Replacement Cell

By Forrest Glenn

REPLACEMENT CELL The oil companies ruled the world. Clar Dalen intended to change that. As a brilliant researcher and professor at UCLA, with a unique perspective on problem solving, he was working on discovering an alternative, renewable energy source. He was so close to an answer, when fate intervened. Clar, still drawn to his roots as an activist in the 60s, participates in a sit-in rally at a local Bertrand Oil drilling rig. The protest rally goes horribly wrong, resulting in the death of a Bertrand Senior Executive at Clar's hands. It is an act of self-defense after the oil executive, the son of a former U.S. President, opened fire on the protestors and kills two of Clar's friends and then comes after Clar. A frantic and heart-stopping manhunt ensues, as Clar is forced to run for his life down through Mexico, across the Pacific Ocean and into Peru, where the chase continues deep into the wilds of the Amazon jungle. The ex-President, seeking vengeance for his son's death, uses his wealth and vast network of political and military resources to aid him in the manhunt. Just when capture seems inevitable, Clar is swept away by the rushing waters of an unforgiving Amazon river, only to be captured by a fearsome Amazon tribe which had never before interacted with the outside world. Seconds from death by his new captors, a relic from Clar's military service in Vietnam saved his life. A life that would never be the same. With help from sources never anticipated, Clar draws upon his vast scientific knowledge and unique heritage to continue his pursuit of alternate energy in the most unusual of all places. Get ready for a wild ride across the globe and through the jungle that not only saves a man from his demons, but gives the World hope for a better future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644242681

Book preview

Chapter 1

Clarence Erling Dalen is a man obsessed with his work and his causes. Peace was unknown. He possessed a head full of demons from the past that would make a lesser man incapable of going on.

Clar, as his friends called him, hid behind an incredible intellect. When a task required his attention, he could be completely dedicated and focused to a point of brilliance. Clar’s photographic memory served him well in his studies. At an early age, he had tested way off the charts, and that never changed. However, Clar did not like being put into a particular category that he did not create. As a result, his grades suffered. Still, he was in the top 10 percent of his class, but he never seemed to have to study. Clar just got it.

Once, because of too many absences from class while he pursued surfing at his favorite beach, he was told that he would not get his usual A without an additional thesis. The handout detailed an extremely difficult concept and required research and analytical reasoning to present. Clar finished it in an hour.

As a young boy, one could find Clar in his grandfather’s garage, taking anything apart that he could get his hands on. His grandfather, an immigrant from a small fishing village up one of the fjords outside of Oslo, Norway, would watch silently as the new knowledge filled the boy with wonder and a thirst for more. He would walk up behind Clar and jostle his thick blond hair. Clar’s returned smile was matched by the warmth of his crystal blue eyes

I love you, Farfar. He spoke the Norwegian word for a grandfather in deference to his father’s side of the family.

I love you too, Clarence.

Many nights would find his grandfather laboring for hours to reassemble or repair the results of Clar’s tinkering. His smile and continuous whistling his only companions. Clar loved his grandfather above all others on earth, but as he grew older, he stumbled over the words and found that expressing that affection became more and more difficult.

Clar ran into the kitchen (his only speed in those days) to find Grandma Pederson, or Bestemor in Norwegian, laying a plate of steaming food in his place at the table. She smiled at his enthusiasm as he began to eat. She indulged this small bit of spoiling in allowing Clar to eat before everyone was seated and served, which was normally her way.

As he ate, Clar watched intently as his grandfather hugged his grandma, taking her smiling face into his hands, kissing her warmly. Their love and understanding was infectious.

"Farfar, do you and Bestemor ever fight or argue?"

Lothar turned and smiled down at Clar. When you find that special person in your life, you want to make sure she knows it every single day. You do not ever stop telling and showing her.

Why can’t my mom and dad do that?

This innocent, simple question stabbed Lothar in his heart. His son was barely a father, and his daughter-in-law was not much better. Some people should simply not have children. That situation was one of the reasons that Clar lived with he and his wife.

"They’ll learn, Clar … someday. You just make sure that when you find the one for you, you treat her right. Real love is a two-way street. You know you are really in love when your wife’s needs and concerns are more important to you than your own."

Can I have some more lefse, Bestemor?

She just laughed. Just like your Farfar. Can’t get enough of the sweets!

Tonight, just as following every dinner, Lothar would tell young Clar the stories of his history, the Vikings and Clar’s Norwegian lineage and ancestry. Lothar was determined to make sure that his grandson knew and understood the Norwegian heritage and bloodline that flowed through him.

Clar would roll his eyes, cross his arms, and say, Come on, Grandpa. Not this stuff again.

* * * * *

High school was upon him before he knew it. The bantering with academia continued, as did his ability to excel at most subjects. If his intellect ever failed him, he would go in and see the teacher or professor and turn on the charm. This he had in abundance and a well-defined ability to know when and how to use it. Groups of girls would never fail to comment on Clar’s rugged good looks, and he was the topic of conversation at many a weekend sleepover.

He is so cute. Has he asked you to the prom yet, Mindy?

No, I can’t get the guy to notice me beyond math class. I’ve tried everything. He has so many girls after him, it’s ridiculous.

I know. It’s so hard to get beyond the bubble wrap. Super nice but nothing beyond that. I can’t figure it out.

Maybe he knows that you don’t put out, Mindy.

Yeah, well, I might just make an exception for that guy.

Well, he had better watch himself dating Teresa Hanning. Her regular guy is huge and seems mean as a snake.

Maybe so, but I’ve seen Clar get into with guys in the past. He doesn’t take any crap and the fight seems to end pretty quickly. As far as I know, he’s never lost a fight. Besides, Teresa’s boyfriend plays with Clar on the football team and they seem pretty tight.

Even if you did not know that Clar’s heritage was Norwegian, one look and the first guess would be Scandinavian. His appearance just screamed horned helmet and animal skin coverings.

One evening, Clar was at home finishing up a paper for his English class. He had given it to Grandfather Lothar to look over for any glaring mistakes other than sentence structure or spelling, which was definitely not Lothar’s strong suits.

Very interesting stuff, Clar. But I did not realize that you were so antibusiness. Why?

I’ve watched you work so hard for as long as I can remember, and it seems that every time you turn around, some boss is screwing you over. Templeton laying you off two weeks before your retirement vested. That kid who was promoted ahead of you because he was related to the owner. It just seems that there is no honor out there in the workplace. I’m going to make sure that I’m protected from that with my education.

What you do to make money does not make the man, Clar. Money is a tool, not the main focus of life. Just make sure you enjoy what you do and the rest will follow.

You struggle every month making ends meet, so money is way more than a tool for you.

We struggle, yes. But when I come home, I am a wealthy man. I have a woman who loves and understands me and whom I adore. She is my also my best friend. And I have you. I’m satisfied.

* * * * *

Clar awoke early and very excited. No matter what his age, there was something about his annual trips with his grandfather to the wilderness areas of Idaho that caused a complete transformation in Clar. He loved the outdoors and these adventures, and had since they first began on his fifth birthday. Every year since, his grandfather and him would pack up the gear and take off for three weeks of camping, hiking, and living off the land.

They also took advantage of some weekend getaways in the California forests and mountains surrounding Big Bear Lake and Arrowhead Lake above San Bernardino. Those were fun, but the biggie was this annual foray into the beauty and university of the deep forest.

The door crashed open, to reveal his grandfather laughing heartily.

There was a time when I was always the first up. Not anymore. You ready to go?

Yep. All set.

Lothar tossed Clar his favorite hunting knife and protective handmade leather sheath. Clar caught it out of the air with a smile.

Let’s go, dude!

Dude. I’m a dude now?

"You’ve always been a dude, Farfar. You just never knew it."

Clar had been carving on something for the majority of the drive over to Challis, Idaho. Lothar pulled his car into the combination gas station–post office–general store in this very small town, and told the attendant to fill up the tank. He did not want to run out of gas on the last seventy-five miles of dirt road ahead, which would take them deep into the forest. There were no more services after Challis.

Clar handed him his creation with a proud smile.

"Let’s see you beat that one!"

Chuckling, Lothar examined the hand-carved arrow that Clar had worked on for the past several hours. Holding it up at different angles and examining its symmetry.

That is your best ever, Clarence. Can’t wait to see you shoot it once we make camp. Do you want anything special from the store?

Nope. It will just make me miss it more once we hit the hills and I can’t get anything from the store for three weeks. You brought enough sugar, right? I’m not eating those wild berries without some sugar.

We’re all set. I even stole some extra cookies from the cooking rack this morning. Grandma will calm down by the time we get back!

Doubt it. Clar smiled.

A huge man, with a massive beard sporting streaks of gray, quickly approached Lothar with his hand outstretched as he and Clar started to climb into their car.

Lothar, isn’t it? He shook Lothar’s hand vigorously first and then Clar’s.

Yes, he replied with some obvious reservation.

I’m Tom Brady. You probably don’t remember me, but your grandson there and my brother had a contest two or three summers ago with the bow and arrow. Your grandson kicked his butt, which is no small feat, and he wants a rematch!

Lothar smiled and chuckled. I do remember that. But we’re on our way up the mountain.

Charles is just inside. The whole town has heard about your grandson, and Charles is known far and wide for his skill. Just three arrows apiece and we’re done. What do you say?

Lothar looked over at Clar, who was already reaching into the back of the car for his bow.

Okay. You’re on.

It did not take long for Clar to demonstrate his incredible skills with the bow and arrow. Three perfect centers in a row defeated Charles easily. The small crowd that had followed the men to the open area behind the combination building cheered and teased Charles in equal parts. A handshake all around, and Lothar drove his car up the remaining road to their special place.

Later that day, the two had made good progress heading up the first mountain into an area that’s beauty was matched only by its isolation. Few people ventured into this part of the forest. It was meant for the adventurous, the brave, and it never disappointed. It was wild, raw, dangerous for the untrained and Clar absolutely loved it. It was during these times that Lothar taught him survival skills that would stay with Clar the rest of his life.

As the sun tucked behind the final mountain for the night, the campfire was blazing, casting its cone-shaped brilliance dancing upon the surrounding trees. Their first meal was some rainbow trout caught from a stream just over the nearest hill and slow roasted over the open fire. It was wonderful. As they both folded into their sleeping bags for the night, Lothar began the Norwegian history lessons again, and Clar fell asleep to the drone.

* * * * *

Lothar held the letter in his hand and read it several times. Tears welled up in his eyes. Looking deeply at Clar sitting in the chair across from him with Bestemor standing behind him, Lothar was gushing.

You’ve done it, Clarence, my boy. I can’t believe it. You’re off to UCLA and on an academic scholarship as well. I am so proud of you. Your future looks bright, eh?

Clar just smiled at his grandfather. He knew what this accomplishment meant to Lothar and he drank in the moment.

"What is that scientist’s name that you hope to work with again?

The famous Dr. Kang Troutnam, Clar said with a smile. He is number one in the field. No one more connected. I figure I spend my undergraduate time majoring in electrical and chemical engineering, which will give me the chance to convince Dr. Troutnam that I would be a good candidate for his graduate school and research.

During his years at UCLA, Clar would become a rare combination of brilliant scientist and devote hippie when the draft of the early sixties made a career decision for him.

Chapter 2

Clar was on a rare R&R visit to Saigon. He spent several hours in a local bar with some comrades, smoking weed and drinking ridiculous amounts of liquor. Through the increasing haze, he kept making eye contact with a very attractive local woman. Every time he looked up, her eyes seemed to be locked on him.

All right, boys. Enough is enough. I’m out of here.

Clar wandered alone from the bar in a haze of limited consciousness. Clar’s world started to heave and roll. The streets he was on seemed to come alive under his feet. Everything was moving to different beats and patterns. It made him nauseous as he tried to focus on where he was stepping. His head was swimming.

He sat down in front of one of many sleazy, run-of-the-mill tattoo parlors in the city, trying in vain to clear his head. For no apparent reason that he could ever remember, he wandered inside and saw the same girl from the bar earlier in the evening. She seemed to be speaking to him in a whisper.

Clar was frozen in place. Behind her, as if rising as an extension of her back, an old man closely examined Clar. First peering over the girl’s left shoulder and then her right, the old man left the camouflage of her form to slowly wander around Clar with no particular order or intent.

The old man’s long beard and hair seemed to combine and sway as one with his steps when he spoke. He looked deeply into Clar’s bloodshot eyes with such intensity that Clar thought he would surely burn his eyes from their sockets. Then taking Clar’s left hand and examining the palm and then the other, his toothless smile became more pronounced.

A final check of Clar’s face with a sensitive and penetrating warmth from the old man’s hands, he spoke slowly, more as a conclusion than a question. The young beauty translated with a silken voice, My master asks if you are the chosen one.

The chosen one?

Clar let out a short, uncomfortable laugh. If you consider the draft qualifying as being chosen, then I guess I am!

The old man’s face screwed up into a clear showing of complete disgust with Clar’s response, the beard and hair combined again and sounds came from the center of that white mass. The girl again translated, mirroring the impatience in the old man’s voice, No, no. I do not mean the vision that you allow others to see.

The old man pressed his overgrown and extended fingernail hard into Clar’s chest directly above his heart. "Are you the chosen one?"

The young beauty began speaking again, this time staring directly into Clar’s eyes, with the old man matching her intensity at the same time and speaking:

If you were walking on the surface of a great red lake, and you found yourself slipping beneath its surface with no apparent ability to rise back to the starting point. If the oxygen was slipping from your lungs. What would you do?

Clar laughed nervously, trying to be as metaphysical as possible.

I would dive down further into the water to find peace from this life.

She responded with a translation of the old man’s mutterings, And what color would the water be?

Clar’s smile disappeared. He actually took a moment to consider this bizarre question as if it were valid and significant.

The water would change to a beautiful blue green, with sunlight streaming down in delicate fingers of sparkling imperfection … for this is the vision of peace.

When he finished speaking, he was far, far from the war and experiences that had brought him to this point in his life. He tried to get up, but the young girl prevented him from rising with very little apparent effort.

Somewhere along the way, you stepped off the path intended for you. It is time to start the road to your destiny.

With that confusing statement, the old man again put his hand on Clar’s chest just above his heart. His white hair began shaking violently with the rest of his body and his eyes rolled back into his head. The old man was obviously in a trance of some kind.

Clar realized that the old man’s fingernail seemed to be drawing in the center of his chest. The young girl was suddenly back into his range of vision. In her hand she held two bowls of different colored substance, and as he worked, the old man would dip his fingernail into one bowl and then the other.

Clar’s world went to black. Not violently. He just lost consciousness. When he awoke, Clar was convinced that it all was a bad dream—one of many to add to his collection of Vietnam nightmares. It was not until later that he realized a tattoo actually had been drawn on his chest. Deeply emblazoned and vivid in color, it took months to heal and take on its intended vibrancy.

The tattoo was a strange combination of angles and depiction of varying, unknown, symbols. When he had the chance to examine the tattoo more closely in a mirror, he liked the colors and intricacy and passed it over with a grunt of approval. Besides, the guys in his unit thought it was cool.

Man, that tattoo is far out, Clar. What a weird story. Sounds like a major hallucination, but the tattoo is real, so something happened that night.

Regardless of how he came to acquire that tattoo, in the coming years, it would change his life forever in ways he could never imagine.

Chapter 3

Clar emerged from his tour of duty in Vietnam as a radical and an absolute enemy of government and big business. His particular demon of focus became the oil industry. After three years of graduate school and violent demonstrations against oil interests all over the world, what was planned next was a relatively innocuous event and changed his stars forever.

The headlights of Clar’s car illuminated the winding road as he navigated his way through Topanga Canyon, which eventually meandered its way to the Pacific Coast and the local surfing spots. One of the members in his group had inherited a rambling home sitting on five acres in the Canyon, as it was called in those days. The Canyon was riddled with enclaves of extremist groups, devoted to some form of focus well outside the law.

Many members of the Deliverance, as they named themselves during a night of partying and introspective discovery, gathered together that night to plan the affairs for the next day. The group included both graduate and undergraduate professors and recent graduates who had begun filling the various openings in technologically advanced industries.

Look, just our presence now at any event creates immediate headlines. It is up to us to take this fight to the oil companies and break their stranglehold on America. This sit-in should further that cause.

Why not just blow up the oil rig? Makes a much bigger statement and costs them some real money. A collective groan rose from the other members.

John, we cannot handle things that way. We have talked about this over and over again. One of the reasons we are so effective is that our higher positions in academia and society allow access to credible information and intel that is not available to the rest of the public. That knowledge and ability gives the Deliverance instant credibility. If we start blowing crap up, that will all disappear. Influence and position, John, allows us to work deep inside their world and destroy them from within.

Another member said, That’s right. We’re not in college anymore, John. We are feared by big business not because we bomb things but because we are radical enough to attack them where they live and advertise.

John was not giving up. A sit in is for pussies. It does nothing. It makes us look weak, stupid.

It is covered by every major network, John. It gives us a platform for our collective message. It is not exactly a love fest at the park, John. Taking over a major oil rig is a major event. And we have managed to continue these press-covered events without exposing our true identities because it is socially acceptable to the consumers, even if not for the business world. If we blow something up and kill people, that will all change.

Look, John, fear sells, and this group is intellectually adept at producing that fear of what the uncontrolled effects of big oil would do to the world, the environment, and the economy.

Another member added, The news media absolutely loves our informational pieces, as well as all the detail in avoiding detection of our true identities. They eat it up.

How about the flyers for this event tomorrow?

All ready, as well as the press releases, said Randy, handing a copy of the flyer to each of the people present in the meeting.

I love this. Who came up the idea of these illustrations? Incredible. Makes the oil companies look like a bunch of drug dealers selling to the junkie American population. Totally awesome.

Yeah, oil addiction comes across loud and clear.

John spoke up again. "We received another request from that television show Meet the Press to debate with several representatives from the oil industry. We should be able to kick their butts and make them look like idiots with the facts and history we have."

Again, Clar intervened. We’ve discussed this before and almost everyone felt that there is little point in a debate. First of all, one of us would have to appear and that would be the end of speculation on that person’s identity … and probably their job—

Small price to pay, interrupted John.

It’s not the job, John. It is the loss of a position of trust that allows each of us to gather information normally not available to the consuming public. And even if we won a debate, the playing field is still severely tipped in favor of big business in this country. There would be little or no change resulting from being on the winning side of the debate.

And the fact that we are coordinating this takeover of the oil rig with a major conference of US and foreign oil administrators, including OPEC, at the headquarters of Bertrand Oil Company will cause even more of a press frenzy. Remember that, as part of the summit meeting, there will be a tour of one of the Bertrand Oil rigs in the harbor just outside of Long Beach. There is to be several speeches by and to visiting dignitaries, and it will be well covered by the press. This is our target.

So what are the details of the takeover?

A large man, with shock red hair stood up and uncovered a large drawing resting on the fireplace mantel. With a pointer, he went through the details.

We plan on taking and holding president of Bertrand Oil, Thomas Bertrand, and several of the dignitaries hostage just long enough to feed the press and bring attention to the particulars of our cause. No injuries. Just a wake-up call for America. We will demand that all oil production cease in the Alaskan straits or there will be more takeovers of oil rigs.

Clar added, As we have discussed in the past, I have access to privileged information that clearly establishes the incredible amount of clandestine pollution being deposited underwater. They are using pressurized tubes to deposit the pollution miles out to sea to avoid detection and connection to their operations. We are going to expose that evidence to the press.

And the drilling angle information too. Right, Clar?

It’s already part of the press release packet. They have managed to keep it from the public so far that the oil rigs are doing additional drilling, undetected from the surface, by the use of recently developed side angle drilling units. These units can drill just below water surface level and tap into hundreds of miles of unauthorized exploratory sites. When they find oil, it is pumped to special relay stations for deposit into approved coastal collection pools without detection. This newly developed innovation in drilling results in severe seepage of crude into the surrounding water. It won’t be a secret anymore after tomorrow!

Are we going to be able to get off that drilling rig after the events explode onto the airwaves?

The platform has very sophisticated equipment to track weather changes, and this includes the ability to monitor shipping in the area, such as police and other agency boats or helicopters. We can, as a result, monitor any craft approaching the platform. There is no doubt, the authorities will storm the platform once the event unfolds, but we will have already delivered our press packet with full media and written materials well before that happens. So we should be able to hit the water and be back to the skiff before the cops of FBI can get to the oil rig.

* * * * *

Twelve members of the Deliverance group, all accomplished at underwater exploration and scuba diving as a hobby, stole a small skiff and took it into the Long Beach channel where the oil rig was located. They dropped anchor, and, utilizing their tanks and underwater equipment, boarded the oil platform without detection.

Everything was going according to plan, and the group was successful in taking the hostages and making their demands known over the airwaves. The private meeting between members of the Deliverance, including Clar and Thomas Bertrand, did not go well.

Clar watched in horror as Bertrand, apparently deciding that he had had enough, drew a pistol from his desk drawer, took aim, and summarily killed Clar’s good friend with a bullet meant for him.

Another shot, and then another—three of his comrades laid in expanding pools of blood in the office. A piece of derrick equipment lying against the wall found its way into Clar’s hand. just as Bertrand leveled his gun at the center of Clar’s heart.

One reaction led to another, and by the time Clar’s fog of anger had cleared, the gun lay on the ground after the derrick rod was firmly implanted into Tom Bertrand’s skull, killing him instantly. From the glass-enclosed perch of the office, several hundred feet up the rig, Clar could see that the rest of his group was fleeing the results of the shooting.

The television in Bertrand’s office was providing details of the unfolding event and the announcer was explaining how the FBI were monitoring all actions of the radicals. The screen was filled with images of the remaining members of the Deliverance donning their underwater gear and jumping into the ocean for a fast getaway to the waiting skiff.

Orders went out to a submarine waiting in silence just a mile from the oil rig. It required little effort to surface at the skiff and send out a detachment of Navy SEALs to gather in the misguided radicals. Everything was captured on screen for the whole country to watch.

Clar was climbing down the ladder when he saw the submarine surface. He immediately went back up the rig to a storage area he had noticed after leaving the oil executive’s office. In this case, finding an alternate method of escape was hardwired. Vietnam had assisted with that focus. Clar changed into an oil rig worker’s uniform found in the storage area, he proceeded down the stairs toward a waiting boat for transport back to the mainland.

The explosion was deafening and caught Clar with the same amount of surprise as the workers waiting their turn to board the boat.

John must have brought that damn bomb with him even though we told him not to. What an incredible mess. When John was shot, he must have instantly armed the bomb, thought Clar.

Debris flew everywhere, with large pieces of glass and metal raining down on everyone with deadly accuracy. The upper portion of the rig tower leaned more and more toward a total collapse.

People started panicking and running everywhere. Many were heading for the waiting boat that had miraculously escaped any real damage. Clar ran for the boat and a magnificent leap carried him up and over the gunnels. He landed hard into the waiting arms of a several people crammed on deck. Several people were seriously injured, and many, including Clar, tried to limit their bleeding during the short trip to the mainland. It was this act of humanitarianism, and the blood spattered all over the front of his work clothes, that gave him the chance to exit the boat without significant scrutiny by waiting law enforcement.

When he arrived back at his apartment, he saw to his horror that there were police cars everywhere. He called one of the Deliverance members.

Timmy, it’s Clar. Can you talk? Okay, good. Have you seen this mess on television?

What in the hell happened, Clar? Timmy’s panicked voice pleaded.

Bertrand went nuts, and starting shooting everyone. Killed John, Eric, and Todd instantly. Without even thinking, I just reacted and struck back to stop the shooting. I’m pretty sure I killed him.

You did. It just came across on the press coverage. And, Clar, there is video of you hitting him.

"What? Does it show Bertrand shooting at everyone?"

Nope. Looks like they cut that part out. No mention of self-defense. Just makes you look like a militant killer. And the way they cut the footage, it looks like you came running out onto the platform and then the explosion went off. Did you set that off?

Of course not. John brought it and I think tripped it when he was shot.

That idiot. We told him not to bring that damn bomb. What are you going to do?

Panic was setting in. Clar felt as though he was being forced into a cage. He could not control his breathing or his heart rate. Not sure. I’ll be in touch, but I am definitely headed out of town. I can’t go back to work and I can’t go to my apartment. Not even sure I could access my bank accounts.

I wouldn’t try it. Your picture and bio is all over the news already, Clar. Deliverance is done, buddy. I don’t know where they are getting their information, but the press seems to be reporting more and more about each of us. Sounds like there is a massive manhunt in progress to locate you. I’m heading out of town in a couple of minutes. Heading up to my parents’ place in Mammoth Mountain.

The vast majority of options available to Clar for escape were disappearing by the minute. He was able to make arrangements for a counterfeit passport, two credit cards, and a fake birth certificate with the militant underground connections he had. His friends also threw together some clothing, various food products and other personal effects. They also gave him a .45 for protection, which Clar immediately discarded.

Clar made a quick telephone call to David Snow, a longtime friend who was on staff at the university with Clar.

David. I cannot explain right now, but I am in some trouble. No matter what you hear in the news or on television, it is not what it seems. You know I am no murderer.

What! Are you serious?

Very. I know this sounds bad, David, but I’ll call you later and explain everything.

Did you finally get into a bind with that Deliverance group?

They were involved, but basically this oil guy started shooting everyone and I pick up the nearest thing I could find to protect myself and the others. I hit him and he did not get up. I have to leave, David, until I can get the truth to come out. I need your help on something.

Name it.

I need you to gather up all my research notes, reference books, and some equipment from my lab and hide them in the that secure area in the main laboratory for safekeeping. I also need you to explain to Dr. Troutnam what is going on. That I am not a crazy man and did not intentionally kill anyone. The press is going to make this look bad, really bad, but just tell him.

Will do.

Also, do you remember that stupid code we came up with when we were younger? The one we used to use so our parents and other friends did not know what we were saying?

Yeah, I do remember that.

Well, when I contact you in the future, I am going to use it again. Do not put yourself in any danger and don’t do anything to bring you into this investigation. I would never forgive myself for that.

Don’t worry about me. Just take care of yourself.

Some of Clar’s friends also passed the hat and collected $6,400 in cash. That same group purchased a plane ticket from Tijuana to Guadalajara for Clar and arranged for a ride to San Diego. Clar needed to get out of town immediately.

With absolutely no idea where he would eventually end up, and with the adrenaline levels running rampant, Clar climbed into a prearranged and waiting U-Haul rental truck and headed toward his unknown destiny. Everything seemed hopeless.

As the truck made its way past UCLA and continued on Sunset Boulevard toward the freeway, the nighttime fully descended, providing Clar with a blanket of protection from outside eyes.

Chills of apprehension continued to rack his body with each new thought of the unknown. He was leaving everything he knew, everything he had worked for all these years. I’m done with these militant methods, he thought. He looked at the driver and said, How long to the border with Mexico?

Chapter 4

Clar stared out the window, as the constantly approaching and receding glare of headlights put him into deep thought. He remembered one of the trips with his grandfather to Challis, Idaho, many years ago. Seemed like centuries before right now.

The fire was burning brightly, highlighting the tremendous size of trees surrounding Clar and his grandfather. Stars were everywhere, completely filling the sky above. This trip was Clar’s favorite school. Every year he learned so much from his grandfather and had a blast doing it. There was something special about living with nature. Exciting yet a little scary.

Today, Clar had learned a lesson that most of his friends would think was really dorky. He had complained that his feet got a little cold the night before, so he put on an extra pair of socks.

Lothar had told Clar that he had a cure for that problem.

He instructed Clar as they gathered together several larger river rocks, each about the size of a dinner plate and with at least one side somewhat flat. After they lined up the rocks, with sides touching, in a long line leading from their recently made fire pit, his grandpa spoke.

Now, it’s down to the river to find a beaver’s dam. We have to steal some of their special mud.

The look on Clar’s face made Lothar laugh out loud.

Come, my little whippersnapper, and learn another secret of the forest.

It took a while, but they finally found a beaver’s dam. Lothar told his grandson to be very careful but to scoop up handfuls of the mud surrounding the dam and lay them onto the large piece of bark Lothar had knocked loose from a rotting tree.

When it was full, they hauled it back to the rock formation, and Lothar showed Clar how to pack the beaver mud around the touching edges of the rocks.

Tonight, we will put the far end of your sleeping bag on the last rock, and your feet will be warm all night long.

Grandpa, you’re crazy.

Yeah, like a fox.

That night, the roaring fire engulfed the first of the rocks and after a while he told Clar to go and feel the last rock by his sleeping bag.

"Grandpa, it is warm. Really warm. How did you do that?"

You did it, Clar. The rocks transfer the heat from the fire, one to the other, along the line. The beaver mud is sticky and holds the rocks together so the heat can move along.

How do you know all this stuff, Gramps? asked Clar.

My father taught me, and his father taught him. That is the thing about heritage, Clar. It teaches us lessons learned thousands of years ago because of belief, honor, and communication.

Don’t start with the Viking stuff again, Grandpa.

Lothar just smiled that same smile of understanding and patience that he always did at times like these. Tonight, he would tell Clar the story from the beginning. Clar would hate it, but he would remember it.

Get comfortable, Clar. The journey begins.

And Lothar began to speak.

* * * * *

In the last few days of the year AD 973, in an ice-covered hut alongside one of Norway’s thousand fjords in this wondrous country, a young Norse woman gave birth to a good-sized son. This young man was not happy about being thrust into this world from the safety and comfort of his mother’s womb, and he let his displeasure be known.

His cries echoed throughout the small village and complained about the weather’s bitter cold that immediately engulfed his young body, and his surroundings.

The midwife smiled and offered, A real temper that one. Strong and ready to take on the world. He is special.

She had no idea how very prophetic that statement would become in later years. She had just assisted with the birth of one of those rare individuals that will make a major difference in his society, in his world. After his presence, influence and wanderings, life would never be the same. A trendsetter. The stuff of fables and legends.

Endar’s arrival and attaining the age of majority would mark the beginning of a long reign of exploration, terror, and colonization by the Vikings. In him, the Vikings would find their means of controlling the seas.

This was the land ruled by Erik Thorvaldsson, who would become known throughout the region as Erik the Red. A few weeks earlier, his wife, Thorild, had given birth to a son to join Erik’s three daughters.

The young male baby was of equal stature with Endar and was given the name of Leif Erikson. In the future years, Leif and Endar would become the best of friends, and each would share in the other’s adventures and knowledge. Erik the Red would come to treat Endar as one of his own. He was always welcomed and honored in their hut and in the village.

The year was 982 BC, and the winter had begun to lose its grip on the landscape. Rivers were fighting to escape the continually thinning layer of ice, and the fjords were free of most winter remnants. Flowers were bravely, if not sparsely, coming up from the warmth of the deep soil, and the days were becoming longer and warmer.

The gray skies had parted and the sun returned to its magical orb status. Celebrations increased daily and spirits were high. Erik the Red stepped from his hut and surveyed the surroundings, taking a deep breath of the crisp air that he loved so much.

This was a wonderful place, but Erik had always wanted more. Partly because of the increasing raids on neighboring countries and the excitement of conquest and partly because Erik the Red had always sought adventure. He loved the sea, and unlike many of his village, he was not afraid of it.

Most villages had one or two men like Erik the Red. Adventurous, daring, respectful, but unafraid of the open waters of the oceans. Fierce fighters and ready to take up arms or a voyage immediately. The collective adventure these men sought would band them together over time to produce the legend and the scourge of the Vikings.

As he continued to drink in the beauty of his surroundings, a large ball-shaped mass of cloth pieces tied together smashed into Erik’s back. He turned quickly drawing his sword to see Leif and Endar withdrawing to their hiding place in the surrounding tree line.

Who dares assault the great and powerful Erik the Red? he bellowed.

Muted laughter could be heard from his son’s hiding place.

Step out and receive your fate. Make sure your sword is sharp and your heart resolved. This day may be your last.

By now, several of the villagers were joining in the loving taunting of the boys.

Spare them, Great One. Forego your wrath this day.

The boys could no longer control themselves and each ran full speed at Erik.

Each attacked one leg of the massive man and tried to bring him to his knees. As always, Erik just stood there, unmoved, and roared with laughter. He reached down and picked up both Leif and Endar by a leg and held them straight out from his body for all to see.

Behold, pests from the forest!

They both wiggled free and ran off again squealing with laughter. Spring was coming and they would be more mischievous than ever. Because of Erik’s status in this village, the people endured a great deal more from Leif and Endar than normally would be allowed.

The Norse were loving people but were highly disciplined and stern taskmasters to their young. It was a good life, but it was a hard one as well. Lessons were learned early. It was not unusual for a battle-ready warrior to be just fifteen or sixteen years of age.

Besides, most could see tremendous potential in them both. Leif had already brought down several deer during the winter, and Endar had killed a boar with a sword, which was no small feat. Both accomplishments were well beyond their years.

More importantly, they had shared the meat with the village without hesitation and without direction from Erik. Leif had given the skin to Endar’s only sister for a new cover from the cold, which served to endear him even more to her.

Dagrun had loved Leif from the moment she first saw him. At first, just puppy love infatuation. Now, a burning belief that they would be together someday as man and wife. The buds of passion were growing in this beautiful young maiden. She made up her mind that she would have no other than Leif.

Endar was already showing increasing skill with the heavy sword that was a Viking’s mainstay in battle. Leif matched that skill with the throwing ax. And Erik and his wife had commented many times to each other how intelligent these two boys seemed to be.

They will be leaders of men, certainly, exclaimed Erik.

Later that night, a celebration, for no reason other than an accumulation of ale and beer fermented and horded during the winter months, and a beautiful and relatively warm evening overtook the village.

Through folklore, the Viking god Oðinn (which today is known as Odin) had set some limits cautioning against drunkenness and unrestrained drinking. No one seemed to listen! The Vikings staple grain was barley, and most of the barley was used to brew ale. Everyone drank it. A common phrase at that time was Ale if I have it, water if I have none!

There was also beer, and in those days, the two beverages were quite different. Beer was actually more of a cider, made from apples or pears, while ale came from grain. To be sure, both produced a drink capable of causing great drunkenness from their fermenting process, and both were consumed freely and often.

A huge bonfire was blazing in the middle of the village, and there was food everywhere. Ale flowed freely and all were having their fill of both. The children listened in rapt attention to tales of war, sailing, and conquest from the drunken storytellers in the longhouse, which was a meeting hall for the Vikings.

Storytelling was a highly valued skill in this world and time and was the source of both education and entertainment. Much of our knowledge of these early people results from the stories handed down from generation to generation. Storytelling was an expected norm at any social gathering, such as tonight’s event in the village. Those that could do it were honored guests at any event.

Unfortunately, its benefit was also its undoing. Few of the thousands of stories told by countless guardians of these tales survive today because they were rarely written down. The stories, tales, and sagas were passed on by word of mouth.

Erik the Red had his place of honor at the head of a mammoth table, telling stories and getting drunker by the hour. Both Leif and Endar would watch the big man and try to emulate him in all aspects. Their mothers, of course, had a great deal to say about that on certain habits of Erik, but they watched and learned nonetheless.

They learned about justice and fairness. They learned about the importance of community, family, and loyalty. They watched countless examples of the fearlessness that was required of a true Viking warrior and sailor. They both knew they were watching a great one.

A few miles down the fjord, another village had several men in it that could never quite make the grade on the requirements of a true Viking life and were left out of raids and sailings on a regular basis. This was a source of both embarrassment and reduced wealth. Their status in their village, and certainly outside of it, was greatly diminished. Erik the Red was one of the main reasons they were not allowed to sail.

They could hear the revelry and decided to crash the festivities.

While it was not uncommon at all for Vikings and their families from other villages to join in celebrations such as tonight’s, these three men were not respected or liked by Erik and thus not by his village either.

When they arrived in camp, trouble immediately started and they made the mistake of insulting Thorild, Erik’s wife. During the initial skirmish and chest bumping, Leif was knocked to the ground, opening a wound on his head. It would produce a fairly significant scar that would be with Leif the rest of his life.

Erik was known to have a violent temper, which, most assumed, accompanied his stark red hair. With Erik, once the line was crossed, there was no going back. This was true not simply because of a loss of control but because it was the code and character of the times.

When the melee was over, all three men lay dead by the bonfire. While the Norsemen had a reputation as fierce barbarians lusting for treasure and conquest, there was a strict code of conduct to be followed in certain matters. Proper protocol. Even though the dead men were from a lesser village than Erik’s, they were loosely associated with a number of similar villages up and down the fjord.

In order to avoid war between his and several different settlements, Erik the Red decided that now was a good time to pursue a vision he had been thinking about for months. He was hardly a man to run from trouble, but a good and effective leader used circumstances to support his suggestions. This was one of those times.

There were sagas and stories of a land to the northwest, across the great sea. Only one ship to that date had sailed it and returned with proof of the distant land’s existence. It was time for an adventure, and this event allowed him to follow his destiny.

Erik put together a major expeditionary force to sail to what is now known as Iceland. He would, in later years, after being banned from Iceland for a time for murder, set out on an exploration and colonization of Greenland. This was a name given to the new land by Erik to create an illusion of a more pleasing and hospitable place than Iceland.

As a result, Erik the Red would eventually be recognized as the most famous and successful colonizing force in Viking or Nordic history. He established multiple successful and thriving colonies in both Iceland and Greenland.

And he passed on his skills and knowledge to his son, Leif, who would become known as one of the greatest of all Viking sailors. Endar was there to learn as well, and his feats and accomplishments would far outweigh those of Leif. However, outside of Viking lore, most would never know of them.

When the planning was finished for their trip to Iceland, twenty-five Viking sailing ships headed out across the great ocean. Only fourteen would land in Iceland with Erik. The armada consisted of ships locally known as knarr. These were ships that were able to carry large amounts of stores, people, animals, and goods. Normally, approximately fifty-four feet length, with a hull capability of twenty-four tons, they were well suited to the task at hand.

These ships were built specifically for crossing the Atlantic Ocean and were extremely resilient and strong.

There were also several infamous long ships that could carry two hundred warriors and stores and were designed for speed. The design of these ships was unique in that the bow and stern were exactly the same, allowing for a quick reversal of direction when needed.

Both types of ships were made from stout old-growth trees, especially the oaks. The planks composing the ship were split rather than cut, which allowed for much stronger building materials. The shipwrights would rivet the planks together using wrought iron rivets.

The ribs of the ships were used to establish and maintain the shape of the sides of the hull, although they were not meant for strength as much as design. Each successive tier of planks overlapped the one below it. Waterproofing in the form of a caulk was then inserted between the planks and at openings to create an incredibly strong hull.

The Vikings had perfected the use of oar ports rather than traditional locking devices for the oars. This allowed the oars to be removed and stored when the sail was providing the necessary wind power. These ships could travel from