Project Houdini

By Thom Fillinger

For sixteen long months, the U.S. Navy was helpless! Admiral Nathan Summerfield and his entire Project Houdini exploration team had gone into the Bermuda Triangle and never came out. All contact had been broken. The navy could find no way to recover them. Project Houdini had won the battle but had lost their war against the unknown. Or had they? More dead than alive, journalist Alan Maxwell was extracted from icy Atlantic waters. Only a humble Mae West jacket had sustained this shattered sole survivor in testament of the incredible truth. A strange and dangerous truth that certain forces within the navy tried again and again to suppress.

In an effort to keep the lid on former naval officer Alan Maxwells account of the terrible secret that the Project Houdini team had discovered, the projects new director, egocentric Admiral Scott, and his henchman, Captain Sadowski, had the reporter subjected to a high-tech brainwashing technique. They then, in order to maintain anonymity, had him moved from one hospital to another. Only newspaper editor Harry Konenbergs stubborn belief in his veteran reporter defied the odds and kept this remarkable story from being systematically sucked into an all-consuming national security vacuum.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479718245

Thom Fillinger

Thomas William Fillinger was born on the east side of Cleveland, Ohio, and still lives there with his wife, Patricia. They have four grown children: Timothy, Elizabeth, Carolyn, and Christina. He attended John Carroll University, the Automation Institute of Ohio, and Adult Education courses in writing. Over the years, he has had a wide variety of jobs—anywhere from driving delivery trucks to managing restaurants to selling computer peripheral devices. Ever the storyteller, now that he has retired, he has finally found the time to craft some intriguing books.

Book preview

1 ORDEAL IN THE HOSPITAL

On a rainy Fourth of July in 1955, at a small hospital in Chagrin Falls, Ohio, Alan Robert Maxwell came screaming into the world. His mouth had hardly shut since. His older brother, Phillip James Maxwell, had beaten him there by all of thirty-five minutes. And so began the intense competition for attention.

Unlike his twin, young Alan had a remarkable vocabulary by age two. At four, he began reading to Phillip from the comic section of the Sunday Cleveland Plain Dealer. When he reached the ripe old age of five, Alan wrote his first story. It was a twenty-six-page science fiction work with the uninspired title, The Martian Miracle. As one might expect, it was no Hugo winner, yet in its way, it was an encouraging start for one so young.

His imagination was boundless, as was his energy level. With all this going for him, it was a wonder that Alan’s grades in school were only average. Perhaps it was due to the fact that his exceptional memory required him to do a minimum of study. Or maybe it was just that the teaching pace at school was far too slow for his quick mind. For whatever reasons, Alan Maxwell was an underachiever. Yet he voraciously read many stories: the works of Arthur Conan Doyle, Charles Dickens, Agatha Christie, and Edgar Allan Poe; exciting tales by such giants as Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, Isaac Asimov, Arthur Clark, C. S. Lewis, and Mark Twain. When nothing else was available, he even read cereal boxes and soup can labels. He read everything except his lessons. And so he only slid by in elementary school and in high school as well. His brother, on the other hand, who had far fewer gifts to work with, excelled in school. When he enrolled at Bowling Green University of Ohio, Alan made a life-changing choice. He elected to major in journalism, a decision that he never came to regret. His appreciation for the pleasure, the power, and the passion of the written word spurred on his ambition. Gradually his grades improved as he warmed to his studies. By graduation, he was in the upper two percent of the academic standings. As a result, this brought him several job offers. The first job that he took on was as an investigative reporter for the Akron Beacon Journal. Alan soon made his presence felt. He could glibly turn a phrase with the best of them.

With a whole year of experience under his belt, Alan looked elsewhere for an opportunity to advance and further hone his considerable skills. He took jobs first in Atlanta, then in Boston, and finally at a radio station in New York as a newscaster. To supplement his income, he moonlighted as a disc jockey. The cost of living in New York City was high, and the long hours he had to put in to survive began to wear on him. That’s when he made his next life-changing decision… Alan joined the navy to see the world!

That world tour for him began as a clerk, behind a desk at the U.S. naval station in Newport News, Virginia. Recruits who could spell and were also accurate in their work were in big demand. Of course, that’s not what Alan had in mind when he signed up. But as in the business world, the military put you where they needed you, experience be damned.

The pace at the Southern base was much less frantic than in the bustling city of New York. He now found time to devote to doing some freelance writing. When word got around that he was a professional writer, his popularity soared. There were many requests from his fellow sailors to write for them—everything from family letters to legal documents. After four years of this and very little to show for it in the way of world travel, he was very much relieved when his enlistment was finally up. Although at the time, he did not fully appreciate it; his time in the navy had added some new dimensions to his character. Discipline had tempered his ambition. Alan had matured! Six months before his release from active duty, he had flooded the job market with resumes. Among the responses were several interesting invitations for interviews.

The reporter auditioned for and won a spot working in the newsroom at Channel 5 in Columbus, Ohio. He had the looks, he had the voice, and had the skills. He was a natural for an opening on the six o’clock telecast. As his popularity increased, other television stations tried in vain to lure him away from Channel 5. But one other news source made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Television was glamorous, and the money was good, but it lacked one thing that he craved… Feature stories written by him, with the byline by Alan R. Maxwell! The winner of the battle to sign him was won by the Miami Dispatch. He went to work for Harry Konenberg and settled in applying his skills. They worked well together for over ten years. Everything was going along swimmingly, when one day, while out on a special assignment in cooperation with the U.S. Navy, Alan Maxwell came up missing. After more than a year of searching and probing, everyone but Harry gave up looking for the reporter who had so mysteriously vanished along with the whole Project Houdini team.

Harold Joseph Konenberg was the last of six children born to a conservative Jewish family in the Bronx, New York. It was dangerous growing up there on the streets in the 1940s in a mostly Irish, Italian, and black neighborhood. Jews were a minority there, and hence, low in the pecking order. Harry soon developed the ability to survive in such a turbulent crucible. He did even better than that—he actually managed to thrive.

His first taste of the newspaper business was selling papers on the street corners. As he grew up, the hardworking newsboy gradually worked his way into the circulation department. Shortly after Harry turned nineteen, his dad was promoted and moved the family to Columbus, Ohio. There, Harry took courses in journalism at Ohio State University, with a minor in business administration. After four interviews, the Miami Dispatch accepted his application as an intern reporter. They promised him that if he kept his grades up, they would pay for any job-related courses that he completed. His inner strength and determination kept him going through four tough years and enabled him to hold the newspaper to its promise of financial assistance with his education.

Once Harry received his degree, he went on from promotion to promotion and department to department. Soon he knew the ins and outs of every job at the newspaper. When his editor retired due to poor health, Harry was appointed the new editor of the Miami Dispatch. It was here, several years later, that he met a fellow Ohioan and ace reporter Alan Maxwell. For more than a dozen years, he worked well with this reporter, whom he affectionately referred to as Max. That was in a happier time, before Maxwell came up missing some sixteen months ago.

It was with mixed emotions that Harry received the news from the local hospital that a man was fished out of the Atlantic Ocean in bad condition, but still alive. In his pocket was a press card issued to the Miami Dispatch reporter Alan R. Maxwell.

At the hospital, the nightmare began violently. His editor, Harry Konenberg, kept beating Alan over the head with a typewriter while they ran screaming through a foggy submarine. As they raced past the captain, who wore royal robes and sported an electric blue beard, he threw his crown. It speared Harry’s jugular vein. A stream of iridescent green blood spewed forth, covering everything. Slowly, the submarine filled with jellied emerald goo, and slowly sank down into the murky ooze below.

Alan awoke screaming. The sharp jab of a needle shocked then calmed him, sending him mercifully back into a comforting cocoon of oblivion.

Sometime later, blackness gradually became gray. At the end of a long tunnel, there was a faint light, which grew and brightened as his consciousness drew closer. The light expanded and became the puffy face of his editor, Harry Konenberg. It seemed to Alan as if he was peering down the wrong end of a telescope. His toes tingled with fire-ant fury. He could hardly keep still. He attempted to move, but his muscles refused to cooperate.

Harry said something to Alan. He couldn’t make it out. Why, he wondered, is Harry so cheerful? Obviously, this is a hospital, yet Harry keeps grinning at me like an ape. He found himself laughing at Harry. Why not? The journal was footing the bill for a luxurious expense-paid vacation in the hospital. Again he chuckled.

Alan jerked to a stiff posture. Yow! There were those prickly sensations, a thousand honed stilettos down both legs, which caused him intolerable discomfort and terrible restlessness. Why, he wondered, do they have this stupid snorkel up my nose? And why all the bandages? I could almost pass for a mummy!

Does he understand what I’m saying, Doctor? asked an alarmed Harry Konenberg.

At this point, I’m afraid not. Dr. Shapiro smiled reassuringly. Mr. Maxwell’s feeling no pain. The medication is giving him some much-needed relief. The only way that we could save him was to amputate both of his legs below the knees.

The young doctor’s fuzzy goatee fell short of making him look mature. I must be getting old, thought Harry. Any more, everyone looks like a baby to me.

Are you his father? inquired the doctor.

Harry folded his arms across his chest. No, he’s a reporter. I’m his editor. He smiled indulgently.

Sorry, I meant no offense. It’s just that you’ve been here every day without fail since we admitted Mr. Maxwell. Naturally, I assumed because of your deep concern, that you were a close relative, offered Dr. Shapiro awkwardly.

I’m sorry to disappoint you, Doctor. My interest in this young man is purely professional, replied Harry, trying to sound a lot tougher than he really was. Somewhere in Alan Maxwell’s mind lies a blockbuster of a story. It has cost my newspaper plenty so far and probably will cost one hell of a lot more before we’re through. I’ve got to get that story!

Shaking his head knowingly, he said, That explains it. That bulge under your coat wouldn’t happen to be a tape recorder, would it? Never mind. It’s better if I don’t know. If I were you, I wouldn’t button up that coat all the way. It only makes things worse. Well, I must be off! As he turned to leave the room, he shot Harry a conspiratorial wink.

Harry winced. I must be slipping, he thought, as he continued his vigil. That insolent young puppy! No, wait a minute, why should I be jealous of his youth? He might as well enjoy it while he can. Youth just seemed to silently evaporate overnight. All of a sudden, he felt tired and very, very old.

The nurse came in, checked something on Alan’s chart, and glanced at her watch. Mr. Maxwell may be this way for some time. Why don’t you go and get some rest? If you’d like, we can call you if there’s a change, she added brightly.

Harry looked at her pretty, honest face. She was neat as a pin and reminded him of his late wife, Molly, when she was younger. God rest her soul! He thought. Oh, Molly, if only you knew how much I miss you. You were such a dolly!

Is anything wrong? Do you feel all right? asked Nurse Bowen, breaking his reverie. As a sign that he was okay, he held up his chunky hand. I’m just exhausted. I’ll be fine. I’m going home to get some sleep. The minute that he becomes coherent, please call me at one of these numbers. He sighed, handing her one of his business cards. It’s very important! Will you do that for me?

She took the card, assuring him that he would be called.

Promise? he coaxed.

I promise—she quickly read the off-white card—Mr. Konenberg.

Thank you, my dear. He shook her hand, pressing something into it.

A twenty-dollar bill! You don’t have to do that. I promised that we would call you. We will! Besides, we are not permitted to accept—

He halted her in midsentence. I know you aren’t, but I won’t tell if you don’t, he promised with a twinkle in his eye.

She handed back the money in a nice but firm way. I really do appreciate the thought, but I couldn’t possibly take it. Thank you anyway. I’ll see to it personally that you get that call. Strictly as a favor from one friend to another. Okay?

Nodding agreement, he left, thinking, there is more than one way to return a favor!

Two days later, he got the call at his office. Upon hanging up, he hollered to his assistant, Sam, take over for me. I’ll be at the hospital with Alan Maxwell. If anything big comes up, get on the horn pronto.

As the editor flew out of the City Room door, his assistant, Sam, who was on the telephone, formed a circle with his thumb and index finger, shaking it twice without looking up from his work.

Rush-hour traffic was, as usual, an insane, agonizing slither. When at last he got to Alan’s room, he found his reporter in a dark mood.

Hi, Maxwell! I knew if anyone could make it back, you would, began Harry. It’s sure good to see you again. You look better than yesterday. How do you feel?

How the hell do you think I feel? he grumbled sullenly. I suppose you expected me to start working the minute you came bouncing through the door?

Konenberg smiled. It couldn’t hurt!

Alan glared at him. You it couldn’t hurt. But, me it does!

Just think of it as therapy, my boy. Since all your tapes from the expedition were lost, we have no alternative but to recreate them. You owe that much to Admiral Summerfield. Besides, it will help to take your mind off the pain. He patted the reporter affectionately on the arm.

Sure, but it won’t bring Admiral Summerfield or my legs back, will it? The hell with you, Harry Konenberg. You’re about as subtle as an elephant stampede. I can see the dollar signs in your eyes all the way from here, he snarled.

My, my, my, aren’t we grouchy? Well, that’s a sure sign that you’re getting better, kidded Harry, shaking his head in feigned disgust.

Why you old bastard! If you’re so smart, why don’t you show me how to grow a new pair of legs? shouted Maxwell. An unrestrained tear trickled down his cheek.

The older man turned pale and was silent for a long time. Meanwhile, Alan stared gloomily out the window. Harry gathered his thoughts as he walked around the bed to stand between Alan and the window. I know you’ve had it rough, kid, he began, looking down at his shoes, and I’m not going to give you all that bull about how much the paper has invested in you. But, Maxwell, whether or not you feel like it at this time, you’re mighty lucky to be alive. Alan started to say something, but Harry headed him off. No! Please don’t interrupt me. Just let me have my little say, and I’ll go. The next move will be up to you.

A certain hardness came into the editor’s concerned eyes. Alan had seen that look before, only in times of great stress. As sick as he was, apprehension engulfed him. He steeled himself against what he knew was coming.

Self-pity has a stench about it that penetrates doors and walls, hearts and minds. Don’t let it happen to you, Maxwell. You have a fine mind and as much heart as any man that it’s been my privilege to know. The newspaper is my life. It has been yours too. Don’t throw that all away!

He paused thoughtfully. You’ve experienced something that is unique in the history of mankind and lived to tell about it. True, you had to pay a heavy price. Right about now, you must be thinking that the price was far too high. I can’t debate that point. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. However, your story must be told. Oh, not right this minute, but in your good time. Do it for my sake. Do it for the sake of those who perished during the project. Most of all do it for you. But do it! He handed Alan the tape recorder, then walked to the door. You know my number. Think about it.

As Harry left, Alan picked up the recorder, gave it an exasperated glance, and hurled it at the door with all the force that he could muster.

Startled by the loud sound, the nurse came rushing in. One look at his face and the broken machine scattered over the floor told her all that she needed to know. Wordlessly, Nurse Bowen cleaned up the mess.

Ten minutes later, she returned, bearing a beautifully wrapped package. She set it on his bed table and promptly left. At first, he stubbornly ignored it. It wouldn’t go away. After a while, his curiosity got the better of him. He opened it. Maxwell groaned. Another tape recorder. The card inside read,

Dear Maxwell, I knew you were going to do that! Get well soon.

Good help is hard to find.

Regards, H.K. —- P.S. This one has a high-impact case.

Alan shook his head. In spite of himself, he chuckled.

Again the nurse entered. Time for your medication, she chirped cheerily.

Mentally, he attempted to trace back to the events that led up to his expedition into the enigmatic area commonly known as the Bermuda Triangle. Flipping on the record switch, he began to purge his soul of the events that led to his current situation.

Nurse Bowen tiptoed out of the room, softly shutting the door behind her.

Millie? called a foreign-born intern. He handed her a small white envelope. This just came in for you.

Thanking him, she opened the note. It read,

Dear Mildred, I am very grateful for your kindness to Mr. Maxwell and to me. I have it on good authority that you enjoy a good musical. I have a couple of tickets to the SRO performance of West Side Story at the public auditorium this Saturday. Quite by accident, that happens to be your day off, and I have to work, so I don’t have the time to use them. Have a nice time!

Your friend, Harry Konenberg

Yes indeed, she mused, there is more than one way to repay a favor. That sweet old man must have gone to a lot of trouble to find out my day off and the fact that I like musicals. Millie blushed as she hastily slipped the note and tickets into the pocket of her uniform. Then she continued with her rounds.

The following day, when Harry went to visit his convalescing reporter, he got a surprise.

I’m sorry, Mr. Konenberg, he won’t see anyone right now, advised Nurse Bowen. Mr. Maxwell’s still in a nasty mood. All day long, he’s been having a tantrum. It’s not uncommon to suffer from depression after an amputation. He refuses to see visitors. But he has been using your gift intensely. He gave me some tapes for you. She slipped gracefully over to the duty desk. After several minutes of rummaging, she handed him a manila envelope. By the way, thanks much for those marvelous tickets. I’m really looking forward to using them. You certainly are a determined person. She brushed away an errant lock of hair from her face.

He gratefully accepted the envelope with its precious contents. What are friends for? His face shone with satisfaction as he hurried back to his job at the Miami Dispatch.

In many respects, the newsroom of the Miami Dispatch was almost identical to its counterparts in most of the major newspapers in America. For it was axiomatic that from a logical perspective, form should follow function. Fed by a steady stream of raw data, information flowed into the newsroom like an untamed, raging river. It came in over the phones, it arrived via the Internet, it came in by teletype, by mail, and data also walked in with a squad of reporters.

Before all of this information could be of any use, it first had to be absorbed, sifted, formatted, analyzed, edited, printed, and finally distributed. Physically, Harry Konenberg’s domain was a glass beehive comprised of more than forty cubicles, each with its own networked workstation. The honey