Phoenix Database: Phoenix Apocalypse Series, #1

By Ernest Nichols

Phoenix Apocalypse Series, Book 1, approximately 151 pages

An ancient evil empire prepares to invade earth.

David Saul Goldner uncovers Project Phoenix, a weapons program that uses other-worldly technology to give Hitler nuclear bombs years before the Americans. He teams with Clayton Walker Harrison to destroy Project Phoenix in 1945.

 

But 60 years later, Phoenix resurfaces in a more deadly form.

They will instigate a nuclear exchange between the superpowers. But Phoenix followers will survive to achieve a global post-apocalyptic takeover that allows the return of the ancient Phoenix Empire.

Our aged WW2 veterans team with CIA Agent Nick Edwards, but they are technologically outmatched. Global communications are dead, spy satellites are blind, and solid-state devices are inoperative. The militaries of the world are reduced to World War Two technology.

 

Nuclear missiles are in flight with a 20-minute ETA. The Phoenix plan is unbeatable. Buy now to discover what happens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ernest Nichols
• Release date: Apr 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201362485

Ernest Nichols

Ernest C. Nichols is the author of the Phoenix Apocalypse Series. He brings 20 years of United States Air Force experience and 18 years of high tech, clean-room manufacturing engineering to this science fiction adventure/thriller epic.

Book preview

Chapter 1–Warning: Early January 1939

TWO 60-YEAR-OLD MEN bundle against the cold as they exit the taxi and duck into the warm restaurant. They frequent this modest establishment because it’s too far from Columbia University for student patronage. They take a secluded table, order the lunch special, and agree their mysterious meeting warrants a mid-day beer.

They scan the busy lunch mob, entering and leaving in boisterous lines, and attempt to identify their contact. As they sip beer and speculate about the meeting, a well-manicured young man in a tailored suit, handmade silk tie, and stylish Fedora is suddenly at their table. The old men stare for several seconds because he looks like a high school senior.

I can do without this spy-craft shit, the older one says.

The youngster displays a government identification card with an efficient flip of the leather pouch. They issued an economical pig skin pouch, but he felt obliged to have a local craftsman fashion one from kosher leather. Even though he was not observant, daily handling of pig skin was a repulsive and impossible compromise bordering on traitorous repudiation of family heritage.

I’m David Saul Goldner, under assignment to the State Department. They assure me you will understand my concern about a certain scientific development they will soon announce. Your advice is important to myself and to scientific circles in America and elsewhere.

The tall one surveys nearby tables for eavesdroppers as he invites Goldner to sit. How is it that one so young represents the State Department? They are a bunch of stodgy old men nearing retirement.

Like us, the short one adds.

I’m an intern finishing my last two years of college as a prerequisite for official employment.

You’re already a junior?

I do my studies while pursuing on-the-job training. The State Department took me under their wing because I am privy to an information pipeline from inside Nazi Germany and am conversant in several languages. The department uses me for situations they don’t know how to handle, or for political controversies best avoided, like the subject of this meeting. Other interns call such assignments abusive misuse of resources, but I don’t mind. In my homeland, they forbid government employment of Jews, and forbid legal representation, and business opportunities. I must confess disillusionment with American government, politics, and general national leadership because America remains uncritical of Hitler and unsupportive of our allies. And there is a universal dismissal of eyewitness accounts of escaped Jews from German concentration camps. And I hear unsettling rumors of death camps, too horrible to contemplate, but also too believable.

This nation’s policy towards Jews trying to escape genocidal regions is abysmal, the tall one says. Our shameful immigration quota for Eastern European Jews is zero. How did you win against the system?

My uncle is a respected manager for an oil company in Pennsylvania. But I was the only family member to enter America. My parents went to South America, and those who stayed in Germany disappeared or died. I will bleed red, white, and blue to keep America safe and free. My supervisors hope to retire with their careers unsullied by a suspected clever hoax, but I’m convinced this threat is real and potentially catastrophic.

What’s on your mind?

Goldner removes his fedora and overcoat and gathers his words with care. "I know that Otto Hahn and Fritz Strassmann sent a report to their natural science periodical, the Naturwissenschaften."

He scans the crowd for reactions to the German words before continuing. They generated barium by bombarding uranium with neutrons. Lise Meitner confirms the Germans produced nuclear fission.

He sees they immediately understand the significance. He pauses before confirming their worst fear. There was an immense release of energy during the reaction. Enrico Fermi and your local expert, John Dunning, corroborate the validity of this report. My supervisors reject the science of this experiment because changing one element into others sounds like Middle Age alchemy, while others advise their governments of the potential for nuclear weapons.

The short one, overweight and bearded, shudders as he envisions his pacifist ideology blasted into subatomic oblivion. It no longer matters whether America has avoided war. The nightmare has begun.

My sources say they have formed the Uranium Club, the Uranverein, as if developing nuclear weapons is a sport. Their Army Ordnance Office will manage their nuclear reactor research. We know that Shumann, Diebner, and Heisenberg will sign up for the project.

Are they sharing their research with the Japanese? the short one asks.

That might be irrelevant, the tall one says. My oriental contacts say that Yoshio Nishina has worked on high-energy physics at the Riken Institute since 1931. He is a friend of Niels Bohr and a former associate of Albert Einstein. He has been building and experimenting with cyclotrons since 1936 and already notified his government about the potential for fission weapons. The Japanese are making independent progress.

My German sources say Hitler wants an arsenal of fission weapons by 1945.

With nuclear weapons at his command, that megalomaniac thinks he can schedule a world war as easily as a Nazi political rally, the tall one says.

Goldner shrugs and says, Since Chamberlain has been so accommodating, my sources suspect he will invade Poland this year. He doubts there will be war over a country that didn’t exist before 1918. And America is certain Hitler’s war will stay in Europe and the Emperor’s war will stay in Asia without affecting life in America. Hitler can’t mount an invasion of America across the Atlantic, and we can control the oil supply of Japan. However, America is not manufacturing military equipment and will not expand its standing army. Portugal has a larger active duty military force.

After a lengthy silence, the short one inquires, What should we do?

We must sound the warning before it’s too late, the tall one says. Can you imagine this power in the hands of the Mad Corporal? Our fission research will be more expensive than anyone can imagine.

It will strain the American economy, Goldner says. But we cannot let the Nazis leap ahead and then hope to catch up. We must convince our government to start immediately, but politicians will lose votes if they promote a gargantuan defense spending budget when American war involvement seems remote.

Manhattan will be a suitable location. I’m sure that Fermi and Teller will be interested. But we must first send an advisory letter to Roosevelt, says the tall one.

Szilard has been thinking about such a letter, Goldner says. But he fears they will dismiss him as a foreign alarmist crackpot.

Leo is unknown outside of scientific circles, the short one admits. We need an endorsement that everyone will recognize.

Einstein, the tall man says.

Excellent, but we must hurry, the bearded one frets. I hope they don’t have some secret advantage beyond the head start they already have.

Chapter 2–The Rock

FRANZ JOSEPH VON LEIBNITZ doodles in his lab notebook while racing along mountain roads in the back seat of a camouflaged Mercedes-Benz. The glorious green blur repulses him. The forest contains poisonous plants, animal defecation, ruinous disease, and agonizing death.

The powerful Mercedes gobbles up a steep incline until cresting onto a mountain plateau. The green fades to gray rock and cliffs.

Robust brakes slow the vehicle to walking speed as gate guards lower steel rods and wave the vehicle through. They drive into a mountain at 100 miles per hour.

He prefers being underground. Hitler’s mountainside mansion gave him headaches. He averts his gaze as they pass abused work gangs toiling for the glory of Aryan supremacy.

Their high speed passage brings them to a wide stairway centered on an enormous blast door. The ventilation system makes the air throb with intense commitment to the Nazi mission of purification and expansion.

Strutting adjutants compete for honors in arrogance, bragging about influential party affiliations and of duties that bring them close to the Fuhrer’s Reichstag office. They gawk as the rumbling car glides to a stop.

The driver usually opens his door, but a balding man in a business suit assumes that duty. This deviation from routine confuses Franz.

Greetings, Herr Doctor. I am Bruno Neidermyer, adjutant for General Hans Kammler. Was your ride comfortable?

My name is Franz.

Hans is eager to talk with you. Follow me.

Bruno Wolfram Neidermyer is cognizant of the social peculiarities of his charge. Franz always uses first names. His parents are always Greta and Fritz. The Fuhrer is always Adolph, the Special Weapons Director is always Hans, and Kammler’s adjutant will always be Bruno.

Franz thrives in an environment of inflexible rules and expectations. Otherwise, he lapses into doodling and bizarre mathematical computations in his ever-present lab notebook.

The adjutants stare as Franz shuffles by in his odd little trot. They hold this slovenly idiot-savant in contempt.

Bruno rebukes them with a glare. Bruno’s looks kill. He can allocate them to scientific experiments that slay the research team in hideous ways. Kammler’s hand may sign the orders, but Bruno makes the recommendations.

They call Bruno the Mole. They are sure he spies for Kammler, and maybe spies on Kammler for Hitler. But they never utter that dangerous nickname in public. The adjutants find safer ways to occupy their time.

Gray cement walls and bare metal doors give way to custom furniture and polished brass fittings inside Kammler’s office and living quarters. A Schubert symphony plays as Hans pours coffee at the bar.

Pour yourself a cup, Franz. Bruno keeps your favorite brand in stock.

Franz measures a precise amount of sugar and pours an exact quantity of cream. He fills the cup to a certain level and stirs the mixture with four rotations. This brand of coffee is his only vice, and subtle manipulation is Bruno’s forte.

Hans continues. Our latest expedition confirms that a submarine base in Antarctica is impossible. However, we found this.

Lights flicker when Bruno brings the box.

It’s a loadstone with unique properties.

Kammler opens the lid and removes a fist-size rock. When he waves it in rapid movements, the lights flicker. He tells Bruno to tune the radio to Berlin and turn up the audio. When he waves the rock, the reception turns to static.

Can you turn this into a weapon? At the very least, we can use it as a radio jamming device. Global war is coming and we need to step up our game.

How much rock did you find?

Here is a map, Bruno says. Exact readings were impossible because the rock disrupts our electrical equipment and compasses.

The material extends from a central point like an Archimedean spiral. Is this the only location?

That’s all we found, so far.

Is it on the surface?

Yes. This is where the magnetic pole was ten thousand years ago.

Is there a duplicate at the North Pole?

We haven’t found one.

Franz plays catch. The lights dim while the rock is moving, and returns to full strength when the rock stops at the peak of its arc. The lights dim again when it falls and snaps to full brightness when caught.

We brought back only a few kilos. I’m not sending another expedition until I know if this can become a powerful weapon. Oh, we also found this. We had to chip it free of the rock mass at the center of the spiral.

Franz examines it closely. It is a medallion of unsurpassed craftsmanship. It is one quarter of an inch thick and three inches in diameter, with a ridged circumference. The body is glossy black, like polished obsidian.

The icon depicts a dragon rising from a nest of flames. Polished gold adorns all raised surfaces. Franz picks it up while holding the rock in the other hand.

He fixates on the rock as his body becomes rigid. With all his peculiarities, no one noticed Franz suffers from seizures lasting a few seconds. During those times, he has visions. They seem hours long and crammed with complex details. He knows it is unwise to tell anyone. His father resides in bedlam, and the few visits with his mother were terrifying.

But this vision is unlike others. He sees an ancient and advanced technological civilization in a prehistoric golden age of global prosperity. But the kingdom is disintegrating into strife and destruction. Warships skim across the water towards a formidable island fortress as warplanes rocket down from the upper atmosphere.

An enormous symbol emblazons every segment of the perimeter wall. It is the icon of their right to leadership based on pure bloodlines tracing back thousands of years. It is the image on the medallion in his hand.

Talons clutch a strange symbol comprising four semicircles radiating from a central point. Each semicircle points to the cardinal compass points, depicting the global extent of their rule. The ancient kingdom is under attack from enemies within.

But this fortress has more defenses than stone walls and golden icons. A weapon emerges from a central tower, a machine with multiple barrels that rotate with incredible speed around a central object that vacillates between hot blue and blinding red. The mechanism shoots a beam of ionized plasma that blows aircraft from the sky and sweeps away the enemy fleet.

Franz knows two things. The rocklike substance in his hand powers the device of blue and red, and the apparent victor in this ancient battle has lost control of his weapon.

Ocean waves build until striking the shores of every continent to crash inland for thousands of miles. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions finish civilization’s destruction. The continents rip apart and burn, and the sky turns black as the earth tilts and wobbles like a drunkard.

Franz wonders how many times man has destroyed his world. Or is this a vision from another planet? He has so many questions.

Bruno steps close and whispers, Franz, Franz. Can you turn this into a wonder weapon?

Franz gives a few rapid blinks, takes a sudden breath, and says with utter certainty, Yes. I name the rock Atlantium. I’ll begin right away.

Chapter 3–Vision Quest

CLAYTON WALKER HARRISON counter-steers against the ferocious sandstorm that damages the paint of the 1931 Buick Series 66 Sport Coupe. The 272 cubic-inch straight 8 engine cranks out a thunderous 90 horsepower. This was Avery Hubble’s last fling in life.

His wife, Marsha, characterizes the price of $1,325 as vulgar self-aggrandizement during the Great Depression. He dismisses this as an irrational rant against economic recovery.

Avery secretly teaches Clayton how to drive the sporty car. This little conspiracy keeps a mischievous twinkle in Avery’s eyes. But the old man’s happy heart stops before the Buick travels 1,500 miles.

Marsha perceives the car as the demonic apparatus responsible for Avery’s departure from the straight and narrow. She donates the devil’s car to the mission work of Clayton’s father, but warns Pastor Charlie to perform an exorcism.

The flashy vehicle draws ugly criticism. The pastor for an Indian church, husband to a squaw, and father to a half-breed, does not merit this luxurious gift. Their attitude confirms Clayton’s low opinion of church people.

His storm-driving skills secure him a delivery job for Buchanan’s Hardware and Grocery. But the Indian problem soon escalates to vicious confrontations.

Clayton is always the villain. There’s no justification for a half-breed missionary’s kid to be the last man standing because of martial arts training.

Make it quick, Mother, he says as he parks the coupe next to the boardwalk of Buchanan’s Hardware. They hunker against the wind as he ushers her into the store. Clayton’s martial arts mentor greets them at the counter.

Welcome, Mrs. Anna, Angus, Bull, Buchanan says. I knew the storm wouldn’t keep you away.

Bull is a decorated Marine who went bare handed against German shock troops during World War One. Anna Harrison knows he taught his fighting techniques to Clayton.

Bull isn’t her only moral dilemma. Her husband, Charles Harrison, is an accomplished gunsmith and still works that trade after his transformation into Pastor Charlie. It is a skill he passes to Clayton. Pastor Charlie’s firearms skills endows him with powerful medicine man status in the eyes of Native Americans.

I’m picking up some gun parts.

Please stay out of trouble.

The gun store owner is an old family friend. Got my rebuild kit?

You bet. I wish your father would take his old job back. I need the help.

How are you making a profit in this ghost town?

Mail order, Harold Jackson exclaims. It works for Monkey Wards, and it works for me. You’ve learned a lot in the past year. You can start full-time immediately.

My parents insist I graduate first. I’ll start this summer.

They won’t continue mail service, so I’m moving to Arky City. Your first job is to help me move the equipment.

That’s a deal, Clayton says, cinching down his hat.

Swirls of dust clear to reveal trouble parked behind their coupe. The Carpenter and Bernstein brothers are loading fencing materials as his mother exits. He knows a confrontation is unavoidable and they will blame him.

Larry Carpenter is quick to hurl insults. Squaw woman come to buy beads and rattles?

Clayton sees the other three behind the coupe waiting to ambush if he attacks Larry. But fortune favors the bold.

When Larry rams a fence post into the windshield, Clayton dives over the hood elbow-first into Larry’s neck. They land in a heap against the storefront. Clayton regains his footing and breaks the nose of Dan, the younger Bernstein, as the other two beat him with posts.

Benjamin leans close to scream vile racial slurs while hefting the heavy post. Clayton feigns unconsciousness till Benjamin is within range and plants a boot heel in his face with a satisfying crunch of nose cartilage. Matt Carpenter resumes his pounding as Clayton draws into a tight ball and fumbles for his pocketknife.

Time for a scalping party, he vows, pulling his feet under him for a lunge.

Bull crashes through the door in a rage and uses his antique side-by-side coach gun to butt stroke Matt. Bull cocks both hammers as he stands between Clayton and his attackers.

Get inside, he orders the brothers.

Look what that savage did, Matt says.

They had it coming. Bull turns to Anna and says, Get your son and hightail it.

Clayton hustles his mother to the car and pulls away, slow and deliberate, to shame his powerless enemies.

Teach me how to drive so I can come to town myself.

They’ll vandalize the car again.

Turn the other cheek.

You don’t do that with criminals.

This a law-abiding town.

White man’s law is not for us.

After a pause she asks, "What are