saying, “They will be ours by next year.” That was six years ago, and it has been downhill ever since.
Eva is beside herself, saying he talks in his sleep about the untapped power. And when he is awake, he is promising her that she will be his empress to his emperor of Europe -- and then the world. Is it delusions of grandeur or is he dreaming out loud? He keeps saying that she is Josephine to his Napoleon and Guinevere to his Arthur, and he just needs Excalibur to complete his conquest of Europe. All the members of the Thule Society have begun to distance themselves. They know when they have a good thing (and Hitler was a very good thing for them), and they know when that good thing has gone too far. Riding in the car from their secret headquarters, now is the time to make a plan to stop this madness, thought Himler.
My grandmother says idle hands are the devil's playthings and I wonder if Hitler's hands have become playthings? Grandmother also said distraction takes away from idleness. Should we distract him? His love of the occult is already an expensive distraction. The only people who love it are the overpaid archaeologists and they just brush away dust off their worshipped junk all day. I have lost that love, for my amulets have all failed me in my most precarious hour, and everyone at Thule are idiots saying it “needs more time.” I have come to the realization that they are just leeches and the occult is a con. Getting him out of the way may be the only way to save the Reich. Do we really want the Russians and British to come and take over because our Fürher has lost his mind? I should find someone to bring him occult garbage that will distract him while we get on with this war.
Sitting across from a frightened looking youth, Himler was enjoying himself. He loved this interrogation room, it always got them talking. This youth, this academic, Dr. Ernst Rheinholdt was the one. His background was perfect. His parents are German, but he was raised in Norway, and he is an expert of Arthurian and Norse Archeology. He was brought over from Oslo this morning, arrested in his bed, scared and willing to do anything for us. I heard he has a talent for art and mischief and has already fooled his fellow students. Perfect.
Perhaps Himler was enjoying this too much, as he always enjoyed threatening people. “All I have to do is make a phone call and your dear Father is dead.”
“If it wasn't for my Father, why should I help you?” said Rheinholdt.
“Like all our solutions, this is for the greater glory of the Reich.” said Himler.
In the bunker at midnight, Hitler was desperate, “When will it get here?” he kept demanding. “Soon, soon, my Fürher.” said Himler, “Dr. Rheinholdt just found it this morning, and it was carefully flown in from Norway. It's on it's way from the airport as we speak.”
“This will change the war. Everyone will bow down when they see Excalibur,” Hitler reassured himself. Yeah, right, thought Himler as he watched the idiot ruler pace.
Rheinholdt entered with a long chest about four feet in length and one foot wide. It was beautifully carved with old Saxon symbols, I had to assume, but was covered with dust. Hitler moaned with satisfaction. Dr. Rheinholdt said, “My Fürher, after the Reich's glorious capture of Norway, I was instructed byCommander Himler to find Excalibur for you. It was not easy, but in sympathy for your dream of a new, pure Europe, I worked day and night to find this wondrous sword, so that the British will bow down to you.” Rheinholdt almost sounded as if he believed what he was saying, and Hitler was so delusional, he ate it up with a spoon. The chest was opened and the sword was revealed. It was a beautiful sword. Hitler, and even Eva, gasped. She never believed it would show up in time; she had considered taking the cyanide pill an hour ago. Hitler took the sword out of the chest. The sheath of the sword was hard leather with bronze at the tip and the end. The hilt of the sword was bronze with a large blue crystal in the middle. It was so heavy he had to hold it with two hands. When he unsheathed the sword, it swished out and rang as it swung through the air. Hitler was so overjoyed by the blade that he kept swinging it around, like a school boy with a new toy, giggling, and listening to the blade ringing in the air.
Everyone started laughing, and Hitler said, “You see, this magical sword will turn the war around and give us the world!” He then swung the sword in an arc near his head and the blade made contact with his throat, “This blade is sharp!” he said, suddenly realizing it shouldn't be. “Old swords should not be sharp, but it is magical so that must be the reason.” Blood dripped down from his throat creating bubbles at the wound.
“My Fürher, you should have that cut looked at,” said Eva.
“Nonsense, Eva! I feel even stronger now that the sword has tasted my blood,” cried Hitler, a little too loudly. He began to sway, dancing around with the sword, but being careful not to cut himself again. Suddenly, the large blue crystal that was in the hilt fell out of the sword, bounced a few times, and rolled across the floor.
Damn, thought Rheinholdt. That was the last thing I added to the sword before the poison. I was too rushed. Hopefully, he won't kill me before he dies.
Hitler fell to his knees, threw the sword aside, and said, “That is not right! That should not happen with Excalibur! This is a fake!” He looked around the room and screamed “I am your emperor! How could you betray me?” He fell to the floor, and more and more blood came out of the throat wound with a gurgle and then a hiss, as foam spurted from his mouth. The poison was quick, and he was dead.
“My work here is done,” said Rheinholdt and he walked out of the bunker. Luckily everyone was too stunned to stop him. There was a sense of relief in the air, despite the sounds of bombing outside.
Chapter 2 – Misplacement
Flagstaff, Arizona 2007
God, I hate these placements, thought Stuart, and this damn GPS thing is not working. Worst part of the job, not that Dad let's me have any say in the important stuff. Shouldn't I have more responsibility now that I have been here a year? Yeah, I screwed up a few things, but who wouldn't with this crazy bureau. If I had more responsibility, things would run more smoothly.
He drove down I-17 in his H2, non-descript vehicle. They told me to get a Ford F150, said I would “blend-in” more, but that thing handled like a tractor, and it wasn't even a 4X4! So I turned around after a few miles and did the upgrade -- it is the least Dad could do for me since I have to do this crappy placement. That Flagstaff airport, what a joke, and this hick town couldn't be more podunk. They should be glad someone like me is here spending money.
As he drove into Flagstaff, the University came into view down Milton Avenue. Jesus, this place has a University? You would think ASU would be enough. I need to find a place to eat, then do this thing before the “crypto” gets too smelly or I will have to pay extra on the H2. Can't leave it like I did in Florida, even though Dad wasn't mad, because I said I met someone special. Actually she (redheaded waitress, right?) was special to me for three times in that crappy hotel outside of Tallahassee. But damn, did that crypto get smelly since I was supposed to place it the night before. How was I to know I would meet that special waitress at a sports bar? It was fate! Until the smell the next morning and the crappy styrofoam cooler had a crack and the crypto juice leaked onto the floorboards. Damn rental agency almost called the police, because of the way I had left the car, said something must have gone on. But I told them I had gone fishing and did not put enough ice in the cooler and the damn thing went all gooey on me. We eventually had to pay them off. Luckily, the manager was cool, being a fellow fisherman who needed a new boat.
OK, Mexican food sounds good, then I'll head east cause that GPS thing showed somewhere east before the thing conked out. Make the placement early, and get the hell out of here, fly to Vegas and give myself a well deserved weekend with another special waitress and the blackjack table.
I love laptops, mused Alex, as he drove down a dirt road surrounded by Ponderosa Pines. I can work on my thesis here near the prairie dogs. The tiny office I share with two master's students is too cramped and always full of complaining undergrads who cannot believe they are already only getting a C in BIO101. Out here in the open air – with hopefully four hours of battery time – I can get the Introduction finished. My boss will have my hide if that is not turned in by tomorrow.
Driving his beat up RAV-4 close to the prairie dog town brought back so many memories of his summers doing behavioral research. Those little buggers are cute, but man is their altruistic society hard to figure out, and I was just studying the raising of litters by not just the mothers but the entire colony. It takes a village, indeed. Not that Joanna likes that reference, nor the woman who made it. She likes big federal grants but not big government. The woman is an enigma.
Parked too close to the blind. But what do I care if the dogs see me, I am done (hopefully) with that part of the process, or it will be another year here in Flag, not that I would mind it. I need to move on with my life and my Parents are getting pretty impatient. Post-doc somewhere, slave labor for the possibility of doing my own research someday, and it will most likely have to be some other animal besides the dogs. I could post-doc here with Joanna; she has already brought that up, but we both know that is career suicide. What else could I do with a Ph. D., besides studying the behavior of prairie dogs? Teach community college, but that gig is hard to get because all the biochemists and other lab biologists who can't find a job after post-docing for 10+ years are all scrambling for those jobs. I am screwed cause I went with my bliss, and the money ain't gonna follow. At least it is a beautiful September day, and I have my lunch, a burrito from “The Black Bean.” I will enjoy the weather today before a quick fall and long cold winter shut inside the office or my small apartment.
Walking parallel to the town, along the tree line of the prairie, I hear a strange grunt in the forest. Shouldn't be a bear, but it could be a mountain lion. It needs to be checked out. Lunch will have to wait. I take off my backpack and put the paper bag with the tortilla-filled goodness inside and hope it does not drip onto my laptop, or publications I could not get in .pdf format, or my notes from my last meeting with Joanna. I put the backpack on the large rock where I was going to write. Going back into the forest a few hundred yards, I notice a bright red H2 and a guy in an obnoxious hunter's get up. I yell, “Hey! There's no hunting around here and hunting season does not start until October!” He looks like a deer caught in the headlights as he throws a cooler into the back of the mammoth SUV. As I run closer, he rubs his hands on his chammo pants and jumps into the H2. Speeding off throwing dust into the air, I notice that his car is a rental, and the start of the license plate, AAF. Then I look down. Jesus, what the hell is that!
I had heard of descriptions of Chupacabra's – those infamous “goat suckers” on the internet. Wikipedia can be very helpful when you are having a few beers with your fellow grad students and someone mentions the word cryptozoology. These things were kind of taboo in serious scientific discussions during seminars, but man are they fun on a Friday night. This thing looked like a Chupacabra. It had the spines and the seemingly correct morphology, but it was partially frozen. There was a smell coming off of it like it was decomposing before it was frozen. That guy had thrown this thing on the ground out of that cooler and then high-tailed it. WTF?
“CODE RED, I repeat, code red. Someone saw me do the placement,” yelled Stuart into his cell phone as he drove back down I-40 towards the airport. “He was about 6 feet tall, brown curly hair, driving a piece-of-shit Toyota.”
“Did you get the licence plate ID?” said a gravelly voice on the phone.
“No! I just got the hell out of there!” Stuart said.
“Jesus, Skipperson, your Dad is going to skin you alive.” said the voice on the phone. “Why were you doing the placement in the middle of the day? It was supposed to be done late tonight! I am going to leave for the airport now. Flagstaff you said? It will take me a while cause I will have to go through Phoenix and traffic here in Palo Alto is already a bitch,” replied Chandler. “Don't leave Flagstaff. Check into a hotel; I will call you when I arrive.”
Chapter 3 – Rheinholdt's Future
Berlin, Germany 1945
These Nazi's were into some weird shit, thought Smith. We found this guy camped out in Hamburg, demanding to travel to Norway, or at least talk to someone “of importance.” This Ernest Rheinholdt, an archaeologist who claims to have helped killed Hitler with a fake sword? Right. The story that Hitler took a cyanide pill and shot himself, sounds far more likely. Now I have got to interview him officially, but in German, because this guy's English isn't good. Luckily my CO is listening in on this crackpot story and will give me the OK to send him to a loony bin.
“So, where are you from 'cause you don't sound German?” asked Smith in German.
“Norway,” responds Rheinholdt, “but my parents are German, although my father's mother was from Norway and my father worked at the Bergen Museum as a Geologist.”
“And you claim that Commander Heinrich Himler himself ordered you to fake Excalibur and give it to Hitler as a distraction? A distraction from what?” queried Smith.
“From the details of the war,” said Rheinholdt. “It sounds bizarre, but Himmler claimed that Hitler's mistake was attacking Russia in winter. He thought this special sword was going to protect the soldiers during the rest of the war and make Britian automatically surrender.”
“You're kidding!” Smith shouted a little too loud.
“As surreal as it seems, it is what he told me,” said Rheinholdt.
“And how did you make this sword?” asked Smith.
“Well, I had just graduated with my Ph. D. from the University in Oslo specializing in the blending of Norse and Saxon cultures during the Viking conquests. But I guess my real talent is faking these items. Himler found out about this and asked me to make a reasonable facsimile of Excalibur. So making the sword was easy, but I made it extra sharp and dipped it in a poisonous solution to see if Hitler would kill himself. I had heard he was a poor swordsman.”
“You had a problem with the Nazi's taking over Norway even though you are German?” asked Smith.
“ I had also heard rumors about the trains taking the Jews to special camps, rumors that are showing to be true. My mother was Jewish, and I consider myself to be Jewish. My family always has hidden this fact because the tide of anti-semitism in Europe has been brewing for quite a while, including when my parents were married some 25 years ago. My father is Lutheran, but he has always tried to give me information about being Jewish, since my mother died giving birth to me. We all knew that revealing this fact was a ticket on those trains. My Father had to watch while his colleagues were taken away and said that he would not allow that for his son. When Himler came to me, I first thought it was a joke. I then realized I could avenge all the people who were killed by this madman.”
Stunned, Smith did not say anything for a few moments and then spit out, “I will need to discuss with with my commanding officer.”
Colonel Richard Atkinson, listening from an adjoining room, looked worried, this Rheinholdt's story checks out. The President himself said that the actual details of Hitler's death were to remain a secret. Suicide paints him as a coward, and claims of madness (although true) would encourage his followers to say that he was murdered and should be avenged. This was the guy who killed Hitler. But no one could ever know about it – we are going to have to compensate him in a way that will keep this whole thing quiet. Thank God we found him before the Russians – what could they do with him, anyway?
I don't think they believe my story. Rheinholdt had sat in his “cell,” a hotel room back in Berlin that amazingly had not been bombed to kingdom come. I would not believe my own story. Hopefully, I can go back to Norway and make sure that father is all right. I took a huge gamble in this, but given the opportunity, I would do it again. Himler had made a phone call and said that they had let go of father after I showed him the sword, then he then took me to the bunker.
There were a few muffled squeaks from the building, at least I could hear when people were coming.
The door opened with a large number of soldiers coming into the room followed by what looked like General Eisenhowitzer, but that couldn't be right? And right behind him was my father. I rushed to hug him but then held back because of so many military men in the room. They all started laughing. And Eisenhowitzer said, “Hug your Dad, for goodness sake!”
After the reunion was over, Gen. Eisenhowitzer and I sat down at the little table near the window.
“Dr. Rheinholdt, I am here by order of the President of the United States to invite you to work for our government. You, your father, and any other family can move to the United States.”
I didn't know what to say. I squeaked out a “Ja, ah, I mean, yes.”
Chapter 4 – Job Offer
Flagstaff, Arizona 2007
Calling the rental car agency on my cell phone left me with nothing. They said that even though the guy might have done something illegal, they could not give any information about him, not even a phone number, unless I was a cop. I could bring this thing into the vertebrate zoology lab, but I don't think anyone would believe the story. I eventually came home to think about what to do. The thesis will have to wait; this is too weird. Should I call Joanna? She would freak out. I was too freaked out to do anything about it. I didn't even bring it home. The smell just kept getting worse in the open air of the forest, what would it do in the apartment?
It was 10p.m. in the H2 parked outside of Alex Griffin's apartment. “Did you even use the GPS coordinates?” asked Chandler.
“I tried but the thing is broken,” replied Stuart.
Chandler looked at the GPS and pressed the on/off button. A red light flashed a few times and stopped.
“See, that thing flashed and nothing happens! It's a piece of shit!” said Stuart hurriedly. He had been interrogated for only five minutes in the parking lot and he was exhausted.
“That means the battery is dead, you schmuck! All you have to do is charge it – let me guess you left the charger in Palo Alto!” screamed Chandler. “And you were briefed that the placement was supposed to be in the middle of the night near Lake Mary, so anglers would find it in the morning. Not in the middle of the day near a research site. And it was supposed to be kept frozen until placement. Were you too cheap to buy some dry ice? Luckily, the guy who saw you is a grad student at UNA. We might actually have a turd blossom here if the guy is pragmatic.”
Stuart saw that Chandler was calming down and decided to get his reasons out in the open. “I wanted to go to Vegas after this, and they don't have any flights after 8p.m. at this podunk airport. Isn't that place as good as any? I mean, I was in the middle of nowhere. How could I know this jerk would be there near his 'prairie dog town.' What the hell is that, anyways?” He didn't think that helped, but at least Chandler was talking now. He said nothing after he was picked up at the airport and they went and cleaned up the site. It was the luck of the angels that that grad student guy didn't take the crypto anywhere.
“All you need to know is that this guy studies their behavior. And a scientist who studies behavior could be very useful to us.” said Chandler. “Now say NOTHING, I will do all the talking.”
It was already evening, and I was still freaked out. I tried to go on the internet to read up more on this chupacabra, when there was a knock on my door. Looking through the eye hole, I saw the weirdo in his chammos and next to him a guy in a suit. Stupidly, I opened the door. Before I could say anything, the suit said, “Good evening, Mr. Griffin. I am Larry Chandler from the Interdepartmental Distraction and Innovation of Obsequiousness Team. You are already familiar with my colleague, Stuart Skipperson. May we come in?'
“Yeah, I guess, you guys are from IDIOT?” I said, “What is that? Some sort of government agency?”
“Exactly, and kudos for figuring out the acronym so quickly. Your reputation precedes you,” said Chandler.
“I had no idea I had a reputation,” I replied, “especially with the government.”
“Oh, we have had our eye on you for some time and think you would make an excellent addition to our team. Graduated summa cum laude from Cornell University with a double degree in Psychology and Biology. Came here to study prairie dog behavior with Joanna Shuster doing top notch work.”
“Right, so you set up this guy to leave that thing basically in front of me to recruit me? I have no idea how you think I could help you with your business, since it seems to involve encouraging urban legends.”
Chandler paused, “I guess I need to be honest with you, because you are already figuring it out. Yes, that was what we call a crypto, a genetically engineered creature placed in certain areas. We do these placements to get people freaked out and distracted. We also send out emails saying that your cell phone will give you cancer, and we encourage people to pay attention to celebrities. Back in the day, we set up Monroe Marilyn and Art Millerstein, bet you didn't see that one coming. But, you were cautious and did not alert the authorities or especially the media. To us, that says you are IDIOT material all around. Our business is distraction and we are damn good at it. Hell, Americans need distraction, and we have many departments to meet their needs. You could be a part of this agency or you will have to take the “Memory Modification Meds” which will take more than a few IQ points off and make the last day seem like a drunken escapade. Those are the only two options, and your civil rights have nothing to do with our agency, thanks to the Patriot Act.”
Alex was skeptical, “Let me get this straight, you are offering me a job or a mind melt.”
“Yes, and if you take the job it will have significantly better pay than your typical post-doc,” replied Chandler.
“So, I couldn't do this until after I graduate.” said Alex. Why not check it out. The Memory Meds sounded worse than knowing about this agency.
“Yes, we can wait until you are finished with your degree, but even if you were to start tomorrow, we would need you to sign a very specific non-disclosure agreement which states that if you spill the beans on IDIOT, you will be incarcerated with extreme prejudice. Don't think this is our first rodeo, son. Even if you did bring the crypto into a lab, it would be so degraded that the “horns” would fall off. Your colleagues would say you did this as a hoax. Or the tiny GPS chip would have let us retrieve the crypto and replace it with a dead dog with the worst case of mange you will ever see. You must have already thought that no one would believe you. That is why you did nothing but call the rental agency. Thanks for that -- it is how we found you, since you did not take the bait. If you decide to join us, you will need to come with us to Palo Alto for the weekend to sign the paperwork. That is our Western HQ. If not, you get the Triple M treatment immediately,” he said as he patted what looked like a lot of pills in his shirt pocket. “So what do you say? You have to give us a decision now.”
Chapter 5 – IDIOT Begins
Washington D.C. 1946
My father and I have been placed in a very nice house near Georgetown University where my father has just started his position as Professor of Geology. We have all been stunned by these events and I am not even sure what I am going to be doing for this government. Ironically, my spoken English has always been rather poor, despite my fascination with the British culture. I fear no one will understand me. My father says we should have gone to Britain because of penchant for them, and we would be closer to Norway. No, I knew our future was in the U.S. Someone from the State Department is supposed to come by today and brief me on what I will be doing for the government. God, I hope I don't have to continue with archeology! I know I got my degree in it, but I have come to hate that subject. I was even tired of it before I was finished, which is why I started faking artifacts. That was fun, and I couldn't believe how many people bought my fakes - even graduate students. They took my Dagger of Anubis to Professor Hammar, who laughed them out of the room. He then chewed me out for a good hour on the necessity for authenticity in Archeology. I already knew that, of course, but it was all in good fun. Professors can be so serious sometimes. These government types will probably be the same way.
A black car parked by our new town house. A stunning blond woman got out of the car and knocked on the door. I let her in to sit on the new devan. Nothing felt as if it was ours yet.
In flawless Norwegian, she said, “Dr. Rheinholdt, my name is Leslie Brown and I am the liaison from the State Department. How have you settled in?
“Fine, but this is all overwhelming,” replied Rheinholdt.
“Yes, it has been quite an exciting few months. We have been having quite a time thinking of what to offer you as employment here. You already rejected a professorship at Georgetown, but we think that was so your father could work there and there wouldn't be any raised eyebrows. Correct?”
“My father is the Professor,” said Rheinholdt. “I am quickly losing my stomach for academics.”
“I see. I will consult with my higher ups, but I would like to ask – What would you like to do?”
Rheinholdt's Journal
January 1948
I cannot believe this is what I am paid to do. Our little Department has already got the Roswell Project off and running. Spreading rumors is easy. It is almost sad how easily these falsehoods are accepted because there might be a grain of truth in them. People see things they can't explain and, instead of trying to find the scientific answer, they will take the first fantastic one some idiot comes up with. The higher ups said that they thought the American public needs distractions after the two World Wars and the Great Depression. So let them pay their taxes and be distracted and entertained and encouraged to forget the last 30 years.
In thinking about what we could do, the possibilities seem endless, and there are many past examples we can extrapolate from: fake photos of UFO's and Nessie come most easily to mind. Our photography department did some gems for Roswell, but those probably won't be “revealed” for quite some time.
The only problem is that the bureaucrats want a name for this agency. I gave them one only in jest. My accent and European seriousness made them take me too seriously. So IDIOT it is.
