FACT: December 21, 2012 sees the end of the Mayan Long Count Calendar and the Tortuguero Stele exists pointing, thirteen hundred years ago, to some great contempoary happening.
FACT: There is a real legend around 13 Crystal Skulls, used in the film Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of The Crystal Skulls. You can see examples in the British Museum, The Smithsonian, in Mexico City and Paris.
FACT: Details about the Skulls, the Dresden Codex, Archbishop Landa and the British explorer Frederick Mitchell Hedges are all true, including the libel case Mitchell Hedges fought with the Daily Express and lost.
FACT: Scientists do talk of a Polar Flip in the Rotation of the Earth’s axis and crystal fields at the centre of the Earth. Crystal is Silicone Dioxide, also common sand. Nicholas Boyle has predicted a World Crisis in 2014. Many around the World point to the significance of 2012, or seek different kinds of Spiritual freedom, meaning and expression. Perhaps there should be a realignment of human language.
FACT: The game of Ulama was perfectly real, as is the Skull chapel at Evora. Many of the strange events referred to in this story by the characters are true.
FACT: Tim Berners Lee is not a member of the Twelve and all references to real individuals, including additions to Eugen Boban’s story, has been used in a fictional context!
The rest is fiction. In almost every case the original Spanish and Portuguese used has a translation.
THE GODHEAD GAME
PROLOGUE – June 10th, 2014, London
In London’s British Museum it was midday as an English guide and small group of eager tourists gathered around a little white plinth, in something called the Wellcome Trust Gallery. On top, a strange semi-transparent skull sat motionless inside its little perspex case, lit eerily by the museum lights – indeed almost seemed to be floating inside it.
“Crystal Skulls,” whispered a Turkish woman excitedly, to the guide, “They’ve been linked to the end of the Mayan Calendar, back in 2012? Is there not legend when thirteen sacred Skulls are brought back with each other, they will tell a great secret about the origin and true destiny of Mankind? ”
“Like that Spielberg movie?” said another tourist, “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls?”
“Ah yes,” sighed the guide, rather tolerantly, “But no one knows just what secret, Madam. A lot is claimed for the power of the Skulls, and their links to 2012.”
The guide suddenly sensed someone was watching from across the Gallery and felt strangely nervous. She had seen him in the great museum before, hovering around the strange head, like a thief.
“But all we know about 2012 is the great Mayan Long Count, that started in 3114 BC, certainly ended then – dawn, December 21st, 2012, after five thousand years. Some believers really expected the End of the World,” added the guide, with a cheerful smile, “Although we still seem to be here. Always the way, I fear.”
At that very moment, in a museum in Washington, just before Monday opening, a crowbar smashed through a glass case and a pair of gloved hands reached in to snatch away a similar Skull, as the disconnected alarm bells failed to sound.
THE GODHEAD GAME
ONE PART ONE
Brazil, 2014, World Cup Match
The US soccer star Mark Fabian stooped to place the shining white leather ball, then targeted the waiting goal mouth. If the striker could score now, the roar in a stadium would blast back like an H-bomb, but without the Mushroom Cloud, or the awkward dead bodies.
A touch down or a home-run, a basket or a goal – is there any feeling on Earth like it? A wall of approving sound energy, forty feet high, rolling towards you in a glorious vibration – a great Mexican Wave.
It was just what Mark Fabian needed too, with a yellow card threatening to flash red, and wreck the famous striker’s badly embattled career. Across the goal mouth in front of the pacing goalie the Jamaican mid-fielder who had just fouled handsome Mark Fabian was helping to form the defensive human wall, as the American had the urge to aim the kick straight at Jones’ head, or his wedding tackle.
The LA Galaxy star, representing the USA now, centred himself instead, breathed deep and in the stands, just near the entrance to the World Cup changing rooms, a pair of heavily tanned thugs looked on and waited.
“Go on, Fabian, bend it, bend it like…”
On the 5th floor of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington DC, Daniel Fabian’s head was hammering like an industrial road drill, as he gazed back at his own brother on the plasma TV screen, from the door of the noisy systems room, 935 Pennsylvania Avenue.
The savage heat across Washington was nailing the steamy air to the melting tarmac outside, strung out like a singing copper wire, between the Lincoln Moument and the Whitehouse, where Barak Obama was getting into his stride in his second Presidential term, but now looking forward to a weekend of Golf at Camp David. In the great US political capital it felt like a storm was coming.
Dan Fabian had just arrived and wondered how his famous bro was doing in the World Cup match in Brazil. Inside the systems room a small group of colleagues were taking a welcome break to watch the TVs, that relayed news to the FBI, 24/7, on this floor, from across America and around the Globe too – Fox, CNN, NBC, BBC, Canal Plus, AL Jazeera. Below the famous Department of Justice insignia, with its red and white badge, and its great motto – Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity – silent world news scenes showed more violence in Afghanistan, Syria, Egypt and Libya.
Although here most gave States side news, effectively Federal news, and thus ordinary Federal crimes and disasters. Except the middle screen, now showing the World Cup thriller in Brazil, the USA versus Jamaica, courtesy of a nod from the boss, in the heatwave. They weren’t FBI field agents on this floor, but Human Resources, admin, systems and IT specialists, like Daniel Fabian. Most were in civilian clothes too: jeans, sneekers, or All Stars.
“Hey, your bro’s up, buddy,” said a guy called Bob Breckan, noticing Danny standing there, “Direct free kick, I think. Dumb ass game though, soccer. No one gets the rules.”
Daniel smiled limply. Didn’t they say you can’t understand America, he thought, its eagerness to let you step up to the plate and swing the bat, strictly for the team, unless you understand Baseball? When you reach the base, you are in the Safe Zone again, but otherwise you are out there on your own.
Dan was feeling like hell, as the FBI employee fiddled with the game Ap in his hands: Angry BirdsIII. He saw the flash of Mark’s blonde locks on the screen, dyed for the match, and thought how, since their final vicious bust up, the Fabian twins had done everything they could to differentiate themselves.
On the screen another US player was running onto the quilted green pitch, soaking up the digitalised love. A substitution had delayed the free kick, if Dan and his colleagues had understood the language, or rules, but in the glare of the camera, Mark Fabian took aim again, as the American tried to clear his mind. The mantra of sportsmen is see the thing as it happens, or find the Zone.
“Prefer Ice Hockey, Bob,” muttered Dan in Washington, thinking of the current Stanley Cup Finals, as he turned away, and beyond the screen Daniel’s twin struck hard, lifting the curving football perfectly around the human wall.
A roar erupted in the stadium, and the FBI room, from the guys at least, “Wer—ooooah”, a growl of sympathetic scrotal energy, just to prove this was far more important than a mere game. Out of the corner of his eye though, Dan Fabian saw two field agents come sweeping down the corridor.
“Hey, agent Koernig,” he cried, running to catch them up, “Koernig, look, I know you’ll be interested in my special report …”
“I don’t read novels, Fabian,” snapped Koernig, “Get out of my face. And you know what they’re calling you round here? Indianna Jonah, or the Washington Walter Mitty. Take your pick. Hey, are you guys all on damned vacation?”
“Yeah, nice shirt,” said the second agent sacrcastically,“from what I hear though you’d better keep your head down, Danny, with the Bureau shake up. Morrington’s moving the bases, even in systems.”
“The World Cup,” explained Dan, with a shrug, “and it’s Friday”.
In their ties and pressed if damp shirts, the Special Agents grinned patronisingly and pushed straight passed the mere IT man, to the lifts, as Danny Fabian turned towards the drinking machine, to ease his hangover and burning throat. He wondered what pieces they were carrying and felt jealous.
“So Scobey’s suspended,” said Koernig, looking rather furtive, as the two suites waited for the lift, “Internal Affairs are nosing around again, with the shake up. He’ll carry the can, for beating the crap out of those Florida dealers.”
Mark’s twin cocked his ears, as the roars coming from the TV down the corridor, blended into a great, familiar murmur: The mob. The crowd. The World.
“He should jump before he’s pushed. Where we headed anyhow, Koernig?”
“The Smithsonian,” answered Koernig wearily.
“A night in the museum?” the other joked.
“That frigging Skull theft, Monday. Now there’s talk of Higher Powers, so guess it’s up to us to make the weather.”
Across the screen in the systems room, the white leather football sailed true, but hit the post and bounced back out of the penalty box, to the US forward Caleb Andazio, who trapped it and was trying to turn, for a second strike. The Jamaican Raol Jones ratted in again and slipped the ball away from the American forward, racing back towards the opposing goal mouth, straight into wide open space.
Mark Fabian came hurtling towards him though, at a diagonal, wanting to inflict maximum damage now. His outstretched boot struck Jones hard in the upper thigh, his studs puncturing the skin, as sheer momentum carried him on. The wayward footballer heard a scream and the whistle screech, as he sensed the referee’s hand go to his top pocket. “No, God damn it, no.”
Just then, in Washington, as the system’s man turned towards his office, Mark’s twin collided hard with another Bureau man, coming down the corridor, Special Agent Butcher. It knocked his hand back, crushing the Angry Birds game and the iced water cone against his chest.
It soaked both of them and Butcher, gunning for Section Head in the shake up, dropped the file he was carrying. He swore and shook out his shirt, as Dan bent down to pick up the file, seeing it was marked Classified. It was open and headed Missing Athletes, Potential Kidnap Cases, Europe and USA.
On the World Cup soccer pitch in Brazil Daniel’s twin, who like Danny looked a bit like the actor Russell Crowe, was cussing, protesting furiously, as he picked himself up, but it was already too late. The world can change, in a split second. The card was out of its sheath and like a Samurai’s sword, once drawn, it had to be used on the erring striker. To draw blood. “Jesus Christ”.
The human sound vibration of expected love had turned to a furious hiss, as Jones played up the agony, screaming and bellowing for the cameras, milking the sympathy. Mark strained against the decision, as the hissing grew in the crowd, then tore off his strip and stamped it in the grass, in full view of the catcalling World Cup crowd.
His bare muscles flexed at them like iron bars, and across his chest was a huge tattoo of a panther. The LA Galaxy Star, though representing his country now, had had it done in prison. The American lifted a clenched fist, then let his middle finger uncurl.
“Missing Athletes?” Dan Fabian whispered in surprise, seeing Carl Whitfield, Detroit, and thinking he recognised the name of a famous American Football player. He wondered with a smile if someone would be kind enough to kidnap his damn twin, live on TV.
No such luck, Dan realised, not when protected by all those eyes, and all that glorious adoration. Mark’s life, a no-bained footballer, was one of dough, celebrity and adoring babes, and he was in the safest place on Earth too.
“Hey, give me that,” snapped Butcher, snatching the Classified report. “Jesus, Fabian, get your dick out of your hand. Folk here have real jobs to do.”
On the pitch the hissing got worse, as Mark spat on the grass and strode passed his own bench, his team, ignoring them all, on up the gangway. The blonde American striker was sick of the beautiful game. He was sick of the world in fact. As Mark did so, outside in the stands the two heavily tanned thugs slipped around the railing, straight after him.
His twin brother frowned back at Agent Butcher, on Pensylvania Avenue, dickhead he thought, as Butcher noticed the Angry Birds game, which had started beeping, and Dan fumbled to turn it off.
“Systems!” Butcher snorted, “Can’t you take anything fucking seriously, Fabian? You’re your own worst enemy. Three months our team spent tracking a supposed Mexican Drugs Cartel, on your brilliant leads, and what do they turn out to be? Just what they said. A Cancer fund-raiser on God damn Facebook. Indianna Jonah they’re calling…”
“Hey, Butcher, there was every chance…”
“The point’s there shouldn’t have been any damned special reports, not to Morrington,” hissed Butcher, “You’re in systems, not a field agent. Stick to Websites, and the Fun and Games. Jesus it’s hot.”
Daniel glared back at him. Butcher was always on his damned head.
“And you applied for a transfer to Langley?” added Butcher suddenly, raising an acusing eyebrow. “Fifty US States not big enough for you, Fabian? Getting ideas above our Pay Grade? Wanna see the World?”
“A High School buddy at the Company,” said Dan, with a guilty shrug, “He thought I could do with a change of weather. Friendlier faces, maybe.”
“And they made you Agency Director, right?”
“Told me to try again in a few years,” shrugged Daniel, feeling like a punctured football.
“Where’s your damned loyalty? Your Fidelity. It’s about the team.”
In the empty US World Cup dressing rooms, Mark Fabian’s sweat drenched forehead shone with a halo of frustrated fury. “Jesus H fuck,” the footballer shouted, pounding his fist straight into his locker and buckling the metal.
Daniel’s twin tried to relax, as he thought of his humiliation in front of the World, and he had just pulled a towel and his cell phone from his dented locker, when the footballer heard a noise right behind him. He supposed it was one of the assistant coaches come to pour oil on troubled waters.
“Hey, not now, guys,” he growled, wiping his face with the towel, “Just leave me….”
The famous Striker was aware someone was right behind him and as he swung round, for a second he thought some of the opposing team had slipped into the changing rooms too. Yet the two large bone crushers glaring at him weren’t in kit, but cheap dark suites and polyester ties. He decided they must be officials sent to drag him back onto the bench for a roasting.
“Look, guys,” he growled, hurling the towel back into his locker, “I’m not coming back out. Not after that World Cup farce. I’ve reached the end of my fucking…”
“No, Senor Fabian,” said one bone breaker, in a smoothly murderous Spanish accent, as he punched the soccer star straight in his pretty face, “like all of us, Senor, you’ve reached the End of the World.”
Copyright David Clement-Davies 2012. The cover image and text are the Copyright of David Clement-Davies and Phoenix Ark Press.