The Enlightenment

By Stephen N Berberich

Truth came on winds of a raging storm.

Think you know whats real? Read The Enlightenment and prepare to question everything.

Jack Tessler was profoundly disillusioned when his mother told him Santa Claus was nothing but an urban myth. Yet unlike most children his age, Jack did not take the news lightly. His parents fabrication created festering doubts that forced their son to question everything he blindly accepted on faith and his parents trusted word. Thus, in time, Jacks mission was to understand the world around him through the prism of science and reason.

The journey begins.

Its early Christmas morning, 2017. All air traffic has been suspended as a blizzard of enormous scale pummels the US. An alarm sounds in the Dulles air traffic control tower. A 1950s-era prop-driven aircraft is on final approach, and its one not seen aloft in four decades.

Meanwhile, Jack Tessler receives an urgent call from NSA director Alex Long. What the young physicist learns will radically alter his belief system and shake the very foundations of modern science. It seems the plane in question left Bostons Logan Airport early Christmas morning, 1954. Tesslers journey of discovery will take him to a place no human has ever gone. It is the only place thats real.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543458206

Stephen N Berberich

Dr. Stephen Berberich is a retired interventional cardiologist with extensive training in the sciences. He is a graduate of Georgetown College and Georgetown Medical School. Dr. Berberich began an internship at the University of Pittsburgh and then moved on to a medical residency at Georgetown University Hospital. He finished his medical training with a cardiology fellowship at Emory University in Atlanta, GA. Dr. Berberich is the lead author on the first published review of Post Exercise Echocardiography. This test subsequently became one of the gold standards for the early detection of coronary artery disease. In 1974, Dr. Berberich moved from the Boston area, where he was chief of Cardiology at the Boston Naval Hospital, and came to southern California where he continued in the private practice of Cardiology until his retirement in 2004. Dr. Berberich is married and has three grown children. Just like Michael Crichton and Robin Cook, after 40 years in the fields of science and medicine, Dr. Berberich acquired the background that enabled him to explore the mind-bending possibilities suggested by Rebecca Canns seminal work on mitochondrial DNA and its relationship to the evolution of man. The novel comes as close to reality as Crichtons Jurassic Park and Cooks Coma.

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Copyright © 2017 by Stephen N. Berberich.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2017915824

ISBN:                   Hardcover                             978-1-5434-5822-0

                            Softcover                               978-1-5434-5821-3

                            eBook                                     978-1-5434-5820-6

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/02/2017

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Contents

Book I The Event

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Book II The Chosen One

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Book III The Edge of Enlightenment

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Author’s Note

And the Word said,

Let there be light.

BOOK I

The Event

Chapter 1

T he defining moment in man’s search for truth came hidden in a breathtaking display of nature’s fury.

A blizzard of enormous scale swept down from the Arctic Circle blanketing the Atlantic coastal states with an opaque shroud of howling wind and driven snow. Though the nor’easter had been predicted in advance, no one expected a storm of such intensity. One hundred mile-per-hour winds blew sheets of snow into twenty-foot drifts that all but obliterated the region’s highways and byways. Within an hour of onset all ground transportation on the northeastern corridor came to a standstill and air traffic was shut down from Montreal to Georgia. Residents in the storm’s wake hunkered down in their homes hoping for a reprieve from nature’s wrath.

Dulles International Airport, 3:00 a.m. Christmas Day 2017

Thirty miles from the high-value targets of the nation’s capital, Air Traffic Controller Ray Hodges was asleep at his post in the Dulles air traffic control tower. Hodges was not known for this kind of negligent behavior, but the radar equipment scanning the surrounding airspace had gone dark hours ago and the sheer boredom of the job dulled his senses. In all candor, he intended to rest his eyes for just a moment.

Forty-five minutes later, the calm that had settled over Hodges’ workstation was replaced with the high-pitched wail of an alarm. The piercing sound startled Hodges awake, warning him of incoming air traffic eighty miles southeast of the airport.

Who the hell would be stupid enough to fly in this weather? he grumbled aloud, although no one was around to hear him. Hodges turned his attention to the large data display terminal on his left and began anxiously massaging his temples. Something was terribly wrong. The incoming bogey was a TWA Constellation, a prop-driven passenger plane not seen aloft in more than four decades. As far as Hodges knew, planes of that era lacked the equipment to transmit a detectable signature. What he was witnessing on his monitor made absolutely no sense.

As per standard protocol, Hodges hailed the approaching aircraft on all assigned frequencies. His initial concern escalated to one of abject panic when there was no response. To further complicate matters, the unidentified aircraft had just entered restricted airspace, and the procedures manual mandated immediate notification to NORAD of the threat. He picked up the red phone to the right of his desk and was connected to the watch commander at Andrews Air Force Base.

Andrews, this is Dulles control tower. We have an unidentified intruder that has crossed into restricted Capital airspace. All attempts at communicating with the aircraft have been unsuccessful. I strongly advise moving to DEFCON three immediately.

Hodges paused a moment and then added, Commander, there is something not quite right about this aircraft. It appears to be one of those guppy-tailed 1950s era Constellations that was retired from active service decades ago.

Copy that Dulles. I’ll advise the squadron leader of your concerns and get back to you. And then both parties disengaged.

Soon after addressing some weather-related issues, four fully armed F18 fighters were safely airborne and in hot pursuit of the bogey. In the interim, urgent calls were placed to the secretary of defense requesting detailed rules of engagement. After consultation with the president, the consensus was to hold fire until the aircraft declared its intensions. Yet one deviation from its projected flight path into Dulles would require the use of deadly force.

While all of this was in progress, Ray Hodges remained at his desk with eyes glued to the radar screen. Sixteen minutes after his initial phone call to Andrews, the signatures of four F18 jets appeared on Hodges’ monitor and surrounded the Constellation. Moments later the squadron leader hailed Hodges on a secure frequency and reported that his attempts to contact the phantom pilot had been similarly unsuccessful. He agreed with the controller’s assessment that the bogey’s glide path had been stable over time and then repeated his instructions from the president to closely monitor the pilot’s approach into Dulles, providing there were no threatening changes in the plane’s trajectory.

Then, with incredulity evident in his voice, the squadron leader added, Dulles, there’s something very strange happening up here that I can’t get my mind around. It seems that the fuselage of the Constellation has taken on an irregular contour that seems to be writhing about like a snake. Weird objects are protruding from the passenger section that I can’t clearly identify. Understand, the visibility up here is quite limited, but it looks to me like something inside that airplane is trying desperately to get out.

Hodges felt a gnawing pain flare up in the pit of his stomach. Meanwhile security notified the snow removal crew of the approaching aircraft and ordered them to plow a portion of the runway for immediate use. Since those in charge were anticipating a worst-case scenario, first responders were activated and currently huddled against the leeward side of the terminal to escape the gale-force winds. Then, as the drama began to unfold, all the preparation appeared to be pointless.

The mystery plane executed a flawless approach, alighted onto the plowed portion of the runway and then taxied to a vacant area next to the main terminal. Despite the uneventful landing, security teams in four black SUVs surrounded the aircraft. Six heavily armed men exited two of the vehicles and used steel blocks to lock down the airplane’s landing gear. Then, as if staged by some ethereal movie director, there was a momentary break in the storm surge and the landing site settled into an eerie state of stillness and clarity. At that moment the blurred image of the aircraft coalesced into sharp focus.

Police and fire personnel closest to the plane fixed their attention on what lay before them. At random intervals, hands, arms, legs, and portions of human heads protruded through the plane’s metallic skin. After witnessing the scene up close, several of the seasoned professionals went to their knees and vomited.

The ghostly calm persisted for several minutes and time slowed to a crawl. Then, for some unknown reason the front hatch of the aircraft swung open. Fearing what they couldn’t begin to understand, the men closest to the scene stepped back several feet in panic. Eventually, a young attendant on the landing crew rolled the air stairs to the left side of the plane and then quickly withdrew. The chief of security went to the foot of the stairs and, with obvious misgivings and his gun drawn, climbed up to the entrance. He paused at the open hatch to marshal his courage and then disappeared into the innards of the plane.

Five minutes later he reappeared at the hatch and announced with a voice quivering with emotion that the passengers and crew, including the pilot and copilot, were all dead. Then he made a remark that elicited gasps from the workers:

I’ve seen the face of death—and it’s coming for all of us.

Chapter 2

Pasadena, California, 5:00 a.m. Christmas Day 2017

W hen the phone rang Professor Jack Tessler was asleep in his two-bedroom town house on the north side of Pasadena. He was not expecting, nor was he happy to receive a call this early on Christmas morning. His initial words were cool and signaled his considerable irritation.

This is Professor Tessler. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to at this ungodly hour?

Professor, this is Brigadier General Alex Long calling from the National Security Agency in Washington, D.C. Sir, sorry to disturb you this early, especially today, but we have a situation at Dulles Airport that requires your immediate attention.

Tessler promptly sat up in bed and focused his attention. Long’s hyperbolic sense of urgency was very unusual for a high-ranking military officer of his stature.

I’m not at liberty to discuss this situation over the phone, professor, but I can tell you this much. Your expertise in the fields of quantum physics and relativity make you an important participant in our investigation. In thirty minutes two uniformed military police officers will be at your front door to escort you to LAX where a military jet is waiting to bring you to Washington. Everything will be explained to you at that time. One more thing, sir, we’re in the middle of a massive snowstorm here in D.C., so dress and pack appropriately. And don’t worry; we’ll provide anything you’ve forgotten. Are there any pressing questions that I can answer over the phone?

None, general, I get your drift. I’ll be ready when the escorts arrive.

Then we’ll see you soon, and the general rang off.

Jack knew time was short and he’d better get moving. He quickly made his way to the kitchen to brew a fresh mug of coffee before heading to the shower. Since his college days at MIT, Jack’s morning joe had become an established and necessary ritual. It was a habit that he couldn’t do without.

Soon the pungent aroma of coffee filled the air and helped to clear the lingering cobwebs from the night’s sleep. Assuming this trip would be a no-frills situation, Jack packed only the bare essentials. This wasn’t the first time the federal government had asked for his help, but it was definitely the first time their request was cloaked in such mystery. The cryptic nature of Long’s phone call made Jack very curious to hear the details of this Dulles matter, especially since it involved his primary areas of interest…quantum physics and relativity.

Tessler’s timing was spot-on. After packing his bags for the trip and consuming the last swallow of joe, two uniformed marines showed up at the front door door. Jack invited them into the living room and when he attempted to pick up his suitcase to leave, the taller of the two soldiers eased the bag from Tessler’s grip.

I’ll take that for you, sir, he said politely.

With that comment, the senior officer left through Jack’s town house door and climbed into a waiting military grade vehicle. Tessler and the officer’s aide dutifully followed.

Thanks to an early morning departure, the customary snarl of freeway traffic to the airport had yet to materialize, and the trip to Los Angeles International Airport was tolerable for a change.

Thirty minutes later, the car pulled up to the entrance of an ancillary terminal used exclusively for military purposes. Jack, now led only by the ranking marine, walked through the lobby and then skirted the security checkpoint without the usual screening hassle. Tessler was accustomed to the modern complexities of flying and found it odd that at no time was his identification or carry-on bag inspected. The military must have its privileges. And this would be just one of the many surprises in store for him.

From the security area the marine officer made a sharp left turn and continued down a long, neon-lit ramp to the exit marked Terminal A. Escorted by his minder, Jack walked onto the tarmac where a fueled and idling Learjet was set for departure. Before boarding, Jack paused a moment to assess the situation. This mission was turning into something far bigger than he originally imagined. But turning back at this point was not an option. He had essentially crossed the Rubicon. So Jack shrugged and started climbing the air stairs to the plane’s open hatch.

Immediately after boarding the two men were whisked to their seats by an attractive female flight attendant who looked like she could have stepped off the cover of a glamour magazine. As Jack was fastening his seatbelt, the young woman walked past him, nodded her approval, and continued toward the front of the aircraft to secure the forward hatch. After completing the preflight check, the jet taxied to its takeoff position and then, without slowing, accelerated down the main runway.

The Lear was airborne and at its cruising altitude in a matter of minutes. Jack assumed a high-ranking official in Washington, probably Long himself, had expedited their takeoff and instructed the pilot to push the aircraft to its limit.

In the midst of his musings, the flight attendant approached Jack from behind and gently tapped on his shoulder.

Merry Christmas, professor. May I get you something to drink, coffee perhaps and a light breakfast?

Then she paused a beat and added, I guess there are a few places you would rather be today than on a jet cruising at 40,000 feet.

That’s affirmative, miss, and I gather that would be true for you as well.

She smiled and said, Yes, sir

Then Jack replied to her original question.

I’ll just have orange juice, oatmeal if you have it, and some of that delicious coffee you alluded to, black please.

She again nodded and left to fill his request.

Jack lowered the back of his seat and attempted to relax. It was his first opportunity since the general’s phone call to actually consider the real cost of taking this impromptu trip. Soon vague but familiar pangs of guilt gripped his lower gut. The uncomfortable feeling was a residue from his Catholic grade school education, and the same sensation young Jack suffered while waiting outside of the church confessional. The cause for today’s crisis of conscience was all too obvious. Two weeks ago Jack promised Elizabeth, his girlfriend, that he would spend the Christmas holidays at her parents’ home in Santa Barbara. In all the confusion this morning, Jack forgot to tell her that something important had come up and he wouldn’t be able to make it to their holiday weekend together.

On the surface, it appeared very callous of Jack to cancel such an important family obligation. But, after dating him for the past five years, Jack hoped Elizabeth knew that he occasionally forgot about important social commitments when faced with pressing work-related matters. Would she assume that his intentions were pure and cut him some slack? Probably not and he would soon find himself in hot water. Furthermore, at this late date any attempt at an apology would be a very tough sell. Actually, for all practical purposes, it would be a waste of time. So, instead of trying to explain himself, Jack opted to make it up to Elizabeth as soon as he got back from his trip. Then, with considerable trepidation, Jack reached for the onboard satellite telephone, dialed Elizabeth’s home number and prepared for a well-deserved dressing down. But she didn’t answer. He hesitated leaving a message since he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

The Lear began its descent into Baltimore-Washington International Airport forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. General Long, who was purportedly on his way to the airport from NSA headquarters, was scheduled to pick up Jack at the main terminal and then travel overland by convoy to Dulles.

It was 1:30 in the afternoon Eastern Standard Time, and from the ambient light outside the jet’s porthole, it looked more like midnight. Peering into the void, Jack could see nothing but a dense matrix of dark clouds and swirling eddies of snow. To further complicate matters, the plane had been buffeted by violent gusts of wind for the past hour, and frankly he was getting a bit anxious. Jack looked over his shoulder for reassurance from his escort; and instead saw cold fear written all over the marine’s face. Somehow the sight of that brave soldier having a similar reaction to the violent weather made him feel less like a wimp.

Touchdown at the airport was anticlimactic. Jack guessed they had landed on at least five inches of fresh snow. The experience was something like settling onto of a comfortable bed of goose feathers. It was evident from what he saw that the landing strip had been plowed repeatedly in lieu of their arrival. Mountains of snow on both sides of the runway loomed so high that the plane appeared to have landed in a snow tunnel. From the look of things, Jack gathered the people at the NSA must have a very good reason to risk flying in these hazardous conditions.

The jet taxied to a remote area to the north of the main terminal. An entourage of military personnel led by General Long met Jack as he walked down the air stairs. The general extended a gloved hand.

Professor Tessler, welcome to the East Coast. I wish the weather here had been a bit more accommodating.

General, the name’s Jack, and I’m happy to be of service, though I must say that I’m even happier to be safe and on solid ground again.

I can imagine. By the way, Jack, call me Alex. We have plenty to talk about and dropping the formalities will make things a bit easier. But let’s get this show on the road. We have an escort waiting for us outside the terminal, and I’ll explain everything on our way to Dulles.

Jack’s luggage was loaded into a military Humvee equipped with snow tires and chains on all four wheels. Long and Tessler sat in the backseat while Jack’s aide occupied shotgun. An access road connected the airport to Interstate 295 and the Washington Beltway. A large diesel- powered truck with a snowplow mounted on the front end met them at the freeway entrance and began clearing the way for the general’s caravan. Jack checked in both directions. There was no sign of moving traffic anywhere and, except for an occasional abandoned and buried vehicle, the interstate was completely disserted. Jack was especially grateful for the heavy-duty escort, since the nor’easter was at its peak, and the overall visibility was approaching zero.

Once en route, Long began describing the events that brought Jack some 3,000 miles to land in the midst of a blizzard of epic proportions. The general ended the story with a graphic description of body parts protruding through the skin of the airplane.

"Jack, we’ve checked. There is no currently registered point of origin for this aircraft and no record of a flight plan. The plane simply appeared on Dulles’s radar about 3:00 a.m. this morning.

Though the really strange part of the story is what I’m about to tell you: A TWA Constellation with the very same serial numbers took off from Logan airport in Boston early Christmas morning and then dropped off their radar without warning one hour after takeoff. No wreckage of the aircraft was ever found. Logan air traffic assumed that the plane must have wandered off course and crashed into the Atlantic Ocean somewhere off the coast of Long Island. The curious part of the story is this. The event I just described happened early Christmas Day—1954.

Chapter 3

T he Humvee inched along Interstate 295 South until it reached the intersection of the Capital Beltway. The convoy then turned northwest to the Dulles toll road marked Route 267.

After a tedious trek of four and a half hours, the convoy eventually turned onto the access road leading to Dulles International Airport. Jack was struck by the eerie silence that had settled over the facility. The usual mass of travelers he expected to see at an international airport had long since vacated the premises and only a skeleton crew remained to secure the area.

When they reached the main terminal, the director of airport safety met Tessler, Long, and the entire military entourage outside the American Airlines ticket counter and introduced himself.

General, I’m Ken Heffron. I got word of your arrival a while back, but frankly we expected you hours ago. I guess conditions are much worse out there than we realized. At any rate, I’m glad you made it safely. Come with me and I’ll show you the problem we’ve been dealing with. I must say, I’ve worked at this airport going on thirty years, and I’ve never seen anything close to what happened here earlier today. But you’ll soon see for yourselves. The private elevator is over there to your left.

The group took the lift to the ground level and then walked a short distance to the outside exit.

Bundle up, gentlemen, it’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.

The men took heed of the supervisor’s advice and, one by one, they stepped outside with their faces buried deep into their woolen neck warmers.

The military brass and Jack were buffeted repeatedly by gusts of arctic air, yet as they looked up, their eyes were fixed on a sight far more menacing than the blinding snowstorm. The shifting contours of an aircraft looming before them was like an apparition with only the howling wind to pierce the veil of pure white. Above and to