The Eve of Armageddon

By Peter McClean Millar

A British expedition in search of a fabled lost city in the Polar ice cap stumble upon an ancient alien civilization. Transported deep within the earth they discover a race of beings who have been monitoring man's development for millennia. At first the explorers are overawed by the advanced technology and knowledge of the strangers but gradually they find that the aliens are not quite as benevolent as they seemed. What follows is a race against time as the explorers battle to save mankind from being eradicated from the planet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 15, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462078219

Peter McClean Millar

Peter McClean Millar was born in 1958. He grew up in Ireland and his work takes him all over the world. He currently lives in Shanghai.

Book preview

The Eve

of

Armaggedon

Peter McClean Millar

Writers Club Press

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

The Eve of Armageddon

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Peter McClean Millar

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Writers Club Press

an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse.com, Inc.

620 North 48th Street

Suite 201

Lincoln, NE 68504-3467

www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-09542-9

ISBN: 978-1-4620-7821-9 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to Liz Millar who believed in

me right from the start.

I’d also like to say thanks to Sam, Theresa, Liz, Katie, Kieran and

Stephanie who were there to pull me through the dark days.

Also to Jim Ramsden who told me I should write it.

Special thanks to

Marcos Huerta Carpizo

For the cover artwork

http://www.mictlantech.com

When some cold dawn greets you and the road is long and dark

Hold my hand and believe in me

The world may change and everyone one in it

But I’m still the same boy I used to be

Peter McClean Millar—February 2000

www.petemillar.com

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

About the Author

Chapter 1

How long is this bloody storm going to last? The reply was barely audible above the howling gale that raged outside, but it caused John Kane to look up from his charts and survey the four men who were huddled together on the opposite side of the tent. The tempest of the past three hours showed no signs of abating and the thin canvas, that was their only protection against the merciless Arctic wind, flapped and rippled, threatening to be torn asunder at any moment by the vicious onslaught. Kane’s mind conjured up visions of a fairytale wolf trying to blow their little house down, but the numbing cold in his fingertips assured him that more natural elements were at work. Vigorously rubbing his hands together, in an attempt to restore some warmth and feeling into his leaden digits, Kane looked analytically at each of his companions. His gaze finally resting on the sleeping figure just left of the entrance flap. Kane was not alone in his suffering; the sub-zero conditions were causing the same discomfort to all of the members of the expedition. He smiled to himself as he remembered the textbook theory of Arctic survival.

‘It is quite incredible how a human being can adapt to the excessively low temperatures of an Arctic winter. Thick fur clothing, a protective tent, and above all, the wonderful power of the human constitution to accommodate itself to every change of climate, go far to counteract the rigour of the cold. After a few days the body develops an increasing warmth as the thermometer descends. Due to the fact that the air is condensed by the cold, the lungs inhale a greater quantity of oxygen at every breath, which of course accelerates the internal process of combustion. While at the same time an increasing appetite, gratified with a copious supply of animal food, flesh and fat enriches the blood and enables it to circulate more vigorously.’

All well and good when you’re up and running about, thought Kane, but the author forgot to mention how it doesn’t work quite that way when you’ve been sitting practically motionless in a freezing tent for almost six hours.

As if he could perceive the staring eyes on his back, Dave Johnson moaned and uncoiled his body from the foetal position it had been in. His eyes flickered open for a moment, registered the intense brightness, and slammed shut. Within a few moments of pulling his sleeping bag tighter around his body he was sleeping silently again. Only his head stuck out at the top of the heat retaining cocoon, the handsome features slightly obscured by a mop of thick brown hair and a months beard. Kane stared at the tousle of unkempt hair that had drawn his eyes the first time he and Johnson had met nearly three months before. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sleeping figure. Visions flashed to and fro as his mind drifted back in time. Yes he could remember the meeting quite vividly now, almost as if it had been yesterday.

I’ll see him now Sally.

Yes Mister Kane. Within moments of the secretary’s voice heralding the unknown visitor there was a knock at the door. Slowly it opened, the vacant doorway being filled by a heavily built man of average height, whom Kane guessed to be in his late twenties. His hairstyle and apparel belonged to a younger man, ‘a student perhaps,’ thought Kane, ‘a mature student, maybe.’

Mr Kane. David Johnson. Pleased to meet you, sir. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. The nervousness Kane perceived in his visitor’s voice was compounded by a hot clammy handshake.

I’m a very busy man Mr Johnson. Said Kane untruthfully. I suppose I can give you twenty minutes. He glanced at his watch as if to reinforce the statement. In actual fact Kane was not pushed for time. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have seen Dave Johnson, but he was bored, and the young man had been most insistent that they meet. Please take a seat. Kane motioned to the soft chairs at the far end of his office. Johnson thanked him and quickly went and sat down.

John Kane was the head of Europe’s biggest gambling empire. An empire his father, Sir Peter Kane, had built up through years of shrewd wheeling and dealing and then ruled with all the majesty of a king. However, in that respect, Kane was not his father’s son. After four years he had grown tired of big business and needed a break. Office life was stifling Kane. He wasn’t cut out to be an executive and hungered for the adventures and excitement that were so much a part of his life years ago. His personality hadn’t changed, just his lifestyle. After his father’s death, the parties stopped, the jet-setting was pushed into the background and his playboy image was also allowed to die. He was now in control of a huge money making machine. He helped to oil that machine and keep it running smoothly but it was a machine that could run without his tending. His father had grown the business and in those years there was excitement as the Kane Empire grew and expanded. Things were different now. The business was mature and further growth was slow and uneventful. Management teams in each sector were doing a superb job of ensuring the profitability of the business and the business was very profitable. There really was nothing for Kane to do that took more than thirty minutes a day. It was time for a change. You convinced my secretary it was imperative I saw you Mr Johnson. I hope you can do the same for me.

Dave Johnson felt his heart tremble. This was it. This was his only chance. I just had to see you Mr Kane, you’re my only hope. I just know you’ll be interested. His voice gathered momentum with every word. I’ve heard so much about your past achievements, your expeditions and the great discoveries you’ve made. They’re so impressive.

Kane felt a warm inner glow. He was not adverse to praise and liked to be reminded of his moments of triumph.

Johnson didn’t wait for any reply. He knew he had a limited time frame and didn’t want to waste a second. Have you ever heard of the Bukkada, Mr Kane? It’s an Eskimo name for a golden race. A race of beings who are supposed to live under the Arctic Ice folds.

John Kane had indeed heard of the Bukkada, but even though he would have liked to believe the stories were true, there was not enough concrete evidence upon which to build a definite faith. Yes I’ve heard a few stories about them but I seriously doubt their credibility.

But that’s were you’re wrong. Johnson sat back and opened his arms as if preaching. They’re true, they’re really true, and I can prove it. As the blood began to course through his veins, all his pent up excitement and nervousness burst forth. Honestly I can prove it!

Kane’s mind stopped for a moment. Instantaneously he searched his memory for all the snippets of information he had gathered on the subject over the years. Like a fruit machine, the reels of his memory tumbled into place and then as if hitting the jackpot everything spilled out of the depths of his subconscious. He recalled the tales of how, just before the last war, an explorer mapping the North Polar ice fields and Alaska talked with fur trappers at a Hudson Bay depot. There he was shown a wrinkled parchment map of a certain ice field. Indicated on it was a tunnel, said to be the entrance to another world—an inner world, supposedly affording access to a race of people who were very scientifically advanced. They had strange machines capable of travelling through space, and the ice tunnel that led to their city was guarded by a door of strong material unlike any that had been seen before. Suppressing the doubts that welled up inside him, Kane recalled the story of a trapper whom, while inspecting his trap lines, stumbled upon the body of an elderly man, clad in furs, lying exhausted in a snowdrift. Upon carrying him back to his log cabin the old man revived and started ranting in a strange language. However, this soon changed to the recognisable French-Canadian. The old man spoke of a kingdom constructed under the ice and of a beautiful race of beings that conversed in an ostensibly unintelligible tongue. He described vast halls of sophisticated apparatus and wonderful cities wherein floated strange suns, also machines that travelled underground. The old man gradually recovered, but one night during that severe winter the trapper and his wife saw a luminous figure standing over the bed of the sleeping stranger, repeating in a musical voice some words in an alien language. The luminous figure, tall and strangely regal dressed, turned and immediately the trapper and his wife lapsed into a deep sleep. Awakening the next morning they found the strange old man gone. His clothes were still hanging on the wooden peg where he had left them and his boots lay beside the fire drying out. There were no tell-tale tracks in the snow and with the temperature outside below freezing he would not have survived more than five minutes. How he could have vanished and where he went, were questions no-one could answer and like many people Kane doubted if the old man had really existed in the first place. However, it was the reports of how two fully equipped and independent teams of explorers had ventured into the Arctic wastes in search of a forbidden city only to disappear and never be seen again that bothered Kane. Subsequently no trace or tracks were ever found and no reasonable hypothesis was ever put forward to explain their disappearance.

Here Mr Kane, have a look at this. Johnson’s voice cut into Kane’s subconscious like a knife. As he focused on the small metallic cylinder offered to him he stopped thinking of the incredulous tales and stretched out his hand to accept the gleaming silver object that had just been extracted from the pocket of his visitor’s scruffy jacket.

What is it? If that’s not a stupid question? Said Kane.

That container is one hundred percent pure Titanium. OK I know that in itself probably won’t impress you, but when you hear where it came from you just might feel a little different.

Kane tossed the object from one hand to the other. It looked like a cigar holder except for four small arm like protrusions half way down its length and was incredibly light. The look of excitement in Johnson’s eyes negated the possibility of it being designed to hold a cigar. Go on then, where did you get it from? Said Kane, who although sceptical, was becoming more interested.

Johnson swallowed hard, his foot nervously tapping the floor as he began his story. Well, actually I obtained it when I went to Canada just over a month ago. You see I’ve a brother Bob who lives up near the Alaskan border. He’s an engineer for the Gomex Oil Company. He inspects pumping stations, pipelines, you know, things like that. Well one day he ran across some of the natives out hunting deer. Edging his body forward in the chair Johnson continued. He knows their language quite well now, so he got talking to a few of them. He often does that. I think he secretly envies them and their simple way of life, but anyway, Johnson silently admonished himself for deviating from the point, one of them had that hanging round his neck. Johnson pointed to the cylinder that Kane was now rolling between his thumb and forefinger. Bob noticed it protruding from a small leather pouch and immediately became curious. It seems that the Indian had been given the cylinder by his father, though he wasn’t sure where it had come from in the first place, except that it had been in the family for at least fifty years. The tone of Johnson’s voice altered, Now do you see what I’m getting at? We can’t make Titanium that pure even today, never mind fifty years ago.

At this point Kane’s scepticism eased and he listened more intently. His eyebrows raised in anticipation, as the young man, after clearing his throat, resumed his tale.

Somehow Bob managed to persuade the Eskimo to sell the cylinder. When he got back to England he had it analysed. But he couldn’t believe the results so he gave it to me to double check his findings. I’ve an Honours Degree in Metallurgy and a Doctorate in Nuclear Technology, so I know a bit about metals. Johnson paused for a moment, only to allow a slight smile to crease his lips and then continued. Needless to say he was right, but that’s only half the story. Pull it apart Mr Kane. Go on.

From the eagerness at which Johnson urged him to dismantle the cylinder Kane realised he was in for a revelation. Gripping the metallic object tightly with both hands he strained to unscrew it. There were no screw threads holding it closed and quite a bit of force was needed to split the cylinder. The reward was well worth the effort. Kane’s eyes bulged in surprise as he rent the cylinder in two. He quickly glanced at Johnson, who was grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat, and then directed his gaze back to the cylinder. A dry, yellowed roll of parchment projecting from the larger piece of tubing mesmerised him for a moment.

Be very careful with it. It is quite fragile. There was more than a note of apprehension in Johnson’s voice.

With all the precision of a surgeon Kane carefully extracted the parchment from its metal coffin. When the operation was complete he placed both parts of the cylinder on the small coffee table between himself and Johnson. His fingers hovered over the wrinkled artefact almost as if touching the material would produce an electric shock. Is it safe to unravel it?

Well yes but….

Kane interrupted the younger man authoritatively. I can assure you Mr Johnson, I do not intend to rip it to shreds. I promise I’ll be very careful.

Sorry, I know you will, Mr Kane. I apologise if I sounded like a mother hen, but I’m sure you understand why.

Indeed. Indeed. Interesting. Hmm, very interesting indeed. Kane