The Story of the Century

Karl Eysenbach

Description

What does the government really know about UFOs? Why and how are they hiding it?

Mankind is such a stupid beast. After starting World War III, Earth has managed to climb back to where it was. Trillionaires still rule the world. There’s a world government, but for no good reason, it has a military-intelligence complex that is out of control.

A mining project in the Magaden Peninsula threatens an intergalactic communications network that insures the integrity of the entire Milky Way galaxy. A group of aliens was sent to Earth to repair a transponder that is a vital link in the network, but their galactic overlords discover the threat from the mining project. They think that maybe mankind should be eliminated.

In Los Angeles, two people fall in love. Clem Reader is the LA News Chief of ABN, and Saroyan Pashogi is the world’s most famous and beautiful movie star. For some reason, the mysterious conglomerate, Lodestar starts feeding Clem information that the government is suppressing evidence of what it knows about space aliens. And the national security state starts taking action to silence Clem and eliminate everyone who has any knowledge of its secret information. By sheer luck, Clem gets in a position to meet Attu – a space alien assigned to fix the transponder. By what he says to Attu – Clem manages to save the world

The Story of the Century is a story about how two ordinary people can have an influence on the world far beyond what anyone could possibly imagine.

Sujets

• Thrillers
• Unidentified flying object
• Suspense
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: iUniverse
• Date de parution: 21 janvier 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780595628094
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

THE STORY OF THE CENTURY
 
REVISED EDITION
 
 
 
a novel
Karl Eysenbach
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
THE STORY OF THE CENTURY
REVISED EDITION
 
Copyright © 2009 Karl Eysenbach.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
 
iUniverse
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-0-5955-2757-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-0-5956-2809-4 (e)
 
 
 
iUniverse rev. date: 04/29/2022
 
ONE SECOND BEFORE MIDNIGHT, DECEMB ER 31, 25 6
INSIDE AMMUNITION BUNKER G7
FORT HUACHUCA, ARIZONA
Part of the problem was – that no earthling knows how to use it. Imagine that someone gives a caveman a computer, a smart caveman. He’s curious and patient, using his analytical skills, but he’s still a caveman. Generations of scientists gave their best shots at reverse engineering the thing, but they’ve all walked away scratching their heads.
It isn’t very big – only one meter by 1.5 meters by .8 meters, weighing almost a ton. A plain matte silver rectangular box with four male and eight female plugs stuck in and out of the body. The metal box is all of one piece, welded together a molecule at a time with a material that burns up the world’s most powerful lasers and drills. While engineers classify it as a “magnetic interferometer,” it’s known as the bread box to the people who guard it.
It was retrieved from a delivery vehicle that crashed in the woods near Kecksburg, Pennsylvania on December 3, 1965. And the magnetic interferometer just stumped every human scientist who came in contact with it. Unlike Roswell or Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, the magnetic interferometer is one piece of alien equipment that has never had a single leak about its existence. For decades, it was stored at the Los Angeles World Air Force Base, but for some unknown reason – one of the last acts of the dying American civilization was to transfer the thing to Fort Huachuca. After World War III, World Expeditionary Forces found it in Year 12 while looking for other things. Of course, all of this alien technology continued to be the deepest and darkest secret in the world even after the Great Atomic War.
The World Government, like the US Government before has placed total restrictions on the President, prohibiting him/her from having any need to know. Going public means telling people that the government lied. There are things that the government is powerless to control. It would imply that man is truly a feeble-minded creature. And besides, if the government admits the existence of little green men, then the little green men might come. So there is this feeling – that you and I and Jesus, Buddha, Mohamed, and Moses all rolled into one are nothing but stupid, ignorant frail human beings compared to the civilizations circling Alpha Centauri or parts of the Rigel system. If the government admits the existence of little green men, then the little green men might come from behind the duck blind they’re in right now. Earth would be like the Aztecs greeting the arrival of the white gods from Spain, and it’s well known about how well that worked out for Aztec society.
The powers that be deny that the government has any contact with any extraterrestrials. Business gets done through a tiny entity known as the Coordinated Partnership. The rest of the government is in the dark. When an inquiring UFO-ologist makes an inquiry of government records, the response is always:
All records have been searched. In response to your information request, the World Government has done a comprehensive information search, and we have found no evidence or information pertaining to the possession of extraterrestrial artifacts.
The answer remains the same. But this directive of the government is at a dozen grades above top secret:
Any unauthorized release of information on the knowledge of alien contact is a threat to world security, and any person responsible for disseminating such information will be terminated with extreme prejudice. 5
JANUARY 7 th , 10 AM
SEA OF CORTEZ
Each man knows that he has a very short time to live, but they don’t care. By fate or by choice, they’ve found themselves doing a whole series of dangerous jobs in fishing and smuggling. But on top of it all, more than one trillion dollar corporation has been paying them to blow up bridges and rob banks as the Aztlan Liberation Front. Why? Nobody knows. Right now, they’re smugglers.
They picked up the diamonds in a bag of peanuts from Frog on the beach at San Felipe. After refueling at Bahia San Jorge, Antonio, Pelon and Ivan head south until they reach home base in San Mateo. They convoy with two other boats, and within an hour, they stow their gear in rooms in Hotel Punta Borrego. They’re the only people here, except for the caretaker.
The best way to visit the hotel is by landing on the dirt airstrip nearby; but the hotel never advertises, and it’s always empty. Despite this, the Hotel Punta Borrego is clean and luxurious beyond belief. It has thirty rooms, a professional staff during the month of August when the cartels have their executive meeting, an Olympic sized swimming pool, tennis courts, and a nine-hole golf course.
The fishermen cut their engines near Isla Santa Isabel, near the reefs where the waters are crawling with fish. Within a couple of hours, Jorge and his friends catch some giant sea bass that must weigh a hundred kilos each. The boats race each back to the hotel, getting there in no time. Their boats are so fast that they can beat a car on the highway.
Once onshore, they stow their gear and turn their attention to the finny giants lying in the bottom of the boats. They gut and clean them, cutting the fish into manageable pieces that are stored in the kitchen’s giant walk-in coolers. The next morning, the fishermen sit on the terrace finishing up their huevos rancheros and chorizo, when they see the two engine private plane coming in on its approach pattern. They run to the caretaker, who gives them some keys. And the six men commandeer Jeeps to meet the small plane. As soon as the propeller stops moving, the men unload duffle bags from the plane. Only after the fishermen are done, do they begin emptying the jerry tanks of aviation gasoline to refuel the plane for its turnaround. The fishermen return to the kitchen, dragging in the khaki bags. Then the long process begins by taking packets of white powder out of the duffle bags, placing them deep inside the cavities of the fish. wrapping the packets in butcher paper, and carefully placing filets into Styrofoam coolers, before dumping ice to fill the white chests.
The next morning, the boatmen take the half hour journey north to San Bernardo, landing in front of the bright orange fish processing plant with the RPM logo on it. Jorge and Vladimir walk into the manager’s office and pay for the fishermen’s visit with what’s been left in the bag of peanuts that he had eaten on his trip down from the Bahia San Antonio. Skipio Completo, the Filipino plant manager, dumps the peanut shells onto his desk and smiles. He finds that the diamond count is satisfactory, and he takes out a loupe. Inserting it in one eye, he examines the diamonds one by one. This pleases him too. The blue and white diamonds are of very high quality. Getting out of his seat, he shakes Pelon’s hand.
Jorge smiles. “Someday I would like to actually put my name in your hotel register. I would like to stay here with my wife.” Both men smile at the joke. Just then Ivan and Puto walk into the building and stop in front of the office.
“What do you have here?” The fish plant manager asks. Jorge replies, “Five hundred kilos of sea bass wrapped and ready to go.”
“Well, unload those coolers. Put them on the back of that flatbed truck, and we will go to the refrigerator line.” The men snap to it, pronto. Jorge gets in the truck cab with the manager, and Puto, Vladimir, and Fidel walk the hundred meters to the large metal building with no windows. Inside the cramped and shabby office, the hard faced plant manager takes one package of fish outside of a cooler, carefully opening the packages as if they were Christmas presents. He unwraps the fish and opens ten random plastic bags with a surgical knife just enough to place a tiny amount of powder onto white filter paper. Then he carefully reseals each bag with strapping tape. Taking an eyedropper out of his desk drawer, he puts the smallest amount of thick clear liquid on the powder samples. The powder fizzes and turns the same shade of bright yellow. He compares the color to a chart on his desk.
“Very good. Looks like they’re all 99% pure or better.”
“What do you expect?” Jorge replies. “It’s always the same. It’s never anything except the best.” Pe