Gods and Men- The Hank Boyd Omnibus Page 3

  Santorini, Crete, Sardinia… All mentioned as possible locations in or near the Mediterranean Sea. While all beautiful and fanciful, I just can’t see it. If it was part of a widely-explored island, then it should have been found.

  Or at least concrete evidence of it.

  Then there’s Doggerland and Viking Berger Island off the coast of Europe. They were thought to have been destroyed by the largest landslide on record, the Storegga Slide. The underwater landslide was said to have moved a volume of area that would measure close to the size of Iceland. Then, I mega tsunami ripped through the land and obliterated everything it touched.

  And, of course, there’s Antarctica... That’s the most mysterious of them all. We actually know very little about the frozen continent. Could it have once been thawed and livable? Modern science is telling us yes…well, maybe. I know a few fiction authors that have used it—and used it well.

  I continue my scan of the web, seeing more and more plausible settings: Inside the Bermuda Triangle, somewhere off the coast of Cuba, Indonesia, the Andes in South America, and even off India.

  It’s not until I see the published works on Algeria, and the Sahara as a whole, that my mind actually starts trying to put things together. Some of it is really out there, but not all of it. If you look at it as a past civilization thing and not necessarily Atlantis, then it’s conceivable. If we were just looking for a buried kingdom not named Atlantis, then I’d probably have been on board from the get-go. But once you attach the “A” word to it, it becomes a death sentence of sorts if you’re wrong.

  Huh…

  It takes me an hour or so, but I think I have what I need—at least enough information to make sense of what’s going on. Next, I run a Google search on all the historical accounts from all the major ancient empires as they relate to Atlantis. They all have the same roundabout description of Atlantis and its destruction. This seems odd to me considering that most of these records are from people who lived thousands of miles away from each other. It’s not like they had planes and the internet to tell their tales. Plus, more than half of them didn’t even sail either! A big thing called the ocean would have been in the way. Regardless of the reason, the commonality is very interesting.

  The only problematic thing I see is that none of them are accounts of the actual city and its construction. The only thing I’ve found is a symbol and a general blueprint of its layout—of which, I have no idea if it’s accurate. This doesn’t surprise me since it’s said that most of the historical records would have been destroyed when the city itself was.

  Just like the library at Alexandria to the Roman rulers in Egypt, I think. But even some of those were saved due to copies made and later found in other nations.

  I laugh a little on the inside remembering where I learned that. Mom, Dad, and I were on Spaceship Earth at Epcot in Disney World when I was a teenager. The ride was always one of their favorites since it takes you through some of the major events in world history, which was and still is, Dad’s forte.

  I look back to my iPad and try to get Dame Judi Dench’s voice out of my head, she being the narrator of the story in the ride and continue with my research.

  Atlantis was supposedly built in three ringed sections with mote-like channels separating each section, almost looking like a giant dartboard. The reports—or in this case blueprints—indicate that there was one long canal that allowed access to each divided segment.

  It seems that none of the descriptions are from within the city though. It’s like no one was ever allowed inside it or that they weren’t permitted to divulge anything about it. I think the latter to be the case since we are talking about an ancient, super-secret civilization after all. It’s like their entire existence was deemed classified by the powers that be.

  With the rest of the flight going as scheduled—Thank God—and about five hours of air travel remaining, I finish my web-surfing and recline my chair. I lean my head back, shut my eyes, and try to picture the mysteries that await us.

  As I attempt to doze off, I flip through dozens of scenarios and situations in my head. But really, how do you put together a game plan for something that isn’t supposed to exist? Everything I’ve learned and been trained for has been completely thrown out the metaphorical window. This is truly an adventure in its purest sense.

  The Mystery.

  The Excitement.

  The Danger.

  And just like a lot of books and movies I’ve consumed over the years, I can only think of the many ways this can blow up in our faces.

  5

  I dream of baseball.

  I dream of clay infields, the smell of the freshly cut outfield grass, I even dream about the cheap hot dogs and stale popcorn they used to serve us. This is the life I should have had. It was the life I had, but for a shorter time than I would have liked.

  At one time, I was regarded as one of the top prospects in the game, a five-tool player. To be viewed as a five-tool athlete you needed to have above-average speed, hitting, hitting for power, fielding, and arm strength. I had a crap ton of all five at the ripe age of eighteen. At six-foot-two and 190-pounds, I was easily the pick of the baseball litter, coveted by every college and pro team out there.

  My Grandfather once told me I reminded him of Mickey Mantle, the legendary New York Yankee. He was gritty, tough, and played the game with the same tenacity I did. Plus, the guy was one of the best hitters to ever play the game, as well as a tremendous outfielder. Mick was a Hall of Famer for a reason. My ultimate goal.

  But, then it happened. Ten years ago, this past spring, I was playing in the fifth game of my second season in minor league ball. I was barely twenty years old at the time and already playing at Triple-A Toledo for the Detroit Tigers minor league affiliate, the Mud Hens. I was starting in center field, the position I mastered in high school while playing for the Wellington Wolverines in southern Florida. A bomb was hit over my head, and I did the only thing I could do… I turned and hauled ass.

  “He got a hold of that one!” The announcer yelled. “Bradford crushed that ball to straightaway center—over the centerfielder's head. Boyd is in a dead sprint tracking the ball. Man o’ man can he fly out there. He’s like a gazelle in center, people! Ten feet from the warning track and closing in…”

  Now, they call it the ‘warning track’ for a reason. Basically, when you hit the section of dirt in front of the wall, you’re supposed to slow down. It warns you of an imminent impact.

  Well, I didn’t slow down. I never slowed down. I’m always aggressive and as my coaches always used to say, “A little reckless at times.” But, I never cared. I, like most people my age, believed themselves to be indestructible—especially when there were big league scouts in the stands. If I tracked down this ball and hauled it in with them watching, I’d have been a shoo-in to be called up to the majors for the weekend series against Chicago.

  “He’s not slowing down—oh my, that was a vicious collision! He caught the ball with two out at full speed but hit the wall just left of the 412 sign. Boyd is down and not moving. Grillo, the left fielder, is checking on him. Now Grillo is waving for help from the Toledo bench! This can’t be good folks! Boyd is still down and not responding…”

  I don’t remember hitting the ground…or the wall for that matter. I’m told the play got a standing ovation from the near-sellout crowd, but I didn’t hear them… I didn’t hear anything. The concussion I sustained was brutal. I woke up puking my guts out over the next couple of days, wishing I was dead.

  But I’d trade back all the vomit in the world for a healthy shoulder. The concussion faded, but the pain from the torn ligaments and shredded muscles in my right shoulder didn’t.

  Two surgeries and a year of useless therapy later, I’m out of baseball for good. The joint never healed properly and I can’t throw or swing without pain. I even had three second opinions. All the doctors said the scarring was too great and another round of surgeries wouldn’t have fixed it. Hell, one of them sa
id a hundred operations wouldn’t have made a difference.

  The arthritis I developed from the trauma of hitting the wall will never go away, I was told. To this day, I have to take anti-inflammatory medication just to sleep. If I roll over on it the wrong way, I’ll wake up with a start.

  I was beyond distraught over losing my career, my passion, and my love. I did what most people that age would do having just turned twenty-one. I drank. I drank and did something a little brainless. I got into an arguing match with an overweight cop and asked him, “Did you marry a piece of bacon or the whole pig?”

  Needless-to-say, he didn’t take it well.

  The next morning my father came and bailed me out of the local drunk tank. Three months later I started working for him and the other archeology geeks in D.C.

  It wasn’t my calling like baseball was, but I slowly became really good at my job and started to form some friendships along the way. I was even asked to play in some company softball tournaments. Swinging was still hard, but pitching was easy. It was all underhand and didn’t stress out the joint.

  My life, after months and months of mental anguish and distress, seemed to be putting itself back together. Dare I say I was happy? Maybe, but just seeing how excited some of the men and women working with us got over seemingly meaningless discoveries, got me into it. It reminded me how excited I got when I put my cleats on and took the field. It wasn’t the home runs or the game-saving catches. It was the game—the experience. It was living.

  A decade after losing what I thought was everything, I now had something else, and I would do whatever I could not to lose it.

  6

  DING.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be arriving at our destination in about thirty minutes. Please prepare yourselves for landing.”

  I wake with a groan.

  “What the hell hit me?” I mutter to myself, wincing in pain. My head feels like it got hit with a bat, or better yet, a plane. I laugh at the ridiculousness of what happened earlier in the flight and shake it off to crap luck.

  “You okay?” asks a voice.

  I look over at my dad. He’s buckled in—which I replicate immediately. I don’t need a repeat of this morning’s events. Feeling like a ping-pong ball in a tennis ball tube and shaken by a paint mixer isn’t my definition of fun.

  He watches me strap in and gives me a look that says, ‘Good idea.’ I give him a wink and then look out my window. What I see makes me growl with disapproval.

  Desert, nothing but desert, stretches into the distance from my vantage point. There are a few aberrations on the ground though. What looks like trees and other desert flora dot the otherwise unremarkable expanse of nothingness.

  I’m still thousands of feet in the air, and my armpits are already moistening up.

  This, I think, is going to suck.

  I look back over at Dad and see him rummaging through his pack.

  “You lose something?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and says, a little wound up, “On the contrary… I believe I’ve just discovered something!”

  He pulls out another folder with more notes.

  Great, more homework. But I humor him.

  “Have you ever heard of the mythstory of the Three?”

  Mythstory is a fun little made up word he and his geek squad came up with. It catalogs and combines the documented history of a myth. Sounds like a load of fun, right?

  I sort of recall him telling me about these guys back in high school but like most people my age… I can’t remember half of what I learned. Especially with no college education either.

  Supposedly, the Three were the last overlords of Atlantis. They were thought to have magical abilities that in some way helped them create Atlantis and some of the other megaliths around the world. They were also hypothesized to have the capacity to conquer or protect any civilization with these powers. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but it sounds like they could weaponize their abilities or something.

  Visions of Iron Man shooting laser beams from his hands flow through my mind.

  He adds, “Some mythologists believe that the Atlanteans helped build most of the ancient world’s large-scale architectural wonders…or at least helped plan them.”

  I give him a blank stare and sit up as if to say, “Really?”

  I’m about to argue when he interjects, “Come on Harrison, some people believe it was aliens! Give me a break, will you?”

  “Fine, go ahead.” I give him what he wants and sit back again.

  He continues. “There is a clear problem with all of the world’s ancient architecture. None of it was possible with the technologies of the time.”

  He’s right about that. To this day not a single learned individual can come up with how any of the Egyptian pyramids were built. At least, nothing substantial has been proven. There are other cultures as well.

  In Central America, the Maya were simple farmers, yet they allegedly built massive temples and monuments in the middle of a rainforest. I don’t think they used a rake and shovel. What about Stonehenge in England, Easter Island, or even the Nazca lines in Peru? Our modern-day scientists and historians say even with our current technological advancements that most of the structures would be close-to-impossible to recreate.

  “Remember, there’s a good amount of fact within a myth or legend. It really just depends on how far you are willing to take it.”

  Huh, I never thought about it like that.

  Then it hits me. “Let me see that photo again—the one of the new find” Dad takes it out, and I grab it out of his hand. This is why I’m here. I’m no scientist or historian—shoot, I’m barely an archaeologist to some. But, what I do have is a very overactive imagination, and I tend to see things in a different light than most, and in this case, I’m firing on all cylinders.

  I scan the photo again putting together the pieces. “You said your contact took this picture in the middle of the Sahara Desert— in southern Algeria?” Dad nods. “You said it was near a region called the Plateau of Rivers?” He nods again, or maybe he never stopped. “Within the rivers was obviously water—water that could be used to transport immense boulders and therefore make it much easier.” I breathe. “On the siding is text from some of the oldest most ancient civilizations recorded.” He continues nodding. The mythological connections between Atlantis, the Maya, ancient Egypt, Greece, and Sumer, along with the geographic history of northern Africa flash through my head.

  All you needed was a learned people to teach you how to build the watercraft and how to use them. Hell, they could have done the work themselves if they were, indeed, as powerful as they are said to be.

  Mind-bomb.

  Dad sees my eyes widen and sits up straight, almost jumping out of his seat.

  “What is it?” Dad asks, giddy.

  “Remember earlier when I asked you about the location of Atlantis, and we talked about it being underwater?” He says nothing, waiting for me to finish.

  “You also said that there are other legends about it being in or around southern Algeria, but the desert kind of throws a wrench into that equation.”

  This time he gives me a couple more quick nods.

  “The Sahara,” I say with a smile, “it used to be underwater.”

  7

  “The Sahara was underwater?” Dad asks, shock resonating in his voice.

  “Yes, yes it was,” I reply, then elaborate. “Sand is actually just very fine rock that has been eroded and broken down. These particular rocks were once part of a vast mountain range, some of which still exists to this day in the central part of the Sahara. The granite from the volcanic mountains would eventually be broken down into quartz sand grains and carried away by rivers into a shallow sea. It’s where most of the desert sits today. These same sand deposits would eventually form into sandstone and then get re-broken down into a finer substance—sand. As the water receded over thousands of years due to various happenings, it was left behind.”

/>   Dad actually looks impressed.

  “Also, recent work using ground-penetrating radar has shown us that ancient river beds are running deep beneath the desert, buried under the dunes.”

  “Okay, but what about the current state of the region?” he asks.

  “To the north of Africa is a very cold Mediterranean Sea. It condenses rain clouds and moisture in the area before they can reach Africa. It basically blocks any and all storms from reaching past the coast. Hence, very little rain falls annually.”

  Dad gives me a bewildered look and asks, “No offense, but how do you know all this?”

  I give him an offended look. “I do know how to read, Dad, cut me some slack! I studied some geology when I first started working with you, just in case. Thought it couldn’t hurt to learn about what I was trying to dig through. It’s not all just about the find you know.”

  He shrugs.

  “I guess it finally came in handy,” I say with a jovial smile, readjusting my hat again.

  He cuts off my laughter, back to business, “What of the Atlantean connection to the other ancient civilizations? You said there was a correlation between them and Egypt, Greece, Sumer, China, and the Maya.”

  “There is, hang on a second.”

  I pull out my iPad again and tap on a file I saved earlier. It’s a bunch of notes I cut and paste from various websites on the subject.

  “For instance,” I say, “the Maya actually have a legend written into their history about the exodus they undertook from Atlantis when it was destroyed. They refer to Atlantis as Aztlan in their native language. The ancient Mayan’s believed themselves to be Atlantean descendants. Plus, there have been recent developments using carbon dating that has some believing that the Mayan people may be as old as Sumer and Egypt too, making them one of the earliest civilizations to date. It would fit the theoretical Atlantean timeline as well. Also, it says that the Mayan pyramids may actually be older than the Egyptian ones.”