The Hades Connection

by Gabriel S. Timar

Chapter 19

part 2 of 2

In about twenty minutes, Park came back with a couple of people dressed in navy blue suits with white shirts and ties. Obviously, they were technicians of the elite RCMP unit providing security to the Prime Minister. They didn’t wear tuxedos, since they were only a backup unit, and their presence among the guests was not essential. They were carrying electronic gear, telephones, and a huge amplifier.

“For our teleconference,” announced Park pointing at the equipment as the two officers started setting it up.

“I understand you also know President Kamarov very well,” said Mike to the Prime Minister. “You worked on the same project.”

“Those were the good old days, my friends,” he said with a deep sigh. “I was just out of university and spent a couple of years as a U.N. volunteer in the Sudan. I had the prestigious title of management advisor to a water project. In fact, I set up the books for a new, state-owned corporation organization. Mr. Kamarov, the first Soviet U.N. volunteer, was the geological engineer of the team. He made many sound technical decisions in connection with planning and drilling wells.”

I was wondering what else, in addition to giving geological engineering advice, my friend Iliya did in the Sudan, because I knew about his role in Somalia.

“Did you get along with each other?” Mike asked.

“We did not socialize much,” Park smiled. “He was, and I believe still is, a bad bridge player, a miserable golfer, but a good tennis player. I didn’t notice any character flaws. In fact, I thought he was a good guy.”

“You obviously have nothing against communists,” Esther said quietly. “We had communists on our world as well. When my grandmother was fifteen years old, she escaped them during the winter, barefoot and wearing only a nightgown. She hid in a haystack all night because the drunken communist soldiers were occupying their village, killing, looting, and raping. She would never admit that a communist could be a good guy.”

“I wouldn’t know about those things,” Park replied. “My ancestors are of British stock, born and raised in Canada. I’m talking about Kamarov personally. I cannot imagine him doing such vile things.”

“Based on what my granny told me, I couldn’t call a commie a good guy no matter what,” Esther said quietly.

“I respect your opinion, Mademoiselle,” Park said in a cool tone, the one he reserved for the leader of the opposition. “Anyway, we used to make fun of Kamarov because after the sixth or seventh shot of vodka he claimed to be a direct descendant of the Russian royal family, from the wrong side of the blanket, of course.”

“Is it true?” Mike queried.

“I wouldn’t know.” Park shrugged. “It did not hurt him in those days, and it’s not a disadvantage today. The new conservative capitalistic society in Russia loves him, and I’m sure, he got quite a few votes because of his alleged imperial ancestry. However, the royalists are furious with him.”

“Can he prove his imperial ancestry?” Mike asked.

“I’m sure he could fabricate evidence that might stand up in a Russian court,” Esther declared, “but I don’t think it has any real significance. Anyway, kings and princes were a horny bunch. They were sowing wild oats all over the countryside. I’m sure every one of us has a little bit of royal blood.”

One of the RCMP technicians interrupted our theorizing about the origins of Mr. Kamarov and the dispersal of royal genes. He announced that the equipment was all set up and both Presidents were waiting on the line.

Park looked around like a man facing a firing squad: “Here we go, lady and gentlemen. This will be the performance of my life,” he announced and threw the switch of the hands-free microphone.

“This is Beaufort Park speaking. Thank you for your quick response to my request.”

“President Kamarov says it is a pleasure to hear your voice again, Mr. Park,” came an accented masculine voice.

Obviously, the stress was too much for the calm, cool and collected Prime Minister, and he momentarily lost his head: “Ilya, get that bum off the line,” he snorted. “Your English is far better than his.”

“Oh my, aren’t we getting testy,” came the gravely baritone of President Holdsworth.

“Look guys,” continued Park, obviously annoyed, “this is too important to play politics.”

“Okay, okay,” said Kamarov, “I don’t think we should stand on protocol this time, Beau. What’s this earthshaking event you want to discuss with us?”

Park swallowed hard. “We are being visited by extraterrestrials.”

“Are you sure?” Holdsworth asked.

“They’re right here with me,” Park replied.

“What do they look like?” queried Kamarov. “Are they little green men with big shiny spaceships?”

“No, they look like you or me, and yes, they do have an elegant shiny spaceship,” Park replied. “They came here because their world is dying, and they want to settle somewhere.”

“In western Canada, no doubt,” remarked Kamarov.

“I offered it to them,” Park replied, “but they did not want to commit themselves. Besides, they’ve discovered that our planet’s orbit is decaying and they are willing to help us correct it.”

“How convenient,” remarked Holdsworth. “Do you believe them?”

“Yes, Terry, I do,” Park replied. “They’ve proved they’re genuine. I’m sure they will prove the orbital decay to the satisfaction of our scientists.”

“Look,” came the slightly accented voice of Kamarov, “I played poker with you. I know you bluff very well. Isn’t this the Beaufort Park plan of world domination?”

“You’ll never know,” Holdsworth interrupted. “Beau is just shrewd enough to spring something like that on us. I think we should have some proof of your claim that the extraterrestrials are genuine. How did they convince you?”

“They showed me their spaceship and destroyed the Canada Goose at Wawa at my request,” Park replied.

“Beau, the statue-buster,” Holdsworth remarked. “As far as I’m concerned it’s not enough. You could have stashed a few sticks of dynamite in the foundation of your statue and sent a signal. Presto, there’s the proof. Beau, you are naive and probably the victim of a well-planned hoax.”

“It certainly looks that way,” added Kamarov.

“How about their spaceship?”

“Did they take you for a ride?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t prove a thing,” snapped Holdsworth.

“Okay fellows,” sighed Park. “What kind of proof do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Holdsworth mused. “What can they offer? The parting of the Red Sea perhaps?”

Park looked at me with a big question in his eyes, while Esther’s hand crept to the switch and quietly turned it off.

“Perhaps you should let them talk to the Captain,” she suggested and immediately re-established the line of communications.

Park nodded. “Why don’t you ask them?” he said. “The team leader is standing next to me. They speak English very well. Captain, will you take over?”

I nodded.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Obviously, the other two did not expect such a quick, drastic turn of events. Before they could recover their composure, I was on top of them:

“All right, gentlemen, to prove our superior technology I will destroy the city of New York and the city of Moscow with a high-density laser sweep. The body count will be impressive, in excess of twenty million. I hope this will be satisfactory. Shall I proceed?”

“Hold it,” roared Holdsworth. “You could have had a few nukes planted in these cities. Why can’t we have our pick?”

“Just a minute, Mr. President,” interrupted Kamarov, “if you wish to find an electoral district that voted against you and want them rubbed out, that is your business. However, I don’t want a single citizen of the Russian Federation harmed or killed just to supply the proof of our visitors’ extraterrestrial origins.”

“I’m listening,” I stated flatly.

“Apart from blowing up statues, what proof can you give us?” Holdsworth asked.

“Accidents, natural disasters. Whatever you want. I assure you in each instance the body count will be impressive,” I replied.

“I said it once. I’m saying it again,” Kamarov broke in impatiently, “I don’t want any body count!”

“If there is no body count, there is no news,” I stated flatly.

“Perhaps you could prevent a disaster,” suggested Holdsworth.

“I’m not sure I understand what you want us to do,” I said.

“I don’t know either,” Holdsworth replied. “I was just thinking out loud.”

“I know,” said Kamarov. “I have a proposition. Let us assume President Holdsworth and I each fired a rocket with a nuke aimed at Toronto. If you, the technically superior extraterrestrials, can defuse them in flight or shoot them down, we will believe you.”

“You’re on!” I snapped.

“Just one goddamned minute,” roared Park. “This is one of my greatest cities. I cannot risk its destruction.”

“You are the one who wants to play in the big league, Beau,” Holdsworth interrupted. “It’s time to put up or shut up.”

“Can I have a few minutes to calm Mr. Park down?” I asked very politely.

“Take whatever time you need,” Kamarov said, “I am in complete agreement with President Holdsworth. We’ll wait on the line if you wish.”

“Okay gentlemen,” I said, “We’ll be back in a few minutes,” and broke the connection.

“You must be mad,” Park erupted. “I cannot condone anything that crazy.”

“I am not mad, I assure you, but please let me give you a demonstration before you make up your mind,” I said. “You will understand what I’m talking about. Just watch my monitor.”

Park did not answer, just gave me a dirty look.

“Mr. Fedorov,” I intoned, “please find an airliner just leaving Pearson Airport in Toronto traveling westward and project its picture to my monitor. Further acknowledgement is not necessary.”

I stood up and shoved the wrist monitor under Park’s nose. Suddenly the picture of an airliner materialized on the screen.

“This is Air Canada, flight number AC 151 en route from Toronto to Calgary,” Fedorov reported. “It left Pearson International twenty-five minutes ago. I listened in on the captain’s conversation with the controller.”

I turned to Park: “Mr. Prime Minister, please ask one of your men to contact the captain of the plane and patch him into our system here.”

“Why?”

“I promised you a demonstration to put your mind at ease about the rockets, Mr. Park,” I said impatiently. “I want your men’s involvement, because I don’t want anybody saying I orchestrated the whole thing as a Broadway production. Besides, I want to demonstrate the applicable technology.”

Park nodded and issued the necessary instructions to the RCMP technicians. It took a couple of minutes to hear the bored voice of the airline pilot: “Pearson special control, this is AC 151 heavy standing by for instructions.”

I switched on the communication system and said: “Thank you, AC 151 heavy. I am your special controller. Kindly report your GPS position, over.”

“This is AC 151 heavy, the GPS reading are North 463522.5, and West 824415.7, over,” came the prompt reply.

“Stand by AC 151,” I said.

“Mr. Fedorov,” I ordered, “close up behind this airliner, and cover it with your shield. Place a pressor-beam cushion between you and AC 151. Then gently accelerate until you reach Calgary. Then slow down, switch off everything, and resume your station.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Fedorov.

A few minutes went by in silence.

“Pan, pan, pan,” came the bored voice of the airline captain. “Pearson, this is AC 151 heavy, I have flight instrument malfunction. I say again, flight instrument malfunction. Altimeter and air speed indicator are off line... Correction, they appear to be functioning again. Stand by, Pearson; over.”

“AC 151 heavy,” I cut in, “this is your special controller. Verify your GPS readings; over.”

“Pearson special, this is AC 151 heavy, the GPS reads North 504544.4, and West 1151218. The GPS is obviously in error, over.”

“AC 151 heavy, your GPS readings are correct, I say again, they are correct,” I attempted to imitate an air traffic controller. “You are in the vicinity of Calgary. Contact Calgary control. Pearson special out.”

There were a few frantic exchanges between AC 151, the Calgary controller, and the Pearson tower, but in the end they established that AC 151 was actually over the city of Calgary.

“I can imagine the weird explanations dreamed up by the media when they learn about the quick trip of AC 151,” I remarked and switched off the communication system.

I turned to Park: “Mr. Prime Minister, as I pushed your airliner along faster than it was supposed to travel, I’m sure I can stop those rockets. You have nothing to worry about. Call the two Presidents and agree to their terms. But since it would make my work much easier, ask them to identify the launch sites of their missiles. Even better if you make it a precondition of the deal.”

To be continued...