The Menagerie 2 (Eden)
discoveries completely covert. In other words, Ms. Moore, you can never divulge what you see . . . Ever.”
    “I find it hard to believe that ancient script would be considered grounds for government secrets.”
    “It’s not the script you’re signing the nondisclosure for,” he said. “It’s what’s inside that ship.”
    “You know I’ll need an aide,” she offered.
    “Of course you’re talking about John Savage, correct? The former Navy SEAL?”
    “I see you did your homework.”
    “I’m DOD,” he answered. “That’s what I do. But if you need Mr. Savage along, then he’ll be required to sign the same nondisclosure agreement as well.”
    “Understood.”
    “And as for the $250,000, Ms. Moore, please forward me the proper account number and we’ll settle our deal.” And then, after collecting the photos and returning them to the manila folder, he said, “And please, be prepared. There will be things inside that ship your mind will have a difficult time adjusting to . . . indescribable things.”
    “It can’t be more difficult than what I discovered inside Eden.”
    He tucked the folder beneath his arm and looked her square in the eyes. And in the same flat voice, he said, “Don’t be so sure.”
     

 
     
     
    CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    “The DOD?” John Savage said rhetorically. “If they’re involved, then we’re most likely talking about high-end military applications.”
    “He did say that their efforts to reverse engineer certain innovations were being held back because they couldn’t decipher the ancient script.”
    John Savage, a one-time military elitist with a particular set of battle skills, was a classically handsome man with angular features with dark hair, luminous blue eyes, and a Romanesque-shaped nose—all of which was packed onto a six-one frame of lean muscle. “Are you sure it’s the same type of script you saw in Eden?”
    “Some of it but not all,” she said. “But languages and writings often evolve over time.”
    “Time? We’re talking about a difference of sixty-five million years here.”
    “The similarities were there, John. I saw them.”
    “So there’s a correlation between what’s inside that ship . . . and Eden?”
    “Who knows,” she answered. “We only know a fraction of our true history based upon some of the facts that we were able to piece together. But the more pieces we discover, the better our understanding of what really happened. History is always being rewritten as more facts present themselves.”
    Savage went to the window of Alyssa’s office; the drapes parted enough to give a view of the rain-slicked streets of New York City. The windows were dappled with droplets as people walked along the sidewalks with their umbrellas open. “Has the money been forwarded to AIAA’s account?”
    She nodded. “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” she said. “It’s a new start, John.”
    He knew that she’d been struggling as of late, not only financially but emotionally as well. The media had beaten her down until her spirit had been whipped to the point of nonexistence. But now he saw the spark in her eyes once again, that spangle of brewing life growing with every passing moment. He then crossed the floor and pulled her close. “I’m happy for you,” he told her. “You deserve this.”
    And then she kissed him, a gesture that spoke volumes of unbridled love.
    When she pulled back he traced the back of his fingers along her cheek, a light and passionate stroke, and then smiled. “Let’s go rewrite history,” he told her softly.
    She smiled. And then: “Are you ready to take a boat ride?”
    He nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he said.
    Oh, yeah.
    #
     
    On the following evening, John Savage and Alyssa Moore were flown to Miami International Airport under the watchful eyes of chaperoning agents, and then picked up a connecting flight to Merida International Airport in Mexico. From there they took a transport chopper to the deck of the USS

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