The Aladdin Project

By Robert C. Winkles

Throughout time, people with special gifts were used to perform extraordinary tasks. Now, in modern times, these superhumans are part of a black-ops unit known as the Genie Squadron. Join Jillian Pfister, a young girl with immense power, on her journey of self- discovery and induction into The Aladdin Project. A part of the United States military responsible for the Genie Squad, The Aladdin Project covertly secures world peace while fighting factions similar to their own. When the Aladdin Project is attacked, it is up to Jillian and her new comrades to save the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465390332

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Copyright © 2011 by Robert C. Winkles.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Dedication:

Acknowledgements:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Dedication:

I dedicate this book to my wife, Marjorie. This is for listening to all of the fantastical stories floating in my head all these years, and for giving me the strength to finally write them down.

I would also like to dedicate this book to one of my biggest heroes, Colonel Robert Cecil McCollister. He put his life on the line for the love of his country while serving in World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam conflict. It was an honor to have known him, and a privilege to have him as a grandfather.

Acknowledgements:

I would like to acknowledge my mother, Laura Sue Matula, who helped with the development of The Aladdin Project in its early stages. With her guidance, we were able to change a mess of tangled notes into a clear and precise story. Thanks.

I would also like to acknowledge my nephew, Josh E. King who helped with the concept art and blueprints to the Cave. His insight helped to solidify the Genie’s fortress, and gave it a touch of realism. Thank you Josh.

Special thanks to my daughter, Tammy Ardis for trying her best to make me appear somewhat photographic. Faced with an insurmountable task, she did her best while maintaining the integrity of her equipment. Good job.

I would also like to thank the team of Xlibris who did a fine job of putting it all together to produce a book worthy of my readers. Thank you.

Finally I would like to thank my wife, Margie. She was my first, and perhaps biggest fan. Daring me to put my money where my mouth is, she pushed me into writing the first in a series of books that had been sitting on the shelves for years. Without her, this project may never have seen the light of day.

Most of all I would like to think my readers. I welcome you as a fan, and I promise you, the best is yet to come.

Prologue

Akhanhuramon was tired. It had been a long day, and it seemed to never end. The hot, unrelenting sun beat down upon the Giza plateau, reflecting huge swaths of light off the south side of the great pyramid, illuminating the large workforce below. Looking off to his right, Akhanhuramon could see a dark gray bank of clouds filled with hints of brown and green, rolling up the Nile Valley toward his worksite. This fact had not gone unnoticed as Akhanhuramon heard the south-side foreman bark out commands to ready two more blocks only, then prepare to shut things down for the day on his side. From afar, he could hear the other foremen. Each man was dedicated to overseeing the construction of each side of this massive pyramid. They issued commands similar to the first foreman’s orders. Khufu would not be pleased. The rains had come every day for two months now, and this was causing delays in construction.

Watching as the stone movers rolled the huge four-ton stone next to the sacred cloth, Akhanhuramon prepared himself mentally for the move. Using a long brass rod, one of his crewmen struck the large block in an attempt to disengage any loose material attached to the bottom side of the stone. After several blows with the rod, Akhanhuramon was satisfied that the base of the limestone block was clean. Waving his hands, he directed the movers to stand clear from the stone. Closing his eyes, the great setter reached out with his mind, making a connection with the large limestone block sitting on splintered logs. He could feel it. All of it! There was life within the stone. It made his body tingle, and his heartbeat sped up a notch.

Focusing intently, Akhanhuramon willed the block to lift free of the timbers that had transported it up the massive ramp to this spot. The stone movers, laborers, and even the foreman all looked on in awe as the mammoth stone was lifted first vertically and then horizontally pushed to a point directly over the magic papyrus. The cloth or papyrus was neither. It was a carbon composite sheet created by using a recipe handed down from the old ones. Others, like Akhanhuramon, were charged with the tasks of making these sacred sheets using raw materials provided to them from the high priests. The purpose of these sheets was to allow the setter, men like Akhanhuramon, to focus on the blocks only. The neutralized connection between rock and ground prohibited debris from sticking to the bottom of the stone blocks. He could inadvertently pick up part of whatever the block was sitting on, along with the stone when transporting. Carbon fiber was very effective in insulating any ambient energy given off by the ground or any other substrate upon which the target block sat. This was very important to guard against improper block placement due to trash on the bottom of the limestone, which could create gaps between the stones. The elements could get between the blocks and cause degradation of the stone. This would not do! Khufu’s masterpiece was designed to last forever.

Lowering the stone down upon the carbon fiber sheet, Akhanhuramon rested his mind to ready it for the crucial lift and placement of this precisely cut block. Eyeing the other gangs as they busied themselves to prepare for their own setter to place his block, Akhanhuramon considered these would be the last stones set today. The rain was coming fast. Perhaps he could set one more block after this one before the weather stopped him and his crew cold, but it was looking doubtful. He called for the movers to bring the next stone set on rollers into position to be wrapped just in case he did have time to set one more before the rain could interrupt him. Wrapped was a term Akhanhuramon had come up with to describe the placing of the blocks on the sacred sheets. This description had caught on with the other workers across the site as they used the term in their slang.

Carefully, he examined the spot where he would place his block. With an invisible hand, he stroked both the blocks on which he would place his load. Next, he prepared the block he was about to set in the same fashion. Like a laser slicing through stone, pieces of imperfections in the rock flaked off of the block’s smooth surface and vanished into thin air. Satisfied they felt right, he decided it was time to get this mammoth stone placed. One more after this one and everyone in his entourage could retire for the day.

Lightning split the sky several miles away as rain began to drizzle down upon the fertile Nile floor. Rain could be a major problem to a setter. Water on a target object could distort its energy signature, making it difficult to move or shape. There was no time to lose.

All men clear? Akhanhuramon shouted.

Clear! his men shouted back.

Again, closing his eyes, Akhanhuramon focused on the gargantuan stone. At first it appeared only one side of the block was lifting. As the block seemed to spin out of control, it suddenly lifted, righting itself immediately in the air. Rising slowly, then more rapidly, the block ascended to a height of twenty feet till it was even with the row of blocks that would become its lifelong brothers. Very carefully, Akhanhuramon fitted the block so tightly against its mate that not even a blade could penetrate the gap between the blocks. Pushing against the block, he continued until he could push no further. All blocks were in plane with each other, and Akhanhuramon was satisfied that it was a perfect fit.

As he was disconnecting from the stone, Akhanhuramon heard screams emanating from his right. In his deep connection with the rock, he had failed to observe that the rain had begun to pour on the east side of the pyramid. A setter had been in the middle of placing his block when the rain caught him in the process of lifting the large chunk of limestone. As raindrops fell, the setter found it harder to maintain his grasp on the massive stone. Now out of control, the block was starting to slide down the side of the pyramid, dragging two men working on the lower tiers along with it.

Without hesitation, Akhanhuramon locked in on the tumbling block and pulled with every bit of force he could muster. The result was instantaneous. The attraction between man and rock nearly sent Akhanhuramon flying through the air as his mind fused with the rolling limestone. It was akin to holding a galloping horse back with only a rope. Quickly using some reserved energy, Akhanhuramon mentally grabbed the rock behind him in an attempt to anchor his body to avoid careening off of the massive structure. His anchor groaned, and the block cracked slightly, but he held fast. His men, realizing the gravity of the situation, shouted to the workers below to get out of the way. Akhanhuramon had proven today that he was, without a doubt in any of these men’s minds, the strongest setter ever to work in this plateau. But even Akhanhuramon surely had his limits! Complying with the warning shouts, the workers below quickly scrambled for cover.

Oblivious to the actions around him, Akhanhuramon continued to focus on the stone block, not allowing gravity to use it as a lethal weapon against the people unfortunate enough to be in its way. The rain had intensified, making it harder to maintain the connection he had on the stone. He was starting to develop an intense headache. Blood trickled down his top lip as his nose started to bleed. After what seemed like hours, Akhanhuramon sensed his foreman give the all clear. Everyone was out of the way, and he could let the rock continue its journey down the east slope of Khufu’s pyramid. Relaxing, Akhanhuramon released his grip and watched as the heavy slab first slid, then flipped and tumbled down the face until it slammed ferociously into the ground, ejecting a huge spray of red mud.

Chapter 1

Dust billowed from under the carriage as Frank swung his Model A Ford off of U.S. Highway 56 onto a long eroded private driveway. It was early April 1933, a time that would be known later as the Dirty Thirties or the Dustbowl Era. For miles, Frank could see desiccated farmland in every direction.

Frank was heading up to Boykin farm. This was the stop he had been dreading since five thirty this morning, not because of the washboard driveway or the excessive amount of dirt kicked up by his tires. No, he just hated being the messenger with bad news. The letter from the Farmer’s Bank and Trust of Delphia, Oklahoma, in Mr. Boykin’s mail stack reeked of bad news.

Frank Harper had been a postman for over eight years now. He had started on a different route back in June of 1925 as a temporary carrier. Later, Frank had landed this more permanent position after the previous route carrier, Mr. Haley, retired. Now that the bottom has dropped out, Frank wondered sometimes if ole Mr. Haley was getting along all right. He couldn’t help but wonder how a lot of people were getting along these days. Especially Mr. Boykin.

He had seen many of these bank letters lately. Banks were calling in all moderate to high-risk loans in a desperate scramble to keep their heads above water during this depression. That’s what people were calling it nowadays. To make matters worse, crops had failed left and right due to the lack of rain. Two seasons now, with little to no rain! From the prospective of the past couple of months, this summer looked bleak after a huge rain deficit so far this spring. Course, it is only early April, Frank thought to himself. Weather was funny. Things could change.

Frank steered his mail truck into the left drive at the fork. The right drive led to the barn where Mr. Boykin’s tractor sat motionless next to its entrance. Damn! Frank thought. Caught him during lunch. Frank was hoping Mr. Boykin would have been in the field, but judging from the condition of the turf within eyesight, what was the point? Nothing grows in dust.

Mr. Boykin was standing on the front porch as Frank pulled it to a stop with a cloud of dust trailing after him. Well, here we go, Frank sighed as he picked up the mail stack and exited the truck.

Afternoon, Frank, Mr. Boykin croaked through dried lips. Doin’ okay?

Fine, Bobby, and you? Frank was one of the few people that had the privilege of calling Mr. Boykin by his nickname.

How does it look like I’m doing? Eyeing the desertlike landscape of what used to be a thriving farmstead.

Frank didn’t know how to respond. He dropped his eyes and immediately spotted the letter, which had somehow gotten shuffled to the top of the pile. This was too much like kicking a man when he was down.

That the mail there, Frank?

Mr. Boykin’s voice broke Frank out of his trance. Well, let’s get this over with.

Yeah, Bobby. Here you go. Frank had detected a note of somberness in his voice as he spoke to the large man, and this caused him to wince internally. He suspected Bobby knew Frank was aware that there was something wrong. Normally, he was so cheerful around Bobby. Hell, he liked the man immensely. Bobby Boykin never had a cruel thing to say about anyone, and if he did, he always kept his mouth shut. Frank respected that in Bobby. Mr. Boykin was a loving father and, up to this point, had been a good provider for his family. Luck sure has a nasty way of biting one in the ass. He hated what the recent turn of events, with the weather and all, had put this family through.

Frank took two quick steps to get to the porch. He gently lifted the stack to Mr. Boykin’s hand, smiled the best most sincere smile he could fake, and turned immediately towards his truck.

Frank turned to Mr. Boykin one last time after opening the door. He wanted to say something that would make everything all right. The look on Mr. Boykin’s face as he glared at the top letter on the stack stopped him short. Mr. Boykin was staring at the letter intently, face pale as if he was going to be sick.

As Frank drove off, he could see Mr. Boykin in his rearview mirror still standing on the front porch. He was opening the letter. Just before Frank drove out of eyesight, he could see Mr. Boykin’s frame enter the house, then close the door. Frank hated being right. The letter was bad news, and Mr. Boykin’s body language had confirmed it.

Thirty days! Thirty days to come up with 1,117 dollars and fifty-eight cents! It might as well be ten thousand dollars! With last year’s bust, and this year looking no better, where the hell was he going to get 1,117 dollars and fifty-eight cents? He knew he was a couple of months behind on his mortgage payments, but to call it in all at once! It just seemed cruel. Of course, life is cruel.

Robert Boykin, or Bobby to his friends and family, was a farmer. Farming was all Bobby knew from day 1. He grew up on this farm helping his grandfather,

father, and brothers each growing season. This farm once produced corn, snap peas, and sometimes even potatoes. Everything seemed to grow here. That was back in the days when rain came every spring and summer. He could not remember a drier time than what he had witnessed in the last four years.

Well, at least he had prepared for the worst. Truth be known, Bobby had figured this day would come. You can’t be late on your land payments. Sooner or later, they’ll come and get the farm.

In another hour, Sarah should be asleep upstairs, and Maureen and Bobbie Jr. would be in the kitchen, washing the dishes they used during dinner. Bobby figured that was a good time to initiate his plan to take care of his family during these bleak times. There was no other way around it. His family had suffered enough. The thought of his wife and kids homeless and going without… well, that just wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. Their fate was in the good Lord’s hands now. Times were bad. Armageddon was approaching. Hard times call for hard action.

Frank was almost back in town after completing his route when he noticed the storm cloud off to the west. Good thing, he thought. We need some rain. Upon further inspection, he noticed these clouds looked a little different. Way too dark to be ordinary storm clouds, and they were moving way too fast. Frank gunned the accelerator in an attempt to beat this huge brewing demon racing across the plains towards town. Frank’s Model A was two blocks away from Main Street when hell came rushing into the town of Keyes, Oklahoma.

Robert sat at the table, eyeing the letter from Farmer’s Bank and Trust of Delphia. Delphia! He had been to Delphia when he signed for the mortgage. The place hadn’t impressed Bobby too much. It had been an average midsized Western town on the flat plains of Oklahoma.

The light spilling down from the thirty-watt bulb over Bobby’s head barely lit the room. Dust hung heavy in the air as the windstorm outside tried to cover the house with stripped topsoil. It was hard to breathe without coughing. Bobby was tired from a hard night’s work, and he was having trouble catching his breath. His hand fumbled with the hammers on the double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun resting between his knees.

Delphia! Delphia! Del…

Bobby’s mind continued to hash out the words Del… phe… ah! Del… see… And then Bobby’s brain played a quick game of word association and brought out deep within his memory an old nursery rhyme. It was about a farmer, like Bobby! How’d it go? Bobby could hear it now. He placed his forehead on the end of the shotgun barrels. The cool steel felt like the cold compresses Bobby’s mom used to comfort him with when he was ill. It was nostalgic, comforting.

The farmer in the dell… , Bobby mumbled. Farmer in the dell.

For the first time tonight, Bobby was smiling.

The farmer takes a wife. Bobby’s smile grew larger but only for a second. A pained expression of grief followed quickly. Fumbling again with the gun, Bobby’s left hand found the first hammer and pulled it back in the cocked position. Bobby was seeing flashes of his wife during the happier times. Tears were welling up in Bobby’s eyes.

The farmer takes a wife. Oh yeah, Bobby boy, you took her. Bobby erupted into a loud cry. The kids! He had taken his kids too! Robert Boykin exploded into a fit of grief, his stomach heaving as he fought for air. Spittle flew out of his mouth as pain wracked his soul. He had killed his wife and kids! Ooh god! What kind of bastard was he!

Bobby’s mind shut down for a second, as if some form of shock was taking hold of him. His left hand found the second hammer and cocked it. Continuing with the rhyme, Bobby got to the end where the cheese was the only thing left. He laughed softly. Who was going to get his cheese?

Irony has a bad sense of humor. Sometimes it plays a wicked joke on a victim who is already down. The rodent could not have made a grander entrance than if it had been a headliner on a Broadway stage. Coming in from the storm, a Norwegian rat ran along the wall right in front of Bobby. To Bobby, the message couldn’t have been any clearer. The rats! The rats were going to get his cheese! Bobby’s right thumb found the triggers inside the trigger guard. There they rested from their long journey up the stock.

Bobby’s brain was creating pictures in his mind. Pictures of bankers picking over the house, the barn, and his family remains played out like a stage performance in his head. Damn rats were going to get everything! And Bobby had handed it to them! He knew he was going to hell. His last good deed he committed was sending his family to heaven before they had to endure torment, but that had sealed his fate as a murderer in God’s eyes! Now he had to finish his work and deny the rats everything.

Bobby was gone in a flash as he caught both barrels point-blank in the face.

Patricia was happy. Happier than she had ever been since she was a child. It seemed like yesterday Patricia and her brother, Robert, were chasing each other around the yard and pushing each other in the swing tied to the limb of that huge oak tree in Keyes. Now she was nineteen and living in a large city. Houston, Texas! She was married now and expecting her first child. Years were beginning to go by a little faster now. Patricia was beginning to realize how fast time flies.

Her husband was Donald Sauer. He was a large tough-looking man who worked at a local oil refinery. The work was rough, and Don always came home smelling of oil and gas. The whole house smelled the same no matter how much she cleaned. Patricia didn’t mind. Don was a good provider and a great man. He looked tough on the outside, but he was tender on the inside.

Without warning, there was a quick rap on the door. She had been expecting Don to come home from work any moment now, but Don had house keys. No, this was someone else.

She peeked through the peephole and was startled to see a sheriff deputy standing on the other side of the door. Her first instinct was, Oh god, something’s happened to Don. Patricia was shaking as she turned the dead bolt to unlock the door. Patricia had heard horror stories about big cities. When they moved here, Don made her swear to keep the door dead bolted until he came home. And now something has happened to him!

She cracked the door open and asked, Can I help you?

Yes, ma’am. I’m Deputy Curtis with the sheriff’s department, and this is Lieutenant Forester with the Texas Rangers. Are you Patricia Sauer, formerly Patricia Boykin?

Patricia had not seen the other man standing to the side in a suit and tie until he was introduced. He was tall, a little on the thin side, but athletic. His eyes were intent, staring briefly at her and then at the deputy. She realized they were waiting for a reply.

Yes, I’m Patricia Sauer. What’s this about?

May we come in please? Deputy Curtis asked, hiding all emotion on his face.

In a nervous high-pitched voice, she asked, Is Don all right?

Who? Curtis asked. The other man whispered something in the deputy’s ear. Oh, your husband? Deputy Curtis replied. As far as I know, he’s fine, ma’am. This is about your brother.

Bobby? Patricia was puzzled. Why would they be asking about Bobby? Then a wave of dread washed over her. She knew instantly that something bad had happened. Come on in, Patricia said in a low retiring tone.

Patricia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Bobby had been such a wonderful husband to Maureen and a fine father to his kids. He had been respectful and loving to Maureen ever since they were married. What the hell happened? She couldn’t conceive of Bobby doing anything close to what these men were describing. He had killed Maureen and Bobbie Jr., then turned the gun on himself! What would have driven Bobby over the edge? And Maureen, did she suffer? Did Bobbie Jr. and Sarah?

What happened to Sarah? Patricia asked. This was the first words she had spoken since Lieutenant Forester began to relay this wildly fantastic story. Patricia had sat in utter silence for at least fifteen minutes, absorbing it all in. There had been blank stares from her as the Texas Ranger narrated the scenario he and his colleagues believed to have happened that day. When he was done, the blank expression on her face gave way to a flood of anguish and tears. When she finally spoke, it startled the deputy.

Sarah? Deputy Curtis asked.

Yeah, the oldest child. Maureen’s daughter. Patricia choked tears back as they tried to resurge.

Sarah is missing, Lieutenant Forester responded. We cannot seem to locate her.

Well then, I’m going to Keyes to help look for her, she responded without hesitation.

Okay, the one to see down there is Sheriff Duffy. He’s the one who contacted us. He said if you had any questions—

Yes, I know Kyle, she interrupted. I was in Keyes when he won the election. He’s a good man.

Sheriff Kyle Duffy was in law enforcement as far back as Patricia could remember. Even back in kindergarten days, Kyle was the snitch. Everyone knew Kyle was headed for a future in law enforcement. He had lived up to his peers’ expectations, and years later, Kyle signed up to become a sheriff’s deputy. Tenacious and stubborn, Kyle never gave up on a case until it was solved. Now he was the sheriff, and this gave Patricia some hope. Kyle would find out what happened to Sarah.

Sheriff Duffy felt overwhelmed. Usually, his job was easy, too easy. Then that damn storm blew in and buried most of the town. Here it was, ten days later, and people were still digging themselves out. Then the proverbial shit hit the fan when Tommy Brookes came stumbling in the door, raving about a massacre. He said he went by the Boykins’ place a few days after the storm because he had seen no sign of activity on the road between his place and the Boykins’ farm. The minute he turned on Mr. Boykin’s drive, he knew in his heart something was wrong. He could see vultures along the rooflines of the house and barn as he approached.

Actually, they were everywhere—even in the house. The front door had been left open or maybe blown open by the storm, and he could see several vultures had made themselves at home. Crows too! Along the banister railing on the front porch sat dozens of crows, alerting their fellow brothers to