Blood and Sand Page 3

  I was beyond distraught over losing my career, my passion and my love. I did what most people would do in that case. I drank. I drank and did something a little brainless. I got in an arguing match with an overweight cop and asked him, “Did you marry a piece of bacon, or the whole pig?”

  Needless-to-say he didn’t take it well.

  The next morning my father came and bailed me out of the local drunk tank and three months later I started working for him and the other archeology geeks in D.C.

  6

  DING.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be arriving at our destination in about thirty minutes. Please prepare yourselves for landing.”

  I wake with a groan.

  “What the hell hit me?” I mutter to myself, visibly wincing in pain. My head feels like it got hit with a bat, or better yet, a plane. I laugh at the ridiculousness of what happened earlier in the flight and shake it off to crap luck.

  “You okay?” asks a voice.

  I look over at my dad. He’s buckled in—which I replicate immediately. I don’t need a repeat of this morning’s events. Feeling like a ping-pong ball in a tennis ball tube and shaken by a paint mixer isn’t my definition of fun.

  He watches me strap in and gives me a look that says, ‘Good idea.’ I give him a wink and then look out my window. What I see makes me groan with disapproval.

  Desert, nothing but desert stretches into the distance from my vantage point. There are a few aberrations on the ground though. What looks like trees and other desert residing flora dot the otherwise unremarkable expanse of nothingness.

  I’m still thousands of feet in the air and my arm pits are already moistening up.

  This, I think. Is going to suck.

  I look back over at Dad and see him rummaging through his pack.

  “You lose something?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and says, a little wound up, “On the contrary son, I believe I have just discovered something!”

  He pulls out another folder with more notes.

  Great, more homework. But I humor him.

  “Have you ever heard of the mythstory of the Three?”

  ‘Mythstory’ is a fun little made up word he and his geek squad came up with. It catalogs and combines the documented history of a myth. Sounds like a load of fun, right?

  I sort of recall him telling me about these guys back in high school.

  Supposedly, the Three were the last overlords of Atlantis. They were thought to have magical abilities that in some way helped them create Atlantis and some of the other large megaliths around the world. They were also hypothesized to have the ability to conquer or protect any civilization with these powers. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but it sounds like they could weaponize them or something.

  He adds, “Some Mythologists believe that the Atlanteans helped build most of the ancient world’s large scaled architectural wonders…or at least helped plan them at the very least.”

  I give him a blank stare and sit up as if to say, ‘Really?’

  I’m about to argue when he interjects, “Come on Harrison, some people believe it was aliens! Give me a break will you.”

  “Fine, go ahead.” I give him what he wants and sit back again.

  He continues, “There is an obvious problem with all of the world’s ancient architecture. None of it was possible with the technologies of the time.”

  He’s right about that. To this day not a single learned individual can come up with how any of the Egyptian pyramids were built. At least, nothing solid has been proven. There are other cultures as well. In Central America, the Maya were simple farmers, yet they allegedly built massive temples and monuments in the middle of a rain forest. What about Stonehenge in England, Easter Island or The Nazca lines in Peru? Our modern day scientists and historians say even with our current technological advancements that most of the structures would be close-to-impossible to recreate.

  “Remember, there is a good amount of fact within a myth or legend. It really just depends on how far you are willing to take it.”

  Huh, I never thought about it like that.

  Then it hits me, “Let me see that photo again—the one of the new find” Dad takes it out and I grab it out of his hand. This is why I’m here. I’m no scientist or historian, shoot, I’m barely an archaeologist to some. But, what I do have is a very overactive imagination and I tend to see things in a different light than most and in this case I’m firing on all cylinders.

  I scan the photo again putting together the pieces, “You said your contact took this photo in southern Algeria, in the middle of the Sahara Desert?” Dad nods. “On the siding is text from some of the oldest most-ancient civilizations recorded.” He nods again. The mythological connections between Atlantis, the Maya, ancient Egypt, Greece and Sumer along with the geographic history of northern Africa flash through my head.

  Mind-bomb.

  Dad sees my eyes light up and sits up straight.

  “What is it?” Dad asks.

  “Remember earlier when I asked you about the location of Atlantis and we talked about it being underwater?” He says nothing, waiting for me to finish.

  “You also said that there are other legends about it being located in or around southern Algeria, but the desert kind of throws a wrench into that equation.”

  This time he gives me a couple fast nods.

  “The Sahara,” I say with a smile. “It used to be underwater.”

  7

  “The Sahara was underwater?” Dad asks, shock resonating in his voice.

  “Yes, yes it was,” I elaborate. “Sand is actually just very fine rock that has been eroded and broken down. These particular rocks were once part of a vast mountain range, some of which still exists today in the central part of the Sahara. The granite from the volcanic mountains was eventually broken down into quartz sand grains and carried away by rivers into a shallow sea, where most of the desert sits today. These same sand deposits would eventually form into sandstone and then get re-broken down into sand. As the water receded over thousands of years it was left behind.”

  Dad actually looks impressed.

  “Also, recent work using ground penetrating radar has showed us that there are ancient river beds running under the desert.”

  “Okay, but what about the current state of the region?” He asks.

  “To the north of Africa is a very cold Mediterranean Sea. It condenses rain clouds and moisture in the area before they can reach Africa, basically blocking any storms from reaching past the coast. Hence, very little rain falls annually.”

  Dad gives me a bewildered look and asks, “No offense, but how do you know all this?”

  I give him an offended look, “I do know how to read Dad, cut me some slack! I studied some geology when I first started working with you, just in case.”

  He shrugs.

  “I guess it finally came in handy,” I say with a jovial smile.

  He cuts off my laughter, back to business, “What of the Atlantean connection to the other ancient civilizations? You said there was a correlation between them and Egypt, Greece, Sumer, China and the Maya.”

  “There is, Dad, hang on a second.”

  I pull out my iPad again and tap on a file I had saved earlier. It’s a bunch of notes I cut and paste from various websites on the subject.

  “For instance,” I say. “The Maya actually have a legend written into their history about the exodus they undertook from Atlantis when it was destroyed. They refer to Atlantis as, Aztlan, in their native language. The ancient Mayan’s actually believed themselves to be Atlantean descendants. Plus, there have been recent developments using carbon dating that have some believing that the Mayan people may be as old as Sumer and Egypt too making them one of the oldest civilizations to date. It would fit the theoretical Atlantean timeline. Also, it says that the Mayan pyramids may actually be older than the Egyptian ones. ”

  “And what of Egypt?” he asks.

  I swipe to a new
page.

  “Apparently,” I say scanning the screen. “Thoth, the Egyptian god of writing, mathematics and astronomy, was said to have come from a western island, from across the sea.”

  “I guess the sea could be the water the Sahara was once under?” Dad surmises.

  “I agree, and the first land Thoth and company found would eventually become ancient Egypt.”

  It all sounds plausible but, still a little far-fetched, I think.

  I continue reading, “A catastrophe occurred that forced them from their homeland that would also decimate the region and its land. This could be the reason for the water to recede and for the rivers to dry up. It also says that Thoth was a king before he became a god. He became a god because of the knowledge he gave the natives of the region.”

  “So,” Dad deduces. “A colossal natural disaster or something destroys an island kingdom to the west. Thoth, the king, leads his people across a sea to the land that would become Egypt. He gives his wisdom to the original inhabitants of the land and they make him a god.”

  I shrug my shoulders, “I guess it’s possible.”

  DING.

  “We will now be making our decent.”

  Ω Ω Ω

  We land in Algiers, the capital of Algeria, without a hitch. There is barely a bump on the scorched runway and thank God for that, my receding headache could use the rest. I kind of figured landing this thing would be a cake walk compared to the bobbing and weaving we did earlier. I think back to this morning’s events, not believing what happened.

  The plane taxis to a stop and we are thanked for flying with them which I think is absurd, I should be bowing at and kissing the pilots feet right now for their efforts keeping me alive this morning. Things could have turned out much, much worse. Like, death-worse.

  Between the half a day flying and the ass kicking I endured I’m pretty well limping through the jet way. My head is pounding and my body is aching. At least when I would normally feel like this it would be after a late night out with the guys going bar hopping. Now…not so much. It feels like I went toe-to-toe with a rabid kangaroo on steroids. Thankfully for me there was less biting.

  We make it through the first half of the airport without incident and arrive at baggage claim.

  “So,” I ask. “Who is your contact at the site?”

  Dad answers without looking up from the conveyer belt, “A local that was recommended to me from a colleague at the office. He came with very high praise.”

  The ‘office’ is a nickname of sorts that he has given to his workplace, the Smithsonian Institute, in Washington D.C.

  The Smithsonian isn’t just a museum--it’s a collection of nineteen museums, nine research centers and of course you guessed it, a zoo. The main building, the Castle, was built in 1847 and is still its headquarters. It features the Smithsonian’s information center and administrative offices, the latter of which is where Dad is employed. He’s been a head researcher there for the last ten years after being one of their more respected historians and archaeologists.

  Of the nineteen museums, eleven sit within the National Mall, which runs from the Lincoln Memorial to the United States Capital. Some of the Mall’s more popular attractions are the National Museum of American History, the National Museum of Natural History, the National Air and Space Museum along with a variety of other museums, parks and memorials.

  “What’s his name?” I ask, not wanting to sound untrusting.

  He looks up at me with an indifferent look on his face, “Omar, his name is Omar.”

  8

  924 miles south of Algiers is the small town of Djanet—an oasis of sorts—where it lies on the southwest border of the Tassili n’Ajjer National Park. The city has a population of roughly 15,000 people, which is made up of primarily the Kel Ajjer Taureg—a friendly and humble people. Djanet has been called ‘The Jewel of the Desert’ by travelers and the local economy relies heavily on tourism. There are no accommodations such as hotels, motels or bed and breakfasts, leaving only a camping site available to outsiders.

  The park itself has many sites to visit, including, the Tassili rock paintings. It’s one of the most visited spots in the entire region and has been labeled a World Heritage Site by UNESCO, The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. UNESCO named it that because they feel that the geological formations and rock art have importance and value that is worth protecting.

  Omar Jafari waited impatiently in the front seat of his heavily worn Land Rover, outside the Djanet airport. The abused air conditioning did its best to keep the ever increasing temperature at bay, but he knew that it wouldn’t live for much longer. The vehicle had seen better days for sure.

  He hated his job with an unbridled passion. Traipsing all over the burning desert, brown-nosing rich, pompous Americans had worn on him over the years. Still, he knew the money was too good to pass up. Plus, this specific expedition was heading out to Tassili where a new ruin was uncovered by last week’s sandstorm and they had promised twice his wage.

  Why are they so hell bent on getting to Tassili? Omar thought. It’s just a bunch of weather worn rocks and dirt. Unless, this new discovery is more than it seems? We will have to just wait and see, now won’t we?

  Omar’s phone rang.

  “Yes?” He said answering it.

  “Mr. Jafari, is that you? It’s Dr. Boyd,” said the caller.

  With a practiced reluctant joyfulness Omar replied, “Why yes, Dr. Boyd, it is. Have you landed in Algiers?”

  “Yes, we have. Is everything proceeding as scheduled?” asked his client.

  Right to business as usual, Omar thought.

  “Yes sir, it is. Your assistant is at the dig site as we speak, getting the excavation underway. There are teams of diggers working in shifts round-the-clock like you ordered and all the supplies you sent ahead are being unpacked and checked.”

  “You’re a good man, Omar.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They signed off a moment later.

  Omar knew they had another 90 minute flight to Djanet to catch and then the Boyd’s would arrive. He reclined his seat, turned the A.C. up to high and shut his eyes. He’d rest for another hour, hoping his AC wouldn’t crap out.

  “Just think,” he muttered. “By this time next week I’ll be able to use this money and leave this hellhole for good. I could move to Algiers maybe? Get a better, quieter job.”

  He softly counted his new found wealth and drifted off to sleep remembering another obligation he needed to fill, a personal one.

  9

  “Dad, you get your bags?” I ask, my rolling suitcase at the ready, carry-on slung over my shoulder.

  My father double-checks that he has everything, nods and hangs up his phone.

  “That was Omar. He’s at the Djanet airport waiting for us,” he says.

  “Already?” I ask. “Man, this guy is punctual. He’s two hours early.”

  “Like I said before, he came highly recommended and-”

  BOOM!

  Dad is cut off by a massive explosion that rips through the concourse. Smoke and debris are thrown everywhere and people lay all over the place. Some of those people aren’t moving.

  “Mother—”

  BOOM!

  Another large explosion hits—this one so close it knocks everyone including us to the ground. Sirens wail from every corner of the airport, blasting like an air raid drill.

  “Dad,” I yell, my ears ringing. I can barely hear my own words. It sounds like I’m under water or something. Dad’s on his hands and knees shaking his head trying to clear the cobwebs—as am I—but otherwise he looks unharmed.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask, trying to clear my own clouded senses.

  He shakes his head again and gets to one knee—right as we hear extremely loud and rapidly popping fireworks.

  It takes me all of half a second to realize those aren’t firecrackers.

  Gunshots, I think. Screw getting to my knees, I jump
to my feet and bolt to my dad. Every square inch of my body screams in pain like I’d been slammed by a freight train but, I manage to grab him by his shirt collar and pull him back towards the baggage claim area.

  More automatic gun fire erupts further down the concourse, then a smattering of what sounds like return fire. I take a quick peek back and see four airport police officers huddled behind a table and a neighboring ATM. A round from the attackers punches into the money giver and suddenly hundreds of bills start spewing everywhere. It looks like the confetti party at the end of the Super Bowl.

  To my amazement, people actually dash out of cover to grab some of the cash. That is, until one of them is hit by a stray round and collapses in a spray of blood on the floor.

  Dear God, I think. I just blankly stare at the man. He was maybe in his mid-thirties at most. He may have had a family or friends waiting for him outside the terminal. I’ve honestly never seen someone get killed in cold blood before. The only time I’ve witnessed someone’s death was…well…Mom’s. But, that was cancer, not an act of terror.

  Dad finally comes to his senses and grabs my arm and yanks—just as a bullet sizzles past my head and imbeds itself into the wall behind me.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t mention it,” he unnecessarily shouts back, squinting his eyes like he has a migraine.

  I guess his ears are still ringing too.

  Another round whistles by us both and we take off running, back through the door in which we came only moments earlier. Hopefully we can find somewhere to hide—or better yet—a quick exit to the outside.

  Not a moment after we duck inside the room, the glass door we just passed through shatters into a million pieces. We get covered in glass, some of it cutting the back of my neck. Dad fares better since he was in front of me, my body blocking his.

  “Dammit,” I curse stumbling, instinctively reaching for the injured area. I can feel a warm liquid running down my neck, soaking the back of my shirt collar.