What if the COVID Vaccine was a covert government project to eliminate vampires by degrading their human-blood-sourced food supply? What if it was bungled by Fauci and the National Health Agency bureaucrats and now Vampires want payback? What if Vampires aren’t what we think?
OMENS…
By Friday High Noon I’m back at the Valencia Winery’s Bar, eating a chicken salad on whole wheat for lunch and trying not to get anything on my suit or tie. Katrina is picking at a shrimp salad platter, quiet as usual and dressed to the nines in a serious blue pinstriped business get-up and tasteful suede ankle boots. She has a Burberry Trench draped over the bar stool next to her.
“Our ride will collect us at one-thirty…” She says in between bites, absent-mindedly pushing the food around her dish. “We’re heading to Atlantic City Airport – and from there to Long Island. Camp Hero”.
“Why are we flying all the way to a decommissioned Air Force SAGE Radar facility that’s no longer is part of NORAD?” I asked. “Or are we just going for a scenic picnic at the base of Montauk Light House? ”
She eyed me warily, betraying just a tinge of surprise.
“Well, well…..you’re full of juicy facts, aren’t you?”
“I used to fish off Montauk with my uncle, Pete, when I was a kid….he lived in Oyster Bay – actually, not far from the singer Billy Joel’s house. We’d take his beat-up, wooden thirty-footer out and fight our way up the coast – those Atlantic waves were brutal and his old Volvo four-banger marine engine was on its last legs. We’d chug past the lighthouse point and fish for blues, small tuna or anything else we could hook…..Good times.
Uncle Pete was an Air Force Lieutenant and laison with Grumman Aviation on Long Island – Bethpage Headquarters. There wasn’t anything – even the weird consipracy legends – that he didn’t know about Camp Hero. It was our main topic of conversation during all those sweet hours of fishing. Hero is one mysterious place. To this day, apparently, the State of New York owns the above-ground “Park” but the United States Government owns everything underground…….”
Katrina just nods with a bemused look on her face.
“That’s where your Answers are……” She says, unsmiling, like she’s inviting me to my funeral. I figure I’d better just eat and shut up.
Within the hour we’re on the move. Our ride – a black Land Rover SUV – picks us up. Soon we’re crusing through an unmarked back gate at Atlantic City Airport and into a hangar at the far end of the Eastbound runway. There’s a Gulfstream G650 Jet – N2833MM on its tail – waiting with it’s doors open. We get on board and belt in. The cabin ain’t exactly outfitted for rock stars. Nobody’s cutting lines of Coke on these table tops. It’s an airborne executive suite for business. Practical and utilitarian – perfect for somebody running a Fortune 500 Corporation or the Dutton Ranch at Yellowstone. This is a working jet.
After proceeding out of the hanger we keep right on moving, straight onto the runway – it’s a seamless, uninterrupted take-off. Soon we’re over the Atlantic Ocean staring at Long Beach Island and Sandy Hook….then, in the distance, Manhattan’s skyscrapers soon beckon. The most magnificent city in the world.
We skirt Roosevelt Island and make a oblong bank over Long Island Sound – and there it is: Montauk Lighthouse. Majestic as all Hell sitting on top of a gorgeous bluff. Right next to it is all seven hundred and fifty acres of Camp Hero State Park – four hundred acres of which is still “off limits” by order of the US Department of the Interior and the United States Air Force. About a football field away from the lighthouse is an imposing multi-level cement bunker with an enormous Radar Dish on top of it – looming like an doomsday apocalyptic vision from the Cold War. I can make out the miles of chain-link fencing separating public parkland from all the contiguous restricted government preserve. Gazing out an airplane window thousands of feet above the panorama, it’s just awesome.
Opposite the Eastern part of the island are the Hamptons on the fashionable “Western” side. Here lies some of the most expensive real estate in the world. Mansions with private docks abound. Nothing but breathtaking beaches, cliffs, lush greens and wealth. Old money. It’s all an intoxicating trip down memory lane for me. I’m young again.
My ears pop as we descend. I hear our landing gear dropping. A private landing field is directly in front of us. I see signs as we hit the tarmac: Suffolk County – Francis Gabreski Airport.
We deplane and immediately head to a black Chevy Suburban that’s waiting for us. The air is chilly with a hefty smell of salt – but the sun is blazing and I’m lovin’ it all. In my mind I’m ready to fish on an old boat and swill Ballantine Beer – Uncle Pete’s favorite . I swiped many a “Three Rings” can as he “looked the other way” years ago. He was my favorite male role model of all time. Nobody ever came close to Uncle Pete.
The Suburban driver just nods at us…..I guess it’s an executive etiquette thing for the help-staff not to chummy-up with the poo-bahs. He dutifully keeps to himself. We turn onto Route 27 / Sunrise Highway towards Lighthouse Point. Katrina turns in her seat towards me and asks a question. Slow and kinda’ tentative like.
“Tell me something……..how does an outsider get a Nord Tur Verein Ansuz clearance and a sit-down with Sarkisian?”
She was parsing her words carefully, not wanting to unintentionally offend me. That outsider business isn’t cool….but I get her drift. I’m guessing this Sarkisian dude is like the Pope…..
I punt.
“Must be my charming personality….and devastating wit”. I say, smiling in her direction. “What’s the big deal, anyway?”
“Doctor Roland Sarkisian is an archeologist and the world’s greatest authority on Assyrian, Hittite and Akkadian cuneiform writing. He is the authority on Babylonian bas-reliefs and Mesopotamian artifacts……….”
Katrina rattles this off to see my reaction.
“So…..we fly here for a History lesson?” I say, genuinely puzzled.
“Dr. Sarkisian is on long term loan to the United States Government from Columbia University – Camp Hero is where he works. It’s his laboratory. He does super-secret research for the Air Force. That’s all I know about him”.
“I guess we gotta’ take things one step at a time…….hopefully, all will be made clear…” I say, distracted.
I’m content for the moment to stare at the beautiful greenery and forests whipping by the Chevy Suburban windows. The Atlantic ocean out in the distance looks idyllic. Why did I ever leave this place? Uncle Pete lived all alone in that big Victorian house on Oyster Bay – and was always pestering me to move in with him. What an asshole I was. Knowing what I know now…….let’s just say my life would’ve turned out differently. Ahh, yes…. the 20/20 vision of hindsight….
The Suburban pulls off Route 27 onto a crushed stone road cutting through a dense forest canopy. There are signs proclaiming: “KEEP OUT. RESTRICTED AREA. DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED. UNITED STATES AIR FORCE”.
We bump and lurch over the uneven road surface for about a city block and stop. A young Sentry in a blue Air Force uniform emerges from the woods – seemingly out of nowhere – and taps on our driver’s window. We can hear what he says.
“The Doc says take them back to Hill Grove – he’ll show for dinner later. Somethin’s come up…..shit’s hittin’ the fan in there……”
Our driver shakes his head backs the Suburban onto Route 27 / Sunrise Highway again. He heads towards the airport we just came from- then turns right on Long Island Road 24. We’re now heading to the “West” Coast – the ritzy “Hamptons” that everybody raves about. We drive for about twenty minutes, then gradually start seeing Mansions…..then, Mansions deep behind iron gates……then….even bigger Mansions.
Finally, we just see iron gates with manicured drives disappearing beyond them – roadways twisting off into infinity with towering trees lining the way. I can only imagine what kind of regal homes are hidden inside those properties. It’s all Great Gatsby stuff. Not for a Pine Barrens boy like me……
We suddenly turn off the road and stop, facing an enormous carved arch with double iron gates hanging off its imposing stone buttresses. There’s a weathered brass plaque affixed to the capstone that looks like it’s been there forever……..Hill Grove.
On the other side of the gate an attendant dressed completely in black and carrying a pump shotgun speaks into a microphone hanging at his mouth and uses a remote to open the iron gates. We drive down a winding, gravel driveway lined on both sides by soaring trees with three-foot trunks and verdant shrubbery everywhere else. We wind up at the double oak front doors of a huge, Gothic-Revival style residence, complete with stone parapets, balconies and slate, gable roofs.
I pause to take it all in as I exit the Suburban. Sweet Christ on a Crutch. This is quite a place. The gravel driveway circles past the doors and winds back to the front – past a porch portico that I swear I’ve seen before………
Katrina notices my quizzical look and smiles.
“Yes….you’ve seen the house before. Everybody has……this is where Paramount Pictures filmed Sabrina with Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart and William Holden in 1953….”
Son of a gun…she’s right. This is the place. The real deal. Wait – how the Hell does she know I like Audrey Hepburn movies?
“It’s been in Dr. Sarkisian’s family for a hundred years…..or so they tell me.” Katrina looks antsy, like she wants to get down to business. Her eyes are alert, darting everywhere.
Our Suburban pulls away as we admire the property. There’s dark outfitted guys stalking through the vegetation everywhere. Everybody has a mike hanging down around his mouth – and an earpiece can’t be far. Tactical leg holsters with extra magazines…..Some of ’em are carrying M4s or Heckler & Koch assault weapons. The place is an armed compound the Sinaloa drug cartel would be proud of. Dr. Sarkisian apparently has more security than the President of the United States.
A tall guy with grey hair, a gaunt complexion and conspicuous limp approaches us, smiling. His dark, three button suit is perfectly tailored and his shoes shine like glass. White shirt and – a Yale (I think) monogramed tie. Thankfully, he makes no effort to shake hands.
“You must be Mr. Croft and Ms. Katrina………welcome to Hill Grove! I’m Dr. Sarkisian’s valet, August Vennermeir….may I offer you some wine or coffee, perhaps? Dr. Sirkisian will be here any minute..”
August pronounces his name “Oowgoooste” like a typical Prussian. I glance at Katrina – she’s expecting me to respond.
“No….I believe Katrina and I may amble down to the dock and admire Long Island Sound for a few minutes…..”
August the Valet smiles again and shambles back to the house. Katrina and I head off to the dock. A chilly breeze is blowing, but the sun is still high enough for some warmth. I’m glad I’m wearing my trenchcoat. Katrina is appropriately attired, as usual. A real Girl Scout, ready for anything.
Long Island Sound is breathtaking. Staring at those pleasure craft on its choppy surface I get lost again in my adolescent memories. SImple times, trusting times. Uncomplicated times.
After silently taking in those waves and saturating our lungs with salty air, Katrina and I head back to the house. I can use some coffee…and Katrina’s got that “look” women get when they want to say something…
“Wow doesn’t sum this lifestyle up……..” She says, quietly. “When I was a girl we’d hunt squirrels in the woods near my house with bows and arrows so we could have meat for dinner….”
I see she’s smiling at the memory – and irony of it all. There’s no bitterness. She doesn’t seem to be built that way.
“You’d fit right in at the Jersey Pine Barrens…..” I say. “I’ve hunted my fair share of tree chicken myself….skinned and breaded, fried in a cast iron skillet with pork fat – it’s good eats when times get lean…”
For a while we stroll, hands in pockets, like a couple of nature freaks mesmerized by the expanse and extravagance of it all. She’s got a hard edge about her but it’s good to know she’s next to me. I’m thinkin’ she has her Glock holstered somewhere within reach…… I’m raw about the weird shit I’ve gotten myself into – and wondering how I’m gonna’ wrangle myself out of it.
By the time we reach the back of the house, “Oowgoooste” the Valet is gesturing to us from its enormous rear deck, frantically waving his arms as if me and Katrina got cataracts and need seeing-eye dogs to realize he’s there.
“Please come inside…..we’re serving dinner a bit early in your honor….Dr. Sarkisian has just arrived”.
We climb a wide staircase up to the main level and make our way through two heavily glazed, wrought-iron terrace doors to enter the house. Katrina shoots me a look as we cross the threshold. I feel like Alice just dropped us through the rabbit hole…..
This place ain’t a house – it’s a museum.
Ancient floor-to-ceiling bas-reliefs are everywhere….carvings of sideways-looking, curly-bearded kings and warriors….lion-headed and falcon-headed dieties…….mounted stone plates of cuneiform characters hanging from stout hooks lag-bolted into authentic oak panelling. There are glass cases instead of furniture everywhere, formally displaying scrolls and small figurines, some grotesque and others barely recognizable – all identified by an official-looking catalog card positiioned out front of each prize. Bronze swords, gold and precious-stone encrusted breastplates….a chariot wheel leans against a wall. It’s overwhelming. I guess to Sarkisian, this is Home Sweet Home…
We follow Valet Vennermeir through an interestingly decorated hallway to the main dining room. As expected, it’s a huge room with a King Henry-size medieval table and throne-like chairs. Our placesettings are already laid out, obviously positioned in advance to face the head of the table, where our host’s setting awaits.
More traditional and varied pictures hang on the dining room walls – some look like relatives striking comically severe Victorian poses – others are classical landscapes of what looks like Eastern European mountain locales. We take our seats. Our wine – a French Margaux – has already been poured. The bottle cork is on a serving plate to my right should I wish to inhale its fragrance. Silver service and china plates, of course. Typical for these parts.
The main dining room windows look out over a the sculptured – I’m guessing – “West Garden” of the residence – obviously crafted by professional topiary designers. There’s an azure blue sky above and endless clouds billowing over the Atlantic. A good omen of things to come?
On a small table by a window opposite me is a framed photograph of General Colin Powell and President Bush (the younger, “Dubya”) in the White House Oval Office. They’re obviously honoring a man in a wheelchair next to them, presenting him with an award and medal. The unfortunate soul in the wheelchair is diminutive – tiny and withered, actually – what we refer to today as a “little person”. He’s grasping the award being presented to him with child-size hands and his face bears misshapen contours that are probably congenital but painful at this age of his life. Unfortunate appearance notwithstanding, his eyes radiate an upbeat glimmer – almost mirthful and beatific. Spiritual. I look closer to see if he’s wearing an ecclesiastical collar, but can’t quite make it out because of how deep he is collapsed into his wheelchair.
Valet “Oowgooste” Vennermeir reappears, limping towards us and pushing a wheelchair.
“Mr. Croft and Lady Katrina….” comes a voice from its occupant. “How nice to see you….I am Dr. Roland Sarkisian.”
It’s the little guy in the picture – excuse me, “Little Person”. He’s late middle-aged, dressed in a white scientific lab coat and smiling one of the most disarming smiles I’ve ever seen. His uniquely configured face radiates a calm and energy that lights up the room. Just seeing him before us somehow signals good vibes, like hope – why, I can’t explain. I usually think it takes a John Wayne type to make people feel safe…not so. This funny little man is instantly inspirational. He exudes confidence and intellect. I glance at Katrina – she likewise seems smitten by his spell. He’s got charisma, I’ll give him that. Fate was at least kind to him in that department…..
A serious, rotund chef serves dinner: hefty helpings of Morrocan Chicken Stew with pine nuts, green beans, cous-cous and stewed dates. There’s a colorful and aromatic Arugala salad. Stacks of flatbreads are piled on warm, flat stones nearby. Everything seems to be prepared from scratch and it smells intoxicating.
Dr. Sarkisian shrewdly directs the small talk.
“So…..Croft.…….good, solid Anglo Saxon name, correct? Or did you just want to be named after peasant share-croppers in Scotland and decide to adopt it?”
“It goes back generations on my father’s side – Quakers from the Philadelphia region….” I say. “My mother was Russian……..”
“Welllllll now…that’s quite a mixture!” Sarkisian picks up his wine glass, grinning his infectious grin. “A toast to East-West rapprochemont!”
The food goes down easy. Katrina and I are hungrier that we thought and the Margaux is sublime. The silent, rotund Chef starts pouring coffee – the traditional deep, bitter and syrupy kind – into North African demitasse cups and only speaks to ask if we will be having dessert. Creme Brulee awaits.
Suddenly, Valet Vennermeir limps in to the room and leans over to Sarkisian’s ear. Something’s up. Our host’s face visibly darkens and he hurredly excuses himself. “Oowgooste” rolls out Sarkisian’s wheelchair like he’s at LeMans and the checkered flag just dropped.
Katrina says nothing but her eyes show concern. We finish our coffees and pick at our Creme Brulee in silence……
Sarkisian returns.
“Mr. Croft…did you, by chance, leave your cell phone turned off or perhaps on AIrplane mode after you landed?” He asks as if he knows my answer. His mirthful demeanor is gone.
I look at my phone – sure enough. Airplane mode. I change it back and the screen lights up. Four missed calls – one from “Number Unavailable”, one from “New Jersey State Police” and two from “Morristown Police Department”.
Sarkisian’s voice is now insistent as he looks directly at me.
“Miss Katrina, perhaps you and I can venture out to the deck and take the air……..Mr. Croft has calls to make.”
My wife is up North Jersey – and she takes her aged father to Morristown Memorial Hospital for chemotherapy – so I call Morristown PD first. Suddenly I’m sweating bullets and my heart feels like its’ banging out loud. My hands are moist and my phone is slipping out of my grip.
A Morristown PD Detective named Hogan picks up immediately.
I can tell from the tone of his voice that there’s no easy way to say what he’s got to say to me.
My wife, Jeanette, was murdered in the parking garage of Morristown Memorial Hospital earlier today. She was pinned to her car seat and her throat was cut. Deep. She bled out within yards of medical help. Her father’s neck was broken…….
The father’s Oncologist, who happened to be in the Parking Garage area when the Police arrived, identified the bodies. There’s no need for me hurry there. He urges me to call the State Police barracks in Southampton, NJ about “something else” that happened in Tabernacle….” I hang up….. I don’t care about what happened in Tabernacle.
I bury my head in my hands at the table and cry.
Copyright, 2023
Jon Croft
