CHAPTER 15
Bauman
BRAZIL: AMAZON BASIN
Carved into the mountain eons ago, the Blythen temple was hidden beneath a blanket of trees and brush known as the Brazilian rainforest. No sunlight had ever touched the cold, damp tunnel leading to the sacred Sanctuary, where ancient people had offered human sacrifices to a horrific thirty-foot tall statue standing on a platform behind the rectangular floor outline of the long-departed altar. On both the ceiling and walls, thick twining roots had weaved their way between the huge stone blocks, filling the Sanctuary with tangled vines and offshoots; a welcome haven for venomous snakes and insects. For two thousand years, the jungle claimed this place as its own, until the return of man. Now all that remained of the living forest were the covered piles of damp ashes pushed against the walls.
The local Cichinta natives called the area “Tierra de Muerto,” or “Land of the Dead,” a place cursed by the gods. One year ago, six of their best hunters had gone into the jungle searching for a missing boy. Their mutilated bodies, along with that of the child, were found floating in the river with the words “Do Not Return” carved into their chests, backs, arms, and legs. Since then, no one had ventured into this territory, except those who belonged to the New Continuum.
A few mangled bodies are a small price to pay for obscurity, thought Bauman, donning a maroon-colored zippered jacket and black pants; a new dress code he’d implemented.
He was sitting at his desk on the platform where the altar once stood, elevated above everyone, an appropriate position for someone who was about to be deified. Before him and six steps down, forming a giant oval around the Sanctuary, was his tactical unit consisting of ten men. Their one-piece black uniforms had an assortment of Velcro pockets, with the NC logo in bright yellow just below the left shoulder. New Continuum. He was proud of the name he’d chosen. He was also proud of the men he’d handpicked. They were the best and just a small fraction of the army he’d created.
This new base had state-of-the-art technology, compliments of the United States government. As Secretary of Defense, it was all too easy. High-tech computers and equipment filled the tables where his men worked, busily talking into their headsets, keeping tight control of the operation. Missile and Aircraft Detecting Systems, Thermal Imaging of the ground and air, Sound Sensors able to pick up a man’s whisper from ten miles away, were just a few of the many defenses he’d incorporated. Standing double-high behind his team were eight, seven-foot wide LED screens displaying real-time satellite imagery. It was the most efficient covert operation he’d ever seen. Nothing was out of place. Perfect military order. A long sigh of contentment loosened his muscles.
He lifted his black knee boots onto the brown granite desk and leaned back. Three of the screens switched from satellite views to numerous bank accounts throughout the world.
This is too good to be true, thought Bauman, smiling.
His fingers tapped the desk next to a red button he couldn’t wait to use. The white phone rang. Finally. He pressed the speaker button. A massive face filled four screens. Hans Steinman had a striking resemblance to the famous Alfred Hitchcock, with his bulbous cheeks and drooping lips; however, this sixty-nine-year-old was ruthless, and unafraid to kill anyone who got in his way. The poisonous maggot lived behind security guards and lawyers, a cowardly recluse who refused to confront the public.
“I hate failure!” Hans said, his second chin wiggling like Jell-o. “I can and will replace you if need be.”
Bauman swung his feet off the desk. “It’s just a minor set-back.” Hans had the patience of a feeding tiger. Bauman adjusted the wide black belt surrounding his hefty waist and said, “You need to chill. Nothing can stop us this time.”
He heard Hans’s fist hit the table; the big man’s whole face shook like an earthquake.
“I swear, Ted, if you fail again, the Trench will be your grave.”
Bauman wished he could punch the rimless glasses off Hans’s face. He was a four-hundred-pound sack-of-snot who swore he was a descendant of Napoleon, despite the fact he was half-German. This man was born into money, millions just handed to him. Steinman Conglomerate was at the top of the Fortune 100 companies, and he had his greedy fingers into everything from pencils to NASA. He was the richest man in the world, yet he craved more. The only reason Bauman had accepted his bribe was because three hundred fifty million dollars was hard to resist. Another six hundred fifty million was waiting when the plan succeeded.
“You need to take a pill, Hans,” Bauman said calmly, imagining how refreshing it would be to chop off Hans’s fat limbs with a chainsaw. “I said the plan is going forward. Everyone that could have divulged our secret is dead. Relax, buddy; the world will be yours soon.”
Hans leaned back in his custom-made cushioned chair. Bauman recalled the day he’d ordered his men to install a metal sliding door because Hans’s chair wouldn’t fit through otherwise.
“Make sure you get it right this time,” said Hans. “If this works, all the money and power will be ours, Ted, and you’re going to be my right-hand man.”
“Thank you,” said Bauman, forcing himself to sound civil. Hans never told the truth. “How are my men treating you? Is the underground bunker secure?”
“You’re men are excellent,” said Hans. “The security is impeccable. We all feel safe here.”
“Good. Is the High Council there with you? I’d like to give them my regards.”
“Yes,” said Hans, “all twenty of us are here anxiously awaiting our moment of victory. Say hello, gentlemen, to General Bauman.”
The camera backed up. Seated along the sturdy wooden table, eight stately dressed men offered their greetings. Off to the side, Hans’s six bodyguards and five lawyers stood like hardened cement. Everyone from the High Council was present.
“Perfect,” said Bauman. “Now here’s my hello.”
He mashed the red button on his desk and the metal exit door slammed shut. Several fiery explosions ripped through the room. Chairs and bodies flew across the screen. Burning rafters crashed down onto the table and floor. The cries of dying men satisfied Bauman. Phase III was complete. Just then, pounding and shouts were heard and he sat up straight.
The camera swerved to the right. Three screaming men were desperately beating on the metal door, their clothes torn and smoldering. Bauman pushed the button again and another explosion tore their bodies apart. Burning limbs shot through the yellow flames like missiles. Then all quieted down, leaving only the soft, rustling sounds of burning wood and flesh.
The camera scanned the room and stopped at the table. Bauman leaned forward, staring curiously at the charred fingers grabbing the edge of the battered table. The picture zoomed in.
Yes! he thought, delighted.
Hans’s shattered glasses were dangling off his left ear. Blackish-red skin was peeling off the right side of his head. He was alive.
“You can’t have the money,” he said in a weak voice, his breathing shallow and erratic.
Bauman laughed aloud, eyeing the other screens, where the increasing bank totals were already into the billions.
“When I hit the button it automatically emptied your accounts into mine. I hacked into your system ages ago.” He grinned. “Goodbye, Hans.”
He pressed the button one more time and the table Hans was holding onto exploded. The picture turned snowy.
Bauman sat back, content. Rick and Joe stood behind him.
“Excellent work, gentlemen,” he said without turning around. His heart was racing; everything belonged to him...except the world, and that was next. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down; control was essential. “Is the dive proceeding as planned?” he asked.
“The X-38 will be ready at 0600 hours, Sir,” said Rick, standing at attention.
Bauman swiveled in his seat and gazed up at Rick. Even though his lanky physique made him appear weak, Rick was a real soldier who took pride in his work. He was invaluable for his loyalty and his intricat
e knowledge of computers. The new brainwashing techniques were outstanding, something he’d never thought possible. No extreme torture was necessary—just a large amount of the new drug Prenasic along with several weeks of shock treatment. Of course, new memories had to be implanted, but he didn’t mind being a father to sons who would do anything he asked. What more could a parent want?
“In four hours,” he said, checking his wristwatch. “Very good, son.” He turned to Joe. “And what’s the state of the Mariana?”
Joe’s wife and two girls had been murdered by terrorists who’d infiltrated the base at Guantanamo Bay. He’d been left bitter and alone, an easy target for Bauman’s treatment. Unfortunately, Joe was losing the respect he’d once had for Bauman. His mind was rejecting the new ideologies. Bauman was concerned.
“The trench is continuing to widen at a steady pace,” he said, failing for the second time in two hours to address Bauman as “Sir.”
I will not be mocked, thought Bauman. He vaulted out of his seat and punched Joe square in the face, making him stumble back.
“You will not forget to address me in the proper way!” he yelled. “Do you understand, soldier?”
Immediately Joe regained his composure and saluted him. “Yes, Sir! Sorry, Sir!” he shouted, the blood pouring out of his nose.
“Go clean yourself,” scoffed Bauman as he sat down.
“Yes, Sir.”
Joe did an about-face and left the Sanctuary. Bauman straightened his dark red sleeves and looked at Rick.
“Have a seat, son. I need to talk to you.”
Rick quickly sat.
Bauman eased into his gray leather chair. “Joe is showing signs of treason and I need you to shadow him. Can you do this for your father?”
“Yes, of course, Sir,” he answered.
Maybe having kids isn’t so bad, thought Bauman. Better yet, make your own when they’re grown up.
“Thank you, son,” he said. “Fire up the chopper and get us to the airfield. We have to be airborne within the next two hours.”
Rick stood up and shouted, “Yes, Sir,” then left to join the others below.
Bauman rested back, eyeing his self-accomplished world. Thanks to Rina’s ingenuity, the elite “Jordy” program had made it all possible and something that Rick’s technical mind easily altered. The last time he tracked her she was heading to the bottom of the Mariana with a minimal supply of oxygen. He clasped his hands behind his head, satisfied he was the richest man in the world.
All he had to do now was launch the sub and set off the biggest bomb the world has ever known.