Missing in Action: Obliterating the Deep State, #3

By Jason Walker

Eighteen years ago, archaeologist & engineer William "Bill" Jenkins disappeared without a trace. After all these years, Bill's son, Connor, wants answers. Where is his father? Why did he leave them? Most importantly, is he still alive after all these years? After a chance meeting with his father's old acquaintance, Connor may finally have the opportunity to solve this riddle, but not everything is what it seems. Connor's search for the truth leads him all over—and under—the world, uncovering bits of his father's shady past. Yet with these memories Connor also unveils some of the world's oldest secrets, many of them so fantastic you might think they were out of this world. Ancient generators and flying machines, child sex rings, and ritual sacrifice are just a few of the eye-opening and horrifying discoveries Connor makes while attempting to evade the Vatican's executioners sent to find him.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mr. F. McLeod
• Release date: Aug 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393077404

Jason Walker

Born in the mountains of Western North Carolina, the author began his career in Radio Broadcasting in the late 1970s. Having traveled the country, he has now, inexplicably, landed back in the town of his birth. Writing full time and producing audio and video promotional products for authors takes up his days and enjoying his life fills all the moments in between. Active in social media, he welcomes any opportunity to interact with his readers and sincerely believes that there is no such thing as negative feedback. Something can be learned from the opinions of others, even if that opinion is less than glowing. You are encouraged to contact him via email, social media or through his website. And as always, he thanks you for taking the time to read his words. He hopes you enjoy them.

Book preview

Prologue

William Bill Jenkins’ Home

British Columbia, Canada

May 12th, 1992

Deep in the Canadian wilderness, nature had painted the leaves in the muted beauty of autumn, with its browns, yellows, reds, and oranges. Each leaf drifted to the ground as slowly and lightly as a feather, some falling one-by-one and others in small clusters. Half of them remained latched to their branches, clinging desperately to the last days of their lives and fruitlessly avoiding the inevitable, the orange and yellow light of sunset mingled with their humble hues.

A man in his mid-30s, William Bill Jenkins, strolled through the woods with his son, Connor. At first glance, a stranger would hardly believe they were related, but their friends and family could see the resemblance immediately. Bill was of medium height but walked tall with impeccable posture and was fit, strapped with lean muscle though clearly no bodybuilder. His pale skin had slowly darkened over time, leaving a prominent farmer’s tan beneath his forest-green polo shirt and caramel pants but still not as dark as the boy walking beside him. Even Connor’s ebony hair contrasted to Bill’s sandy brown. All that they seemed to share physically were the same sparkling grey eyes, broad grin, narrow Roman nose, and identical fashion sense. A more discerning eye would also notice their shared facial structure and mannerisms. Dark skin aside, Connor was a nuanced chip off his father’s block.

As they casually walked their way down the dirt trail out of the woods, Connor stopped to ask his father about the trees, the animals, the fallen logs, even the sunset and why the sky turned those colors at this time of the day. They stopped more than a dozen times for Bill to happily address his inquisitive son’s curiosities. Even the nip in the air did not keep them from taking their time and enjoying Mother Nature and their time together.

While it should have taken only fifteen minutes for them to get out of the woods, the sun had nearly disappeared by the time they reached their truck. Smiles painted up both of their faces, but Bill’s eyes were tinted with sadness. His mind was on the container they had travelled into the woods to bury. He convinced Connor that it was a time capsule—he even threw in some personal keepsakes to complete the illusion—something for them to dig up one day with Connor’s own kids, but as he sat there, the sun setting on their faces, driving the son he loved back to their cozy home where the daughter and wife he loved just as much were waiting for them, Bill wasn’t so certain that container should ever see the light of day again.

He had also buried secrets in there. There were several notebooks of his, which were better placed underground, in a secret place, that only he and his son would know the location of.

Snugly back at their dimly-lit home, a duffel bag waited by the front door as Bill embraced his six-year-old daughter, Roberta. A mocha-complexed woman in her late 30s stood behind them, her hair pulled back into a tight black braid and her dark eyes shining with subdued tears as she watched the scene. The woman, Bill’s wife Erika, turned away as Bill released their daughter.

Bill looked up to meet Erika’s eyes, but she refused to even glance his way. He walked over to her and placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder. He leaned in close and kissed her gently on the cheek, relishing the feel of her soft skin while trying desperately to ignore her salty tears. I love you, he whispered.

She shrugged off his hand and did not return any of his affection.

Bill’s eyes fell to the floor and, without another word, he went to the front door, scooped up the duffel, and walked out the door.

Connor ran to the window and pressed his face against the glass. He watched his father throw his bag into the car, climb in after it, and slam the door behind him. Connor stared as the car backed out of the dirt drive and grumbled down the road, secretly willing for his father to come home soon.

Chapter One

Mr. Clarke

Connor Jenkins’ Home

Location: Cleavage, Alaska

Year: 2018, October 3rd, 10:30 AM

A man in his late 30s dozed atop a double bed, sprawled out like a starfish. A scatter of beer bottles littered the floor around him. A newspaper rested on the bedside table with the headline Local Archaeologist William Jenkins Disappears Mysteriously displayed prominently. He mumbled in his sleep, mostly incomprehensible muttering, but one word rang clearly throughout his cramped room: Dad.

He snorted loudly and woke with a start. His arm immediately flung over his eyes to protect them from the sunlight streaming into the room through the thin curtains. His head throbbed like a hammer striking an anvil, and his stomach protested the previous night’s alcohol surplus by threatening to toss out everything he’d eaten in the last twelve hours. He didn’t want to move, but if he didn’t, his bladder would join in on his stomach’s mutiny.

An alarm had been chiming, untouched for hours. The beeps radiated like a radar or sonar, like a dump truck backing up in an alleyway. The man finally reached out and smacked the clock. It scooted and clanged but kept on chiming. A half-folded diploma stood near the clock, which read: Associate of Arts bestowed upon Connor Jenkins. His swing arm knocked it fully closed and it fell to the floor.

He groaned and pulled himself to his feet slowly to minimize his dizziness. He then trudged to the en-suite bathroom and blinded himself once more by flicking on the light above the sink. He was not sure which hurt worse at this point, God’s light coming from the sun or man’s light coming from this cheap, coiled hunk of glass and gas.

Connor chanced a look at his reflection in the mirror, and the image incited a mixed reaction, both a groan and a laugh. He ran a dirt-caked, slightly shaking hand through dark, disheveled hair and leaned in for a closer examination at his blood-shot grey eyes. A small chuckle rumbled in his chest.

I look like shit; Connor thought, backing away from the mirror. His hand shot to his head as the motion intensified his headache, and he squeezed his eyes tight to fight back the pain. What even happened last night?

He could remember sitting on his bed, staring out the window and pounding back beer after beer, but other than that, he had no recollection; he didn’t even remember why he started drinking in the first place.

Connor sighed and shook his head, which only made it throb harder. He took a couple steps towards the toilet when a newspaper rustled beneath his feet. He glimpsed down and the headline brought him to an abrupt halt: Mystery Tunnels: A Path to Underground Civilizations?

He bent over and picked up the paper, pushing past his nasty hangover to look the article over. The voice of his father’s friend, Mr. Clarke, echoed in his mind, you’re meddling in things that you shouldn’t be meddling in, Connor.

Bird Habitat

Location: Cleavage, Alaska

Year: 2018, October 3rd, A Few Hours Later

Connor stood alongside a tranquil beach. His hair had been combed, and he wore a white-collared shirt and denim jeans; the only trace of his hangover remaining was the now-light thudding in his skull. Beside him was an older Italian gentleman in his late 70s who also wore a collared shirt and jeans. His latte eyes stared at Connor with a mixture of sympathy, sadness, and a hint of annoyance.

A bird sanctuary ran along the beach and there were sights and sounds and little scurries of species about. A sign next to the men read, Feeding Prohibited.

I know it’s hard for you, Mr. Clarke said as he entered the bird habitat, but this is dangerous territory you’re entering into, lad.

Connor followed the older man. Mr. Clarke, you know I can’t let this go. I haven’t stopped thinking about him since... since that day. You have to know where he is—

Mr. Clarke raised his hand to stop him. I know you’ve been looking for answers ever since that day happened, Connor. He trailed off for a moment as he looked out at the colorful menagerie of birds, every mating pair a different species native to Alaska and other territories in the most northern parts of the continent. Since he disappeared.

Connor nodded. His attention was briefly diverted by a golden eagle landing on a branch between them, almost scraping him in the face with its wing in the process, but he quickly remembered his purpose.

Yes, and I know you’re keeping something from me. You know more than you’re letting on.

Mr. Clarke shook his head. Sorry, Connor, but I can’t help you all that much. Yes, I saw your father before he disappeared, but what he said... He said things that he made me swear never to tell another soul, not even his children. He walked up to Connor and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Your father was a dear friend of mine. We share many secrets that I’m not about to repeat, and they will go with me to my grave. He stared into Connor’s eyes intensely for several breaths, then his gaze softened. Now, we’ve met only twice. It’s best you never come here again. I say this as a warning to you, the son of a dear friend: you’re drawing too much attention to yourself. There are people in this world who work for dangerous organizations. They want to find your father, too, so they’ll be watching you from afar. And if we were to keep meeting, they would take notice, and either one of us, or maybe both of us, would be the man floating in the river. Understand?

Connor did not nod, did not blink, and did not yield in any way. Mr. Clarke could see that he was getting nowhere with the stubborn youth and sighed.

I’ll make you go away then, Mr. Clarke continued in a firmer voice. If you give me some time, I might be able to find somebody who can help you. A name, a location, and a time. He paused, lost in thought. "While you’re waiting, I recommend going online. There’s a podcast you should view. It’s called All Roads Lead to Rome - The Unholy See. There are three parts to it. It’ll give you more information about some of the churches and what they’re hiding from the public over in Europe. That’s where he started working when he was doing freelance work. I’ll get you the other information, but only on the condition that you agree not to track me down anymore. Can we agree on that?"

Connor nodded enthusiastically and grabbed Mr. Clarke’s outstretched hand. Thank you, Mr. Clarke! he said as they shook hands. Connor turned to leave but whipped back around when Mr. Clarke called his name.

Mr. Clarke’s eyes had grown sad again. One last appeal: let it go, son. There might be a reason why your father’s keeping his distance from you and your sister. Move on, live your life, a healthier life.

I can’t. I have to know what took him from us. We deserve at least that much.

As Connor left the bird habitat, Mr. Clarke turned to the golden eagle. That boy’s gonna get himself killed, he muttered.

Connor’s Home

Location: Cleavage, Alaska

Year: 2018, October 3rd, 6 PM

Only two lights illuminated Connor’s living room: a gently burning fire in a wood stove and Connor’s computer. He bent over the laptop listening intently to the podcast Mr. Clarke had told him about at the bird habitat.

For centuries, the Catholic church has been aware of an astonishing secret: underground highways that stretch all over the world, even going underneath Earth’s oceans! the podcaster said in a voice forced to be calm but clearly restraining much of the man’s passion. These were made using technologies that don’t even exist in this day and age, including the ability to melt solid rock. The church chose to hide the entrances to these highways by building churches directly over them. I mean, think about it! The Vatican covering a big hole leading into a vast network of tunnels that can take you or your cargo just about anywhere.

Connor stared, mouth agape, at the screen as he took in the podcaster’s claims. Overwhelmed by all the information, he suddenly yanked out the earbuds and removed the headphone jack from the computer. He walked over to the window and stared out at the night sky, fixated on the infinite number of stars sparkling against the darkness. Behind him, the podcast continued to play.

Now, considering these vast underground highways were made by technology that doesn’t exist today, he managed to hear the podcaster say, it leads us to consider one of two theories: either mankind had developed technological achievements that were lost to time or, the far more likely scenario in my opinion, they weren’t made by man.

The next morning, Connor got up early to start mowing his lawn before it got too warm. Just after noon, Connor had cut his way through half the front yard. Sweat glistened on his face and had stained the pits of his shirt, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even care about the effort he had to put in to push this dinosaur of a machine across the uneven ground. What he did care about... the lawnmower’s engine sputtered out and died on him.

Shit, Connor muttered as he bent down and started poking around on the motor.

Good morning, Connor! a voice called out, but Connor was so engrossed in tracing the source of his problem, he almost didn’t hear it.

A few moments too late, his head shot up to find Ms. Frost, his elderly neighbor, smiling at him from behind his gate.

Hello, Ms. Frost.

As friendly as the woman was, they rarely ever crossed paths; she was always too busy with her niece and her niece’s young children to make many social calls around the neighborhood.

Sorry to bother you, but this got placed in my mailbox by mistake. She waved a letter at him.

Connor stood up, wiped his hands on his jeans, and walked over to her. Thanks, he said as he took the letter.

Ms. Frost watched him for a moment, seemingly waiting for some explanation as to what the letter was about or how it ended up in her mailbox, but she soon realized that she wouldn’t be getting any answers from him and walked off without so much as a goodbye.

Connor tore open the envelope and read the single sheet of paper within:

The Black Forest Church, just outside of Brussels, Belgium. Oct. 31st. 11 p.m. Your man will be waiting for you in the graveyard.

Connor turned the letter over and examined the envelope but found no return address. It suddenly occurred to him that the message was likely from Mr. Clarke. He folded up the letter and stuffed it in his back pocket. He returned to his lawnmower, heeding Mr. Clarke’s warning about being watched, and began to work on the engine again.

At that moment, though, he no longer cared about fixing the damn thing. He could only think, a graveyard in Belgium. That’s not too creepy.

Chapter Two

The Black Forest Church

The Black Forest Church

Location: Brussels, Belgium

Year: 2018, October 31st, Halloween

One drive, a ferry, an impossibly long flight, and a few cab rides and rental cars later, Connor found himself at the Black Forest Church at 11:30 PM. A full moon lit the church and adjoining graveyard like a muted spotlight—too eerie for a transcontinental first encounter, but perfect for Halloween.

Someone, or a collection of someones, kept the church impeccable, the structure so solid and free of wear and tear that one would think it had been finished yesterday. The graveyard had not fared so well. While the lawn had recently been trimmed, weeds and vines still reached out and grabbed for the headstones, clinging to them like witches to brooms. The engravings of many of them had faded or begun to fade, and more than one had been vandalized with spray paint by teenagers from a nearby village.

Connor realized his heart was racing. He scanned the seemingly empty graveyard and nervously adjusted his backpack. He saw no one at first and feared that his tardiness had cost him the entire meeting. But after a few minutes, a figure stepped into the moonlight from under a large oak tree.

You’re late, the man remarked. He appeared to be in his mid-50s, and Connor could just make out his shiny onyx hair, ebony beard, and dark eyes. Connor could also make out the scowl plastered on the older man’s face. Mr. Clarke told you 11 p.m., didn’t he?

Sorry. Traffic was bad on the main highways getting here, Connor rambled. He hesitantly held his hand out for the other man to shake. I’m Conn—

I know who you are, the man sharply interrupted him. And I am trying to help the son of the man I once knew.

Well, who are you?

Call me Samuels, the man said. Okay?

Okay.

If you’ve come this far, Samuels said, you want to know some secrets that I might know concerning your father.

I do!

Samuels took a deep breath, exhaled. Very well. He reluctantly nodded. This evens the score between me and him, then. Samuels walked to a grave in the second row of headstones. Connor followed. Next to the grave laid two shovels, and Connor’s eyes narrowed at the suspicious scene.

Many years ago, Samuels began as though he had rehearsed this speech a million times before tonight, the Catholic church quietly started an archaeological dig below this church. His gaze fixed on the headstone in front of them. The dig was started by a young priest who had done some archaeological study while at seminary. A few months in, they discovered that underneath the church was a long tunnel that goes on for miles and connects to several estates in the area. The priest, caught up by the excitement of it all, called your father for help with the archaeological work because of some of the artifacts that were discovered.

Samuels picked up a shovel and shoved it into the dirt of the grave. Together they explored the tunnel systems and discovered some shocking things that led them to learn about secret societies in the area and what they were doing underground. He paused. Have you heard of the Illuminati?

Samuels began to dig up the grave, ignoring the younger man’s gaping. Connor’s head shot all about, frantically checking that no one was around.

Y-yes, I am... uh... I mean I have, he stammered. What are you doing?

Digging down to an entrance I know about, Samuels replied matter-of-factly without looking up. It would be nice if you would help me. He nodded