Code 13: Jeremiah's Codes - Sequel

By Paul Gilmour

A sequel to "Jeremiah's Codes".

The young players of a Ghana football team die in horrendous circumstances ...

A secret island facility in the Remote South Pacific Ocean is ambushed by an elite commando unit. An artefact of extra-terrestrial origin is stolen ...

A British soldier is brutally tortured using mysterious and terrif

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Gilmour
• Release date: May 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648849711

Paul Gilmour

Paul was born on the beach of eastern Australia and grew accustomed to the free and easy lifestyle of surfing, lifesaving and chasing his sporting dreams. He enjoyed his schooling years though like most of his mates, hated homework preferring his sport each afternoon often claiming the early night. He did however, knuckle down in the later years of high school and performed diligently to the complete jubilation of his mother and perhaps shock! He graduated and instead of the status quo among his classmates embarking on their university challenges, he discovered a new passion. Bright eyed and hungry for success he couldn't resist the luring excitement of the Olympics. So the next five years he dedicated his existence to achieving his goal, to become an Olympian and that he did. Seoul became the venue and his dream engulfed him. Sadly like many professional athletes, injury plagued his training sessions into his tenth year of international racing and ultimately, he had to retire. So the dreaded question was asked..."hmmm what now?" He pondered many things but his preferred choice rested with law enforcement. Why? At the time he wasn't really that sure, just seemed like the best option at the time. He joined the Queensland Police in the autumn of '92 and quickly moved into the ranks of Detective followed twelve years later with an unexpected inkling towards criminal intelligence and a transfer to suit. Now he heads up a 12 strong team of intelligence analysts all committed to exposing criminal networks and their wrong doings. Life in law enforcement opened his eyes to the failings of society and the sadness of humanity. He declares his opposition of many things unjust, the ruthless killing of innocence by those with radical beliefs, the slaying of nature for the progress of greed, inadequate or inappropriate punishments and above all, political corruption. He is passionate in his beliefs for a better world, a safer place where everyone obeys the law and no one person declares themselves above it. His dislike of corporate greed and corrupt governments frustrates him and he longs for a day when it no longer exists...but of course his job has turned him cynical! How can that happen when the governments and major corporations feed each other? With all that in mind he set out on an alternate journey, an adventure into the realms of fiction writing though preferring to bend and twist reality into his storylines, taking history and moulding it to suit his creativeness. From the early days of 2010 he unravelled Jeremiah's Codes and the uprising of a new secret agent hero, Jon Bennett. Dreaming it was him, Paul stepped from the ledge and free-fell into another world, a place he had no standing or authority, the world of literature. Then the words started to flow and acknowledgment came quick and the novel materialised into print. Other than all that, Paul is an avid lover of animals, respect and equality. He strives for excellence in all that he does and questions his own abilities never giving up until the job is done. To become a recognised international author is by far the greatest challenge ever undertaken and he openly declares Olympic selection was child's play in comparison.

Book preview

Prologue

Guiana Highlands, Venezuela

A dark silhouette moved swiftly and silently along a candle lit corridor leaving behind a trail of death.  Bodies scattered with their throats slashed, bled freely across the ancient stone floor of the thousand year old temple.  Driven by his feverish desire to find her, the assassin pushed deeper into the dungeon, gun in one hand and razor knife in the other.  Educated from a young age to inflict death upon those the United States Government chose as the enemy, killing had become a large part of his everyday life.

Tonight’s mission was different though, it was personal.  Three long intense months of searching since the heart wrenching phone call in the dead of night.  In the end, it led him to the Monk’s sacred asylum high up in the secluded mountains of Venezuela. 

He reached a row of weathered wooden doors all bolted shut, except for one.  In the dim flicker of one near exhausted candle, a door waited half ajar at the furthest end.  He edged his way forward, stopping abruptly at the distinct sound of something up ahead.  There it was again, a chinking sound like chains rattling. 

Focusing on the sound, he took two slow silent steps closer, when suddenly something massive leapt from the shadows.  A wild beast or herculean man he couldn’t quite tell, charged at him knocking him backwards off his feet and slamming him mercilessly against the wall.  His weapons clattered to the floor as the man growling like a wild dog, pounced at him swinging punch after punch.  Fists the size of dinner plates pulverised the assassin’s face draining the life from him and like a rag doll, he was tossed to the floor.

Twisting and turning under the man’s weight, the assassin fought back, kicking his legs up around the man’s head and shoulders.  Imitating a boa constrictor snake strangling a goat, he latched his legs around the man’s throat and used all his strength to squeeze the life from his assailant.  Weighing over three hundred pounds, the man lifted himself off the floor and dropped all his bone crushing weight back down against the assassin’s chest.

It knocked him hard, cracking ribs and driving the air from his lungs.  The onslaught of blows to his face had ceased and instead, the hands had latched around his throat severing his fight to refill his lungs.  Above him, the man lent in close tightening his grip.  His breath stank of stale wine and long beads of drool dangled from his mouth as he clenched his rotting teeth.

The assassin tossed and turned, arching his back while desperately wrestling the man’s fingers open, but he was too strong.

As his life faded, four words flashed through his head.

‘Jon please help me.’

The phone call and his plight to rescue his lost love had invaded his last conscious thought.  Adrenaline surged through his body to every muscle as he pushed the man up a few inches.  The tiny freedom to move gave him space to angle his hips off the floor and drive upwards with his arms.  The grip on his throat loosened and at last, he gulped air like a fish out of water fighting for its life.

‘Jon please help me.’

The constant thought empowered his strength, he had come too far not to succeed.  He extended his arms to the side and wrestled himself free a few inches until his hand touched metal.

But as quick as he gained the leverage, the big man retaliated using his enormous weight to thrust his knee into the assassin’s belly and throw himself back on top.  The fury of punches recommenced smashing his face, fracturing his jaw and splitting his skin like an overripe melon.

‘Jon please help me.’

Under the flicker of light, the assassin looked into the man’s eyes and mumbled Fuck you! 

With lightning speed, his hand snapped closed around the knife handle and he thrust it up into the man’s eye socket, not relenting until his hand hit flesh.  The blade penetrated his brain, inflicting immediate death. 

He staggered to his feet, heaving for breath and cringing from the pain in his ribs while his face felt on fire.  Blood blurred his vision as he took unsteady steps towards the partly open door.  The fight had depleted his strength but the thought of her energised his every step until he reached the doorway and paused.  The anticipation of finding her had suddenly overwhelmed him.  What if she wasn’t in there, he agonised.

Repressed by the solid weight and the rusted hinges, the door creaked as he pushed it further open.  Dim flickering light spilled out into the corridor and the assassin caught his first glimpse of the room.

At first his heart sank, there was no prisoner in there, just an old wooden bed with thick chains bundled on top of a dirty blood stained mattress.  The cell was a ten feet square cubicle reeking of human excrement and the musty smell of age.  A single candle burning in the corner presented a dull yellow ambiance to the room reflecting off the stone walls that gave him a clearer view of the bed as he entered.

His heart skipped a beat and tears welled in his eyes.  Among the chains, a long slender body lay twisted and motionless.  Her clothes were in tatters, her long earthy brown hair matted with blood and her dirty skin was streaked with trails of sweat.  The stench of excrement suffocated his nostrils and he gasped. 

Suddenly her eyes flicked open and sensing his presence, she shrunk to the head of the bed like a constantly beaten child desperately trying to distance herself from harm. 

Please don’t hurt me! she cried as the assassin lifted his gun and fired two rounds.

The padlock disintegrated on impact from the two bullets and he rushed to the bed pulling the chains free from around her ankles and wrists.

It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s me… it’s Jon, he said softly reaching out to touch her hand.

Haunted by the memories of losing her, a tear tumbled across his bloodied cheek as his love for her erupted like a volcano.  Her exquisite beauty filtered through the dirt and blood, revealing high cheek bones and her tantalising crystal green eyes.  She lay degradingly half naked with only a shirt that had been shredded to expose her breasts and finely moulded abdominals.  Bruises and lacerations covered her long athletic legs, some fresh with thin trails of wet blood dripping to the bed.

Their eyes met and at first, she cowered further into the bed until his warm touch brought her back to him.  Next to the bed, used syringes were scattered across the floor and her arms showed a line of well tracked needle marks.

Jon!  Is that really you? she slurred, and her eyes wavered from the concoction of sedatives flowing through her veins.

I’m here, you’re safe now, he whispered pulling her in close to the loving warmth of his body.

They had endured a secret battle to save the planet against The Trust’s evil plans and in that short space of time, had kindled a love unbreakable by death.  Nicholette Sponarava had been, like him, a lethal fighting machine moulded by the needs of governments and in her case, the Russian KGB. 

They embraced tightly as their lips met, pressing passionately before he reluctantly broke away, We have to get going, get out of here before it’s day light.

Subdued by weakness she fell back into his arms, caressing her head against his chest and inhaled his aura. 

I love you so much, I knew you’d come, she sobbed.

As tears tracked down through his blood caked shirt, Bennett besieged with happiness, cradled her and kissed her forehead, You are my princess and I am your knight.  My world was broken without you.

A tidal wave of tears pursued, and she shook uncontrollably with emotion. 

I must kill the Monk, she muttered into his chest, displaying a snippet of her former self.

The Monk had once been their ally against The Trust but ended up their enemy when his men stole her dead body.  Then, through wizardry from another world, they injected life back into her and imprisoned her. 

You will get your chance but not now, he has too many guards upstairs.  Time to be patient.

Fat fuck guard will be making his rounds soon, she slurred.

You mean dead fat fuck guard, he replied helping her to her feet.

She sneered with satisfaction, she loved that his sense of humour was a mirror of hers and she’d missed that.  The Monk had kept her bound by chains the whole time and at night, the guard would inject her with barbiturates before violating her womanhood.  Every time she was too weak and restricted by the chains to engage her own retribution.

"The Monk says you destroyed The Trust," she stuttered.

He nodded, Yes, they are no longer a threat.

He says it’s not over, a bigger enemy is out there, waiting for the right time to strike.  Jon we’re all going to die, every one of us, she wept, leaning against him as they staggered from the cell.

He had heard the Monk’s apocalyptic prophecies many times before, but unlike the rhetoric verses by doomsday cults, it wasn’t about the end of the world.  His visions were different, he declared the fate of humanity would be decided by the arrival.

He’s an insane old religious fool, there’s no truth to his sermons.  The sun will be up soon, we must hurry.

They left the desolation of the temple’s prison and commenced the long journey home, neither of them knowing the truth, or the real enemy.

Chapter 1 - Eckhard

Lake Ouachita, Arkansas

August 15, 1955

The water surface once tranquil and soothing, had become a boiling pot of froth and emotions.  The birds had scattered high with a crescendo of squawking and a mass flutter of wings breaking the late afternoon stillness.  Beneath it, one lone eighteen-year-old boy wrestled something in the waist deep water of the lake’s edge. 

Eckhard pushed with all his weight and strength against his victim’s fight for life.  He clenched his teeth and his arms screamed with exhaustion as he kept pushing, just a few more seconds, he begged of his courage.

Eke… please... I can't breathe, Simon screamed as he broke loose of Eckhard’s clutches and his head breached the surface for the first time.

Simon gasped for what would be his last breath as Eckhard threw himself onto him, like a crocodile he death rolled his victim back under the water with everything he had left. 

On the bank, a young woman stood watching nervously whilst checking their surroundings.

Hurry Eke, I think someone’s coming, she shouted.

Eckhard had all but run out of strength as the body in his hands fell limp under the water and the struggle ended.

Judith help me get him to the bank, he called.

She rushed into the water grabbed the lifeless body and together they dragged it to the dry sand as a man appeared from the tree line.

Hey are you okay? he called.

Mister can you get help, my young brother has drowned, Eckhard screamed back at him.

The man hesitated.

Go get the doctor, tell him it’s Arthur Banks’s kid, Simon, Judith commanded.

Please hurry, Eckhard added.

The man turned on his heel at the mention of Arthur Banks and vanished into the trees running as fast as he could. 

The others fell back laughing, their plan was well underway, and it would take over half an hour for the stranger to reach the closest doctor.  Simon Banks would not be revived. 

I love you, she exclaimed pulling his hand to her breast.

He responded, pushing her back onto the sand and stripped her of her wet clothes.  Both were aroused by the moment, but she was more excited by the control she constantly had over him.

Eckhard and Judith were deeply in love and had been for some time much to the disapproval of their parents, particularly his.  Arthur Banks was a well-respected businessman and a prominent member of congress, so he constantly faced public scrutiny for the doings of his family.  The shame of his eighteen-year-old son dating a woman in her late twenties was difficult to digest and the press didn’t let up on it. 

Eckhard rolled onto his back satisfied by the sex and a growing excitement about their plan. 

It will be all yours now Eke, Judith announced putting her clothes back on.

He made no reply, busy in thought about the next part of their plan.

What’s wrong, are you chickening out because if you are then you just murdered your brother for nothing.  Think about the big picture, she added running her hands through his long dark hair and kissing his neck.

They had planned this day for months, waiting until they were alone at the lake.

I don’t know if I can do the next part, he blurted out.

His father’s wealth was in the billions and with Simon gone it would be all his, but it meant killing his parents.

You can my darling, but we must be patient and wait for the right moment, she said.

He was an intelligent kid, scoring the highest grades at school and as many of his teachers commented, was destined for greatness. 

Today that journey had begun.

Chapter 2 - The Soldier

St Ives, UK

June 1, 2004

The freezing ocean grappled at his tiring body, pulling and pushing him each way with the surge of the currents.  The young British soldier scanned every direction to the desolate sight of dark water and a landless horizon.  Above him storm clouds intensified and lightning streaked the evening sky while beneath him his worst nightmare was unravelling.

A down burst of icy air dropped from the circling clouds and the water responded with a surging swell battering the Lieutenant's body.  Swimming had never been his favourite past time and now he was regretting missing those childhood lessons.  As he clawed and kicked to stay afloat, the undercurrent wrestled tirelessly to drag him under. 

Sea spray strangled his every breath until a rogue wave crashed across his head and drove him downwards.  After what seemed like minutes, he thrashed his way to the surface as something heavy nudged his side.

Around him the wind had mysteriously eased, and the ocean was losing its ferocity under the sudden hammering of heavy rain.  The storm had opened its bowels and the deluge had commenced.  Jagged bolts of lightning, purple, crimson and blue illuminated the sky for brief moments followed instantaneously by the sonic boom of thunder drowning out the roar of rain.

He was frantic, thrashing to stay afloat and fearing what had touched him.  With every flash of lightning he caught a glimpse of something moving, a silhouetted triangular shape slicing through the water. 

He watched in terror as another huge shark fin appeared and then two smaller ones, all circling at a distance showcased by the storm's light display.  Then one by one the sharks sank below the surface leaving just the clatter of rain bouncing off the ocean.

The numbing sting of the north Atlantic Ocean was debilitating, hypothermia smothered his breath and his legs struggled to keep him buoyant.  His greatest fear growing up was to die at the teeth of a shark, to be ripped apart in a feeding frenzy by a pack of blood enraged predators and somewhere in the blackness they waited their attack.

Behind him in the distance a small boat approached from the north.  A bright search light swayed back and forth across its path and he could just make out the darkened shapes of men on the front deck.  Then as the light brushed his position, he flapped his arms in a frantic bid for rescue.  The boat spun hard and the engine roared louder.

Overhead the storm wasn’t letting up, the rain more blinding, and an incoming gale was whipping up a whitewash of surface chop.  The spotlight remained fixed on his position as the boat steamed at speed towards him and the men waved and pointed.

Somewhere over his shoulder movement caught his eye and he realised in horror it wasn't him they pointed at.  At that moment the sea erupted and swallowed him.  Water surged past while he wrestled to recover the surface and draw breath, but he was pulled deeper. 

He couldn't kick, his legs were paralysed, or so he thought.

A few more drowning seconds and he gained traction clawing his way upwards, towards a bright light flickering through the surging white water.  Like a bubble from the depths, his head burst through the surface to the sight of the boat and the men onboard standing watching him.  They just stood motionless, peering down almost visionless and strangely, not making any attempt to save him.

The water around him had turned bright red and he realised in terror, it was his blood and his life polluting the sea.  The shark had severed his leg mid-thigh leaving the flesh and bone flapping in the wind swept current. 

In a flurry of panic-stricken slaps against the water he tried to swim towards the boat, screaming for help.

Help me please.

He was tiring quickly and his blood boiled around him in the surging water now smothering his face.  A feeding frenzy was about to unleash as the scent of his blood spread deeper and sharks raced towards him from the ocean depths.

Please help me...PLEASE! he pleaded one more time as his head sank under the surface and he swallowed sea water. 

A voice broke above the idling engine, Where is it, tell us where it is, and we will save you.  More sharks are coming, tell us and we will save you.

He could not think, his subconscious was in a complete grip of fear and he knew that within seconds his body would be ripped apart. 

I don't know, get me out, he screamed.

A large fin appeared cutting the water at speed towards him.

This one will finish you, tell us and you will live.

At twenty feet and closing, the shark submerged for the kill.

Under the floorboards next to the fireplace ... FUCKING GET ME OUT ... NOW

He had no idea what was happening, his subconscious and conscious minds were locked in a fierce battle.  He was in the water fighting for his survival, yet his most recent memory confused him.  How did he end up in the water in the first place, he thought?

He was clutched from the water, one leg missing and blood gushing from the ruptured artery.  It was disorientating and as quickly as it started, it stopped, and he discovered himself still strapped inside his St Ives home.

What the fuck just happened? he gasped finding his breath and looking down at his two legs, no blood in sight and no sharks.

Around him the same men from the boat laughed.

The lieutenant had enlisted with the British Army when he was just fresh out of school and shipped straight to the Gulf War of `91.  By the time he was deployed during the invasion of Iraq, he was well accustomed to the pros and cons of war.

He just hadn't thought stealing something so small from the treasures of Saddam Hussein would become his greatest abomination.  The underground vault on the outskirts of Hillah had developed into a feeding banquet for the greedy, all pocketing what they could.  Taking one small artefact was nothing in his eyes to the truck loads stolen by others.

The straps around his ankles and wrists were excruciatingly tight preventing his escape.  On either side two heavily battle-scarred men clutching Beretta handguns presided over him while another stood in front with a small black device in his hand.  All wore dark military style outfits and automatic rifles slung across their shoulders.

Thankyou Lieutenant? the man holding the device said, divulging a slight hint of an American accent.

Another armed man walked into the room carrying a dark Hessian bag and handed it to the lead man.  Nothing was said.

He watched as the man opened the bag and removed a dull grey marble sphere with hundreds of small alien like hieroglyphs etched into the surface.  The man smiled and rolled it around in his hands like he would a basketball, for it was that approximate size.

What the fuck did you do to me? the Lieutenant asked again.

Technology, it's amazing don't you think?  How we can trick the human mind into thinking whatever we want it to think the lead man answered still inspecting his newly acquired trophy.

The Lieutenant could feel a metal spike in the back of his neck and he grimaced in pain with every slight movement of his head.

You have a six-inch spike into the spinal cord of your neck so I suggest no sudden movements, the man replied breaking from the hypnotic effect the Sphere had on him.

This here device controls your thoughts and just how terrifying I wish them to be.  You see if I turn up this dial, your worst fear comes to life, and to you it's real.  I believe in your case it came in the form of a shark attack, he added laughing to the accompaniment of the others smirking.

He and the other men had charged into the Lieutenant's home an hour earlier searching for the stolen artefact and attempted an interrogation in the traditional sense.  They had punched him and threatened greater harm, but he had remained strong minded refusing to hand over the artefact. 

Since discovering it in Iraq he had always experienced some unusual connection to it.  At times it would resonate a soft harmonious purr like that of a content house cat and occasionally the symbols turned a shade of vibrant blue.  Though each occurrence lasted only a few minutes he was convinced the sphere was home to some form of organism, perhaps extraterrestrial.

Why do you want that? he asked looking at the Sphere.

Lieutenant, the Sphere was not yours to take and likewise, it was not Saddam Hussein's either, he replied.

What's it worth? the Lieutenant asked.

Your life, he quickly replied raising his silenced Beretta and squeezing the trigger twice in quick succession. 

The Lieutenant's body slumped lifeless as blood and brain oozed from the two exit wounds in the back of his head.

The men vacated the house hoping not to raise suspicions from neighbours and drove slowly away.

Chapter 3 - Heist

500 nautical miles west of

San Antonio, Chile

June 10, 2004

Andre stepped from the ship's control room into the escalating fury of an approaching storm.  He battled the handrail, clutching hand over hand as the stealth warship lunged forward and pitched high against the barrage of a mountainous eight metre swell.  A gale force wind lashed his face and in the freezing rain, it stung like a hundred razor blades shredding his weather-beaten skin.  It would be an hour before the early morning sun penetrated the thundercloud overhead and offered the warmth they desperately needed.

He and his squad of commandos had been steaming all night at twenty-five knots towards a small cluster of remote islands five hundred miles west of San Antonio.  The closer they approached, the storm dealt more, unleashing greater fury as if warning them away.  The lightning had become more frequent and the cracking thunder grew louder by the minute.  It wasn’t about to relent anytime soon.

He raised his night vision binoculars and scanned the horizon, mostly vast wild ocean shielded by the early morning darkness.  He checked his watch, they were making good time, he thought, two minutes past four meant they would be at their target by close on four thirty. 

At that moment, a rogue thirty-footer slammed without mercy into the bow and he lost his footing, slipping backwards but staying upright gripping desperately at the deck rail.

Damn this fucking ocean! he muttered.

Andre Matheson wasn’t a companion of the open sea, he preferred the dry hard ground where he had the control and confidence without the slithering and tilting of a wild ocean.  Like the others in his team, he was a trained mercenary, a hired hand to do the dirty work that most didn’t want to do.  Matheson had hand selected each member, mostly for their abilities in the art of war, but more for their commitment and devotion to him.  Each had at some point in their previous military service been under his command and so he knew them all well.

He righted himself, tightening his grip on the rail and raised his binoculars again.

To the west he could just make out the silhouette of the island's jagged coastline and the massive heart rising abruptly from the sea into the low clouds.  It was a semi barren fragment of rock, the tip of an enormous mountain resting sedately on the seabed.  To the untrained eye, it appeared somewhat docile yet at the same time, mysteriously eerie with its near vertical cliff faces and the ocean forever grinding at its base with wave after wave. 

It certainly didn’t look inviting Matheson thought, as he focussed his binoculars towards the northern shoreline, a five-mile-long platform of volcanic rock that rose fifty feet above the water.  It resembled a gargantuan rectangular pillar laid on its side as a wall to guard the island.  But he knew what lay beneath it and he signalled to the ship’s captain to steer towards it.

From orbit, the island had a more militarised appearance.  Cut between two towering mountain peaks a three-thousand-yard asphalt runway stretched from north to south.  Along the northern side three massive hangars concealed the elevators giving access to an eight-level underground facility. 

Boss, is that the island?

Matheson lowered his binoculars and turned towards the voice yelling above the roaring wind.  Carl Balfour had been his right-hand man since the attack on Area 47 and never far from his side.  Three years earlier he and the same men had carried out the militarised assault on the US Government’s sister site to Area 51 where they stole Lucifer’s Funnel, a small but deadly fragment from the 1947 Roswell crash.  Up until that day, he and his men had never accepted the well disputed conspiracies of the crashed alien craft.  The raid on Area 47 quickly changed those beliefs.

Matheson nodded, handing him the binoculars.  Balfour took them and started his own reconnaissance of the dark mass looming up ahead.

I hope your intel is good.  If not, we could be sailing into a slaughter.  Could be any number of guns mounted on them cliffs, Balfour pointed out in his rough south African accent.

My intel is always good, you know that, he replied as his satellite phone chimed and he stepped into the ship’s helm to answer it.

Balfour watched him, waiting.

It’s a go, neurotoxin has been released, Matheson said as he disconnected the call.

Can’t believe they found their way through that storm, Balfour said shaking his head in amazement and added walking off,