Gods and Men- The Hank Boyd Omnibus Read online

  “Look, Dad, I know this adventure stuff is your thing, and you love it but—” I don’t get to finish. Instead, I get interrupted by the pilot over the intercom.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats and buckle in. We seem to be entering some unexpected turbulence.”

  Not a second after he says the word “turbulence,” our plane bucks like a pissed off bull at a two-dollar rodeo and I go flying. I hit the cramped aisle between the rows of seats and thump the back of my head on something hard.

  “I guess I should have buckled up,” I mumble, groaning in between words. Laying on my back, I look over and see the hardcover travel camera case that just broke my fall and silently curse its existence. I grunt and attempt to stand, but only get to my hands and knees before the plane bounces a second time. I’m thrown forward onto my chest, sliding like a penguin on the coarse carpet. The wind gets beat out of my chest, and I have to heave a heavy, labored breath just to get any of it back into my lungs.

  Not wanting to try again, I roll over and whisper, “Oh stewardess… I’m just gonna stay down here…for a little while longer. Can I have a pillow, please?” And with that, I lay my head back on the floor with a thunk and another moan, feeling like I got kicked in the sternum by a horse. Not that I know what that feels like.

  I take another deep breath and hear…laughter?

  Someone is having a nice chuckle at my expense, which tends to boil my blood a little. Call it the Irish ancestry coursing its way through my already short fuse fueled blood. After remaining flat on my back for another few seconds, doing my best not to pop up and punch the laugher in the mouth, I open my eyes and see my dad. He’s leaning over his armrest with a very noticeable grin on his face. My anger instantly deflates. I laugh on the inside a little because I’d probably do the same if it were him floundering on the floor of a plane traveling high above the Atlantic.

  I give him the same grin back and sit up. But just when I think I can stand—not feeling any turbulence for a bit—the plane rolls right, and I’m thrown into my dad’s legs. He reacts, startled, kneeing me right in the temple. My eyes black out for a split second, making me almost puke on his loafers.

  I’m beyond pissed now and leap to my feet, heading with purpose to the cockpit. I contemplate the expletives I’m going to throw at the idiot pilots, but hold the thought as the cockpit door is flung open. A terrified, very pale woman shambles out, looking sick. Must be the stewardess I was looking for, I think. Something obviously has her spooked, and I charge past her, worried that something has happened to the pilots. I promptly forgive them for the ass-kicking I just endured and step inside the open door.

  Only…the pilots are fine—frantically fighting for control of the aircraft, but never-the-less, fine. It’s only when I look past them and stare through the windshield that I see what has everyone spooked. Four enormous waterspouts are churning through the Atlantic.

  I look at the co-pilot. “Um, that’s not normal, is it?”

  He looks up at me, his forehead dripping in sweat and doesn’t say a word. The look of absolute terror on his face is answer enough.

  The cyclones seem to be engaged in a choreographed dance from hell. They are zigging and zagging in perfect harmony with one another—like they’re being manipulated by someone with a joystick. Besides the tornadoes themselves, there’s one major problem with what I’m seeing. They’re dancing the twisted tango right in our direction.

  The captain and his co-pilot start going through some flyboy jargon I don’t understand, but it basically sounds like they’re going to try and change course and go around the storm.

  Good plan, I think.

  They adjust course, and the plane responds, banking to the left, attempting to skirt the anomaly. But just as the pilot makes the correction, the storm follows. The pilot corrects again, this time to the right. The tornadoes shadow us again, but this time they pick up speed and turn up the intensity, churning up the air around us even more. The four massive twisters have now grown larger, and by the frantic shouts from the pilots, their wind speeds increased too.

  I’m about to give my two-cents when the twisters come together and form an impenetrable barrier made up of four swirling funnel clouds. It’s like we’re looking at four ancient pillars churning through the ocean. Instead of coming up with something intelligent, or at the very least reassuring, all I can say is, “We’re screwed.”

  “Can you turn us around?” Dad asks as he leans over my shoulder.

  “No,” the co-pilot replies, “at least, not in time. These passenger planes don’t maneuver like a fighter jet. Just getting it started would take too long, let alone swinging us all the way around.”

  I dip my head in defeat, but flinch as a bolt of lightning cuts through one of the four twisters, striking it from top to bottom, straight through the center of the vortex. What’s left is a free-falling rain shower. The initial destruction looked like a column of stone had burst from its core, like something detonated from within.

  But, before we have time to comprehend what just happened, there are three more quick strikes and the remaining tornadoes are gone. Just like that. Poof.

  “Dammit!” I shout, covering my face, shielding my sleep deprived eyes.

  The resulting explosion causes a spectacle to take form right before our very eyes. An aerial tidal wave is shot straight into the sky. Everyone watches as thousands upon thousands of gallons of water gets blasted in every direction…including ours.

  2

  The pilots blank, not responding, so I do the only thing I can think of. I lunge over the captain and push in the yoke, making us dive.

  He snaps out of it, understanding my thinking, and joins in. We shove hard, dropping the aircraft underneath the main wave of water. We still get hit with a healthy dose, but seeing what missed us, we got lucky. Could have been a lot worse. What we did get hit with was close to the amount of a heavy rainstorm—just all at once.

  “Well, a little rain never hurt anybody,” the co-pilot quips, trying desperately to laugh off the life-threatening situation we just evaded.

  “Yeah, but a lot can kill you,” I say, finishing off the quote from Jumanji.

  The pilots and I snicker but don’t take our eyes off the view outside. We just stare in silence, watching the rest of the free-falling wall of water blow away with the ocean breeze. It gets swept away, back from whence it came and returns to the ocean below. I don’t pretend to be a meteorologist on my days off, so I’m just going to file this one under my Freaking Weird category and head back to my seat.

  Before I leave to check on Dad, I pat each pilot on the shoulder and tell them “good job.” I really do appreciate them not getting me killed.

  I go to turn away, but the captain glances up at my beaten and disheveled exterior with a confused look on his face.

  “Holy hell, son. What happened to you?”

  Feeling like I just went a few rounds with a brick wall, all I can do is laugh.

  Ω Ω Ω

  A few minutes later I exit the cockpit. Everything and everyone seem to be okay. Everyone except for the stewardess it appears, but Dad is seeing to her just fine.

  Dr. William Boyd is a lot of things, but being a ladies’ man is definitely not one of them. He’s a very bright individual and somewhat handsome in an “active dad” kind of way… I guess. Except, the best part of his physical anatomy is probably his brain, and that just makes him awkward, especially around anyone of the opposite sex. He would generally steer the conversation into his wheelhouse, world history. Then the woman would steer herself off a cliff.

  I try to squeeze by the two of them, but can’t get through. So, I say the only thing that comes to my mind, knowing it’ll break up this little pow-wow.

  “Give it up old man, you’re twice her age.”

  I don’t know what my dad’s face looks like, but the desired effect is evident, he moves and lets me pass.

  I take my seat and attempt to shut my eyes, but
instead get a hand across the back of my already pulsating head. The knock I took from the camera case even left a lump. I cringe, the person—Dad—hitting the aforementioned knot. My only response to the vicious attack is to mutter an incoherent curse.

  “Was that really necessary, Harrison?”

  He’s the only one who calls me by my given name, especially whenever I upset him, which is to say, all the time. Personally, I like ‘Hank,’ better. It’s short and sweet and doesn’t sound as vanilla as Harrison.

  I try to hold back a smile but fail miserably.

  “I wasn’t hitting on her. I was just making sure she was okay!”

  By the tone of his voice, I think he is trying to persuade himself into believing it too. His stern look finally breaks, and now it’s his turn to hold back a smile, of which he’s also unsuccessful.

  We both give a hearty laugh laced with exhaustion, our energy spent with what just happened. It’s one of those laughs where you’re way more tired than the joke was actually funny. We don’t generally get this much action on our more routine jobs.

  “But seriously, Dad, what the hell happened out there?” I say, motioning towards the front of the plane. “I’ve never heard of anything like that before. That was like something out of an Abrams movie or from the front page of the street corner tabloids.”

  I can see he’s trying to come up with an answer, but he’s just as confused as I am.

  “Son,” he finally says. “Do you know why we’re going where we’re going?”

  Okay, not the answer I was looking for, but he has my attention none-the-less.

  “No, not really,” I honestly say. “All you mentioned was a job in Algeria. You have refused to tell me anything else.” Which is the truth. Usually, I wouldn’t care where we are going, but in this case, he has intentionally dodged the question every time it has come up. What that means is if I’d known, I would still be on South Beach being served by scantily clad women, sipping fruity liquored-up frozen beverages with tiny umbrellas.

  “I did try to talk to you about it,” he retorts, “but you dozed off, remember?”

  I give him a sheepish grin. Now that he mentions it he did look pretty grim before I nodded off.

  “Okay, Dad, I’m sorry, but I’m all ears now,” I say, cupping my hands around my ears and flapping them like I’m a playful elephant fanning himself.

  This doesn’t get the reaction I was looking for.

  “Are things always a joke with you?” he shouts, getting a chorus of annoyed mummers.

  That hurt. He should know by now that when it’s all said and done, I’m in it till the end, no matter what. Dad should know by now that I do things my way, which is to say, a little laid back. If I can’t enjoy what I do to the fullest, I won’t do it. Work can’t feel like work.

  I flinch, taken back by his outburst. He must see the hurt etched on my face because he gives me that slight fatherly smile. It’s the one that says “sorry” without having to actually say it.

  “Look, Dad,” I start, leaning forward all business. “Why are we going to northern Africa?”

  He looks down at his hands which are fidgeting nervously in his lap, then back up at me. Answering me in the most deadpan expression I’ve ever seen, he says, “Atlantis… We are going to unearth Atlantis.”

  3

  “Atlantis? You have got to be shitting me!” I bark, taking off my overly abused Detroit Tigers baseball cap. I comb through my matted down hair with my fingers, itching my head in the process. I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.

  Dad isn’t too thrilled with my choice of words, but he’s heard worse come out of my mouth. Like that time I jabbed a shovel into my big toe. I must have used every curse word in the English language. I felt much better afterward, but the crew working with us—including my father—looked mortified.

  “No, I am not shitting you!” he replies, his face faintly turning red in anger.

  Hearing him openly curse like that is telling in itself that he is sincere. The man has the foul-mouthed linguistic skills of a ninety-year-old, saying darn-it and shoot all the time instead of the ones I’d use.

  He unlatches the tray table and reaches into his carry-on, removing a folder. He then opens it, laying it down in front of him. Within the file is a variety of newspaper clippings, printouts, and handwritten notes. He grabs one of the newspaper clippings and hands it to me. I see that it’s dated six days ago and look it over.

  “This is a news report of a record-breaking sandstorm in southern Algeria,” he says while I read.

  I scan the article. I think I saw a blurb about this on the Yahoo homepage and remember thinking nothing of it. The article describes record wind speeds and a massive amount of displaced sand in a localized area of desert located a few miles outside of the small town of Djanet.

  “Sounds like a standard weather event to me,” I say. “Huge, but otherwise pretty normal.” I’m so engrossed with the newspaper clipping that I fail to notice the smirk forming on my dad’s face.

  I look up and take notice.

  “What?”

  I see the twinkle in his eye. The look that says, ‘I know something that you don’t.’

  He looks over his shoulder, sees that no one is listening and then leans in close to me.

  “I have a contact in the area that tells me a newly discovered landmark was uncovered by the storm and that the ruin is not in any kind of withered state. In fact, it doesn’t look ruined at all. It appears to be in perfect condition!” He smiles wide, not being able to contain his excitement. “It’s like it was carved yesterday! I’m assuming that since it’s been buried under tons of sand, it was blocked from the elements, preserving it.” I’m impressed with this find so far, but not completely buying it.

  “Come on Dad, Atlantis?” I ask. I mean he might as well have told me he caught Nessie in Lake Okeechobee. “What makes you think this is the lost city—of which is supposed to be underwater, not buried in sand.”

  He looks up at me with a look of triumph, not defeat, “Do you remember that Indiana Jones game you used to play on the office computer?”

  I want to argue that 1992’s, ‘Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis,’ was just that, a game. I’m about to comment, but he beats me to it.

  “Did you know that game was based on a possible Atlantis location myth?”

  He’s got me there.

  “Yes,” he continues, “the most common answer to the location of Atlantis is under the ocean somewhere, and some even say it’s the island of Santorini, but to others, another frequent spot is under an area of the Sahara, specifically southeast Algeria. Now, the rumored site is supposedly beneath the Tassili n’Ajjer mountain range, but the entrance has never been found.” He takes a sip of water.

  I lean forward a little, giving him more of my attention. My brain starts to fire and work, processing things as he proceeds with his briefing.

  “By the way, the name Tassili n’Ajjer, it literally translates to ‘Plateau of Rivers’ which suggests there was once water flowing through the region.” He pauses, the gleam in his eye indicating that he’s about to make his point.

  “Now, I think the location is correct, but the entrance is, in fact, not in the mountains, it’s in an undiscovered tunnel entrance that stretches out farther into the desert, such as the one we’re going to investigate.”

  He stares at me obviously in his comfort zone.

  Well, at least he’s putting his Ph.D. to use, I think.

  “What makes you think that this newly uncovered site is the way in?” I ask, honestly a little interested.

  His eyes light up that I’m going along with this and not automatically shooting it down. In the past, he and the other Looney Toons at his office have come up with some far-out hypotheses, so I would normally have my doubts. Like when Dad and a colleague of ours named Ben Fehr thought they found evidence to the location of El Dorado. It’s only until they realized their local contact was high on Methamphetamines and twe
aked out of his mind that it was proved untrue. I thought it was funny. Dad, on the other hand, was utterly embarrassed.

  “Because,” he says, “my contact at the site sent me this.” He hands me one of the half-dozen computer printouts.

  Great, another local contact…

  I look over the full-color picture not really understanding what I’m seeing. There are around half-a-dozen different, but very recognizable languages written on the polished facing. I can’t put my thoughts into words. It’s incredible and yet unnerving at the same time. I have never seen or heard of anything like this before in my time in the field—or anywhere else for that matter. I can identify ancient Egyptian, Greek, Chinese, Mayan, and what looks like Sumerian, but the languages are a little off.

  Maybe a different form of each?

  I look up at my father’s shining smile.

  “What… How?”

  Dad puts the words together for me.

  “The WHAT is…” He holds up an index finger ticking off the answers. “This is the only relic anywhere in all of the world to have these languages inscribed on it together. He raises another finger. “Also, did you notice the material that the writing is engraved into?”

  I did. It’s a gleaming metal of some kind, which again stumps me completely.

  I look up from the printout, still confused, “…and the ‘how?’”

  He gives me the biggest Boyd grin I’ve ever seen, then sits back and crosses his legs looking very satisfied.

  “The ‘how,’ my boy…is exactly what we are going to find out.”

  4

  While Dad goes back to his research, I pull out my iPad to do a little of my own. Connecting to the new in-flight Wi-Fi is immediate, as it should be flying first class.

  There are loads of websites pertaining to the Atlantis legend. I just need to find which ones involve Atlantis and its connection to the ancient languages engraved into the relief. Thankfully, there are a lot of Atlantean whack-jobs out there, so finding information isn’t the issue. The problem is that most of the people are either guessing or completely bat-shit crazy. All I’m looking for are similarities.