Seeing by Moonlight

By MF Thomas and Nicholas Thurkettle

1941
On the eve of America’s entry into World War II, Nazi Germany is developing a new weapon of unprecedented power, one that will give them ultimate victory over all the nations of the world. But the war turns against them before it is completed, and a conspiracy forms to preserve the weapon and carry on the research.

1999
At the dawn of a new century, Alex Pyke, a self-styled bachelor entrepreneur, wants only the American Dream of a bigger house and a fatter bank account. But a business opportunity lures him back to Germany, the country he left as an orphan of five during the height of the Cold War. Upon his arrival, he is swept up in a deadly adventure involving an aging industrialist and his brilliant, beautiful niece. Even as Alex unravels the mysteries of his own family’s history, he makes a discovery that will change the direction of his life, and maybe the whole world beyond.

Seeing by Moonlight is a thriller that combines uncovered history of the German rocketry program with a science fiction twist to create a sweeping tale of secrets and love that spans generations past, present, and future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483508597

Book preview

stolen.

-PROLOGUE-

Thursday, December 11, 1941

Cigarette smoke curled up and laced with the moonlight. It was near the midnight chime. A long day, thought President Roosevelt, as he let the smoke draw his eyes momentarily away from his desk. He had awakened to Germany declaring war on the United States. Hitler had pronounced brotherhood with Japan, branded Roosevelt a dictator bent on world domination, and pledged Germany’s right to defend the existence of her nation and people. Absurd words; by supper the United States had declared war right back. A long day.

The week had been even longer – he had been lunching with Hopkins on Sunday when the news came of Hawaii. Poor, exhausted Hopkins had been so amazed at the scope of such tragedy that he thought it a gag at first. His sensible Iowan friend always looked tired, but the travel Roosevelt had needed of him this year was almost more than his vigor could bear. By week’s end, he thought, we will all look like Hopkins.

Moonlight. It had insinuated itself through the window in the last hour or so. Roosevelt had watched the stars in his contemplation, seen Mars slip below the horizon. The God of War was proud in his chariot today, he did not doubt. Outside, Mark, his steady valet of eight years, waited to ferry him to the East Wing and the promise of a restless bed. Waited, and no doubt worried. Roosevelt brought the cigarette to his lips and pulled, and for a moment his brain swam. The smallest distraction was tonic right now.

Hawaii. They were still finding bodies out in the Pacific. In his speech to the nation, Roosevelt could only say that many American lives had been lost, so uncertain were the casualty figures. Other bodies would never be found, and he found that still more disquieting: young sailors, trapped forever behind iron doors in the shallows of Paradise.

He couldn’t help second-guessing. What if he hadn’t insisted Japan pull out of China before any summit with Prime Minister Konoe, who despite all his faults had been less maniacal than Tojo? Or maybe if he had let Hull stall a bit more about allowing them some oil for civilian use... He forced himself to cease his ruminations. Japan was a war machine on an island with no war fuel. That they would reach out to take it was inevitable, and they expected America would be too surprised and crippled from their gambit to stop them. For the moment, they were correct.

He had met with his war-planners, had reviewed their scenarios. Alone in the Oval Office he knew America’s task – Germany First. Just as Hercules had turned a river, it would be Roosevelt’s mission to turn the grief and anger of a wounded nation towards Europe, to only check Japan while dedicating might and manpower to driving the Nazis back. Ironically, Hitler’s insolent pride in declaring war first would make the work a little easier.

Roosevelt coughed; a helpless, hacking spasm, worse all the time. His physicians assured him he had years left, though not many. This war would be a march of years, and if it saw him all the way to the gates, all that was promised was that he would have company in numbers rarely seen in the history of this world.

Roosevelt set down the cigarette and picked up a pen to work on a stack of papers left by his secretary. The machinery of the Executive Branch needed many signatures. The pen was a Montblanc – a marvel of German craftsmanship. Its cousin had signed the declaration of war against Germany. So many signatures.

A trick of color in the corner of his eye pulled Roosevelt’s attention up from the desk. Nothing solid, a shape in the smoke. Yet it persisted. He switched off his desk lamp, and now the Oval Office was lit only by the moon.

Queerly, the column of smoke was disrupted a few feet up: separated, as if flowing around something. Roosevelt felt a pained flutter in his heart. He thought of his health, thought of the long hours here at the heavy Resolute desk. He thought of having one too many cigarettes.

Roosevelt stared at the smoke: it seemed to define a face, ghostly and silvery white. Entranced, he reached for the lamp, switched it back on. And the face took the color of flesh.

It was an apparition, an insubstantial piece of a man wafting into being right in front of him. The man had blue eyes and blond hair swept back from a widow’s peak, and as his visage cohered, a new detail emerged: his face had no nose. Where it should have been were only two small holes surrounded by reddened wrinkles of fresh scar tissue and blotched a bruised shade of purple.

The fine detail was at first so mesmerizing that Roosevelt forgot how impossible its existence was at all. He felt a coldness spreading out from his heart. He had been taught from birth to summon clarity and eloquence for any occasion, but now he could only muster a weak and huffing, What...What? He made no move – whatever the specter’s intent, Roosevelt did not imagine he could escape it in a wheelchair.

The face was a young one, and cruel. A pointed jaw showed, then broad shoulders, a torso in some dark uniform. With the uncanny subtlety that lets the eye tell life from portraiture, Roosevelt sensed movement. This was not an image, but a breathing presence. And on its uniform, he glimpsed the ancient symbol that all modern civilization had lately come to recognize: a swastika.

There was a Nazi in the Oval Office.

The Nazi's eyes rolled, searched, not seeing yet but orienting, like a long deep sleeper remembering the shapes of the world. Then his eyes locked firmly on Roosevelt. Roosevelt returned the gaze and did not flinch. His bearing and family pride were enough for this phantasm, if for only the moment.

He wondered if his voice would cross through some ether to reach the thing’s ears, and so put the theory to the test. Summoning a stern tone, he offered, Can you...hear me? Seconds passed as they regarded one another. Then, a thin smile stretched across the Nazi’s face. He yawned wide, lion-like, and the inside of his mouth was black. A black mouth with no tongue.

The Nazi closed his mouth again, but kept his expression of malicious triumph. Roosevelt defiantly stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. He would not play with shows of intimidation, no matter how supernatural. If a dreadful end is at hand, then on with it, he thought to himself, straightening his spine.

But now the Nazi broke his look from the President. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling and quivered. His mouth dropped open again, this time not in aggression but in unquestionable horror and agony. Tears of blood began to stream from his eyes, droplets rolled from his ears, and some even began to swell out of the mass where his nose should have been. It was the perfect picture of a scream without sound, hellish torment.

And then, like a snuffed candle, the face blinked away, leaving only an ethereal glow which the moonlight soon swallowed.

Roosevelt leaned back and frowned, too proud to admit that he could not yet bring himself to breathe. How long had the encounter lasted? Was it fever, nightmare, or omen? Forcing sound from his throat, he called out: Mark? Come in, Mark.

Mark entered, shadowed by the light of the outer office. Yes, Mr. President?

What is the state of the House this evening, Mark?

If Mark was curious about the question, he concealed it. Nothing out of the ordinary, Mr. President. Did you want someone in the kitchen awakened?

Roosevelt waved off the query. Answer me honestly, Mark, for you stand outside any door I am within, and you will know this even if you think it not discreet to say. Do I snore?

Mark wavered in his stance, uncomfortable. The President pressed, Come come, Mark, you are not deaf and I cannot pretend to the peak of health, can I? I ask again, do I snore? Speak candidly.

Somewhat relieved, Mark offered: Candidly, Mr. President, the sound resembles a coffee grinder.

Roosevelt chuckled. I’ll thank you not to lend such a scandalously accurate barb to the First Lady, she would not fear to use it at my most vulnerable. Now, this sound to which you have devoted such analysis, did you hear it just now outside the door?

Sir?

Was I sleeping? Could you hear snoring through the door?

No sir.

Roosevelt gave a grim nod, and reached for his cigarette box. I will smoke another in solitude, Mark, and then I shall retire.

Mark nodded, as much in relief as approval, and shut the door once more. Roosevelt lit the cigarette and turned in his chair, facing out the window. He admired the way the moon splashed silver across the South Lawn, and he thought of the night’s disturbance. The smart men in his employ, the ones who had studied Hitler, said that the Führer obsessed over the arcane, seeking sources of power that would not only affirm but enforce the superiority of the German race. Even his swastika was an ancient and sacred symbol, appropriated for his perverse crusade.

Was it too far a leap to think this vision portended a war to be waged beyond the natural world? Was this a demonstration or a warning? Was it possible that the Nazis could be a greater threat to humanity than he already knew them to be?

Roosevelt looked down to the floor, weary from the day. These were midnight thoughts. What did an explanation matter? He had watched a Nazi appear out of thin air before him and die hideously. Many more would die in the years to come, and he would only read about them in bulletins. As he had ordered this thing to be so, he supposed that such a sight was a hard but necessary meal for his conscience.

He did not bring the cigarette to his lips anymore. The smoke had become distasteful to him.

***

-1-

Monday, August 2, 1999

The day had a good day feeling to it, and Alex put stock in good day feelings. It wasn’t even 10 o’clock when he moved that old Civic on some kid from ASU Polytech. That off-white lump had dogged his lot for over a year; his two salesmen called it the Unrolling Stone, and they weren’t all wrong. But Alex had pegged the kid the moment he ambled into view, just knew he was the type of young stubble to think that with a good socket wrench and a couple of trips to the library he could turn a junker into a steal. The Civic was made for someone like that, and Alex dove on him like a falcon before his subordinates could botch it.

And he had just wrapped up a phone call with the golf course in Silverland Village. He had his first tee time set for tomorrow morning. Silverland was one of the up-and-coming neighborhoods in Mesa, and getting a place there had been a coup for a bachelor in his late 30’s with a used car lot. But he had waged a successful campaign on two fronts: first, identifying and shamelessly courting a two-thirds majority of the HOA Applications Committee, and second, communicating to them in this courting process that, between used cars and some timely stock market investments, he had made quite a bit of money.

A successful life, he often told the two young salesmen he considered protégés, consisted of seizing those moments when possibilities can blossom. The times when you don’t just add assets to your life one bean at a time, but when you have the rare chance to multiply your beans. That metaphor had flaws, but it was visual, and that was the key thing. He often recalled that his business had come about because of the barely-running ‘74 Oldsmobile Omega he’d won in a marathon poker session with some college buddies. He’d had a good night feeling that night.

He sauntered into Pete’s office. Pete had been with him four years; great with data, Pete could give you bullet points on every car they had like they were NBA draft prospects. But he talked too much when selling, didn’t know how to step out of the way. Pete was at his computer, eyes darting back and forth like he was dreaming.

Won’t be sentimental about that Civic, will you Pete?

Pete broke from the monitor and gave a politely slanted grin. Don’t know how you do it, Mr. Pyke.

Alex came around Pete’s desk, waving off the praise. It’s like I always say, people sell themselves the car; we’re just here to give them the right nudge when they need it. Now he looked at Pete’s computer screen, but didn’t recognize the program. What do you have going here?

Pete talked around the hand propping up his chin. Have you heard of this thing? Napster? Alex shook his head. Name a song you like.

Alex took the first choice that came to mind: I’m a Believer.

Pete grinned. The Monkees?

Alex took the chiding look in stride. It’s the first song I remember hearing when I came to America. Pop music helped me learn English. Alex mused that it had made him American, too; he had listened to a lot of music, and shed the last traces of his original German accent before he turned nine.

Pete nodded. Monkees it is. Tapping at his keyboard, he produced a scrolling list within seconds. There we go. That one looks legit. ‘I’m a Believer.’ He gave the mouse a decisive double-click, then leaned back in his chair. We’ll have it in about six minutes.

You’re downloading that? Alex asked. Pete curled his lip and nodded, which is what he did when he was pleased with himself. What is it, like a store?

Pete shook his head. No, it’s like, people’s collections, from all over. All over the place. De-centralized. It’s like a buddy of yours has a song you like and makes you a tape copy. Only now everyone with this program is my buddy, and the copy sounds just as good as the original on their computer.

Alex was rarely surprised when the Internet came up with some new miracle gimmick: it had been the key to his investment strategy over the past four years. The first time his broker had mentioned dot-com stocks, Alex had felt an impression of such exploding enthusiasm it had nearly knocked him back physically. That feeling had shifted in recent months, and he was thinking of cashing out, but he didn’t think that meant the computer universe was done coughing up good ideas. Processing Pete’s explanation, he got to the real bottom-line question: And you’re not paying for that?

Pete shook his head, lip curled even further this time.

This can’t be legal.

If ten million people drop one gum wrapper each, they won’t all get busted for littering.

Alex put the boss into his tone of voice. Just the same, keep it off the company computer. He felt the words hanging in the air. I’m serious, Pete. On your own time.

Pete gave a grimace and a reluctant pause, but acquiesced and shut it down. Still, as Alex walked back to his office, he knew he’d remember the name of that program. And he felt himself irresistibly singing under his breath: Then I saw her face...Now I’M A BELIEVER...

***

Alex usually took his lunch late, because you saw a little extra trickle of customers during other people’s lunch hours. He left the lot at 1:30 and headed for the Fiesta Village Mall. Alex wasn’t crazy about the Mall, but he was meeting his Uncle Herbert for lunch, and Uncle Herbert had developed a latter-day obsession with the noodles at the Mongolian barbecue place in the Food Court. On the plus side, it was barely two miles west on the Superstition Freeway; Alex spent longer searching out a quality parking spot than he did getting to the place.

Uncle wasn’t really a blood relative, but as far as Alex knew he didn’t have any of those anyway. And Uncle Herbert suitably played the role Alex always imagined for uncles: equal parts buddy and bad influence. This had persisted from Alex’s first memories of the man until today; try as he might, he just couldn’t match Uncle Herbert in rascally behavior.

Even now, Uncle, with his silly sandstone-colored tan and only a ring of white fuzz still wrapping his skull, was on the prowl. Alex, look, he said conspiratorially, even as Alex was still setting his tray down and tugging at the napkin dispenser, The woman to your right, she is a lonely divorcee.

Alex stole a glance, and caught the impression of a drum-tight face and lips like a plush ottoman. What makes you say that?

Uncle took in a long noodle with a delighted slurp. See the size of that purse, the fresh shine of the fingernails? Today this woman spends like she wants to feel beautiful again! Unlike Alex, who you’d never mistake for anything but a true Yankee, Uncle still flashed a trace of German accent. Alex guessed it was a matter of choice, like holding on to an old driver’s license just to remember what you looked like.

What happened to what’s-her-name, the midwife? Alex asked.

Uncle waved at the air like a man erasing a chalkboard. She lost her sex drive. Do you see me weeping over it? The woman was gassy.

Alex gave the little laugh that, in his youth, had been a wild guffaw at Uncle’s antics. Ten years ago it was still at least a robust chuckle, but these days it wasn’t much more than an mmhmmhmm escaping from pressed lips. He admired Uncle for maintaining his old tricks, but after three straight decades of them Alex couldn’t summon much fresh appreciation.

Have you visited your mother this week? Uncle asked, expertly detonating a little charge of guilt in a vulnerable crack.

Uncle, it’s Monday. Alex never won this conversation.

Yes, and tomorrow it will be Tuesday, and who has time for their Mother on a Tuesday? And on Wednesday you begin thinking of your weekend, and what strapping bachelor chooses to include his Mother in his weekend plans?

Alex pushed his hands back through his hair. You know I see her a lot more than most sons see their biological mothers.

Biological! Uncle squished his plastic fork into his noodles and let it stand there, upright like a flagpole. Do not use that ugly word! Any woman can push a baby out her womb: your mother took a boy out of East Germany. Tell me this isn’t a harder thing!

It is harder, Uncle.

Tell me she does not deserve something from the boy she raised so well and so selflessly!

She does deserve it.

Uncle reclaimed the fork and now waggled it decisively at Alex, relishing his triumph as much as he did every time they spoke these same words. You will go see her, today.

I have no one to cover the lot today. At this point, Alex was grateful he had anything to stand on in this negotiation.

Tomorrow, then. To hell with it being Tuesday.

Yes, tomorrow. After my golf game.

Uncle grunted. Silverland. I do not know why you would be so eager to live in that place. You know who builds beautiful walls around themselves? Zealots and dead pharaohs.

Alex found the opportunity to smirk and riposte: You only think it’s dull because you won’t go after married women.

Uncle froze for a moment, making the perfect impression of wide-eyed reproach. But he soon gave in to a helpless grin and cackled. Who knows, if you tell me you like it I may just steal one of them from you!

And the rich possibilities of this kept them well occupied until Uncle slurped the last of his noodles and boogied off in the direction of the divorcee.

***

Afternoon brought more success – he struck a great deal with a young couple who drove into his life in an old Geo and drove back out of it in a newish minivan. The Geo had fuel line problems which would be an off-the-books breeze for the mechanic who owed Alex a favor. The man of the couple looked like he didn’t imagine himself driving a minivan at his age, but the woman had the glow of someone doing her damndest to make a baby, so Alex presumed everyone was getting something out of this situation.

Towards the dinner hour, Alex stepped into the private restroom in his office, tugged his tie loose and unbuttoned his collar. His shirts were too tight these days, he thought, pinching unconsciously at his side as he did. He had been a fair hand at track and field back in high school, shining at discus and pole vault though he had enjoyed cross-country running best. But now he ate richer and exercised less, and the flab had made its slow but persistent invasion.

He changed into a light shirt and a good pair of jeans, and freshened up his cologne. The sun was near the horizon, making that sunset swirling in royal purple and orange cream that everyone who lived in Mesa told everyone who didn’t live in Mesa about, but were never believed. He felt cheery and strong, a man who’d made a good Monday. And it was with that positive attitude that he left the lot and swung onto ol’ Superstition for the drive to his favorite bar.

***

Early August meant that soon the Cardinals would be playing pre-season games, and that made for wild speculations at Alex’s bar. The Cards had won their first post-season game in over fifty years last season, and in the delirium some were even daring whisper the words Super Bowl. With Plummer getting better every year and that blazing receiver they picked up in the draft, why not them? Why not now to finally break the old curse?

Today, Alex was optimistic about the Cardinals. He had his favorite booth, a basket of hot wings, plentiful beer, four friends around who laughed at his jokes, a profitable day behind him, and a morning golf game ahead of him. If this was the world delivering on his good day feeling, he would call the world generous.

Of course, if the world had it in mind to throw in the brunette at the pool table, that would be the finest punctuation possible. Her body looked made of sharp lines: a dancer’s physique, maybe. Tall. Boots. Tight jeans. No jewelry. Some weathering in her complexion, but she wore it well; Alex was starting to spark to women who embraced adulthood. She was with friends, but separate from them. Could be she wanted to be left to herself. Or it could be she wanted to be noticed without succumbing to the usual trashy ways of seeking attention.

Alex took another look at the way her jeans curved and walked over to the pool table, feeling impervious with accumulated success. What words they exchanged came from a very old script, one repeating itself at a lot of bars around the country this Monday night.

***

Alex stepped out onto the bedroom porch of his new Silverland home. The moon was rising in the east but even in the sparkling dark the heat lingered: it was still maybe 85 out, give or take. Overhead the brilliant disarray of the stars, down on Earth the neatly ordered glow of planned streets and uniform lamps. The brunette was in the shower, and it had not yet been discussed if she would stay the night.

He felt a rush of life at the sight of the moon. Even after such a full and satisfactory day he felt vibrant and hungry for sensation. If he took this feeling to bed with him, she would stay the night without doubt. There had been more than one or two would-be stepfathers in Alex Pyke’s childhood, but he had always recalled Ben, the stout one from over at the air base, and a night when Alex’s mother had kissed him on the cheek as he manned a small backyard grill. This is the best moment in life for a man, kid, Ben had boasted. No matter the castle, when you’re king of it, no bastard can take that away from you.

That’s how Alex felt on that night. King of his castle. New Silverland resident. The man who sold the Civic. The conqueror of the lanky brunette.

Out of the air came a high, whistling whinny, a sharp cackle from the desert. The golf course was lined with saguaro and an Elf Owl had nested in the hollow of one of the cacti to raise its young. It was a predator’s cry to the small, scurrying creatures, and a salute to the moon.

Alex returned to the bedroom, and that night he dreamed vividly.

***

-2-

Tuesday, August 3, 1999

Fun yellow?

With an airy chop, Alex whipped his club into the golf ball and watched it fly straight, but not straight enough, down the fairway. Cal Geraghty did him the gentleman’s courtesy of watching the ball down to its resting place before responding. Although Cal claimed a handicap of eleven, Alex had already heard the scuttlebutt around Silverland that he played more like an eight, but had stopped submitting scores years ago in order to hustle people. It wasn’t so much about the petty form of dominance it allowed Cal as it was a test of the deference someone like Alex was willing to demonstrate by not pointing it out. Cal enjoyed the perception of great authority and influence; he practically glowed with the inner knowledge that he was going to be personally responsible for putting Senator John McCain in the White House in the year 2000, just like many of the other lawyers and entrepreneurs who lived and golfed at Silverland.

That’s what they named the color. Fun yellow. They made less than 150 of ‘em. Cal had been talking about BMWs for the last three holes, specifically the BMW Z1, a dandy little roadster you couldn’t legally drive on public roads in America. And for the same reasons that Cuban cigars tasted better, Cal Geraghty wanted a