Freedom's Sons - Volume Two, Section III
[Okay, okay, I'll let you have a peek. - HAC]
The Gods of the Dawn
XXIII. – Lost Creek
(32 years, seven months after Longview)
Colonel Robert Campbell, who at age 46 was now the head of the Civil Guard’s Montana Regional Criminal Investigation Division, shook his salt-and-pepper head in bemused admiration. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I still can’t wrap my mind around it. Where the hell did you come from again?”
“From down in the number four traverse trench,” replied his daughter-in-law, Allura Myers Campbell, a graduate student in archaeology at the University of Montana. She was wearing khaki shorts, a khaki work shirt, mud-caked work boots and knee socks, and a large floppy straw hat to protect her head from the sun, which in May was already becoming uncomfortably hot in the pine hills of Lost Creek. She looked so much like her mother that she sometimes gave Bob a bad moment if she came through a door unexpectedly, as if he were looking at Georgia’s ghost. “It rained this morning, hence the mud up to my knees. We’ve gone eight feet down now, and we’re into the very late Pleistocene era, but the middle strata are definitely from the Neolithic time period we’re interested in, Level One, which is from about eleven thousand years ago. I found another flint point, a big one. It could have been either a knife or a spear point, and it’s in good condition. Took me almost four hours to get it free and tweeze it out. It’s in the lab tent for cleaning, and they’ll send it to UM for carbon-dating, but I’m pretty sure it’s contemporary with the main site, maybe even the mound itself.”
“That’s not what I meant, Ally. I meant what happened to that roly-poly baby who used to go flying around old Clancy’s house on Daly Avenue, chasing Kevin and the cats?” said Bob. “You’re twenty-two, now, right? Isn’t it time you stopped growing, girl?”
“I think I have, I just never grew out of making mud pies, as you can see,” said Ally with a smile. “Hi, Uncle Tom,” she greeted the second man beside Campbell. She had grown up with a plethora of “aunts” and “uncles” in the extended Myers-Horakova-Campbell-Stockdale clan. “Don’t tell me we have a spy here in the dig?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” answered Captain Tom Horakova of the Bureau of State Security, who had driven out the to Lost Creek archaeological dig site with Bob Campbell. Whereas Campbell wore his gray-green Civil Guard uniform, Tom was in civilian clothes; BOSS agents rarely wore their SS black togs completely devoid of insignia which was their service’s formal attire. Tom was not quite so square and thickset as his brother was and his father had been, having a touch more of Lorna’s Irish blood in his makeup, but the family resemblance was strong nonetheless. “Hopefully you won’t have any out here later on, either, but I’ll be around, just to make sure.”
“Who ever thought ancient history could become so politically sensitive?” commented Allura.
“History is always politically sensitive,” said Bob. “That’s one reason men fight, in order to gain the power to write it.”
“Jeez, I hope we don’t have any bad boys in this group that’s coming to visit,” said Allura. “I’m really looking forward to meeting everybody in the delegation, especially Doctor Haskins from Oxford. He’s considered the world’s greatest living authority on Pleistocene man. I made sure I read all his books before I even set foot out here.” The young woman looked over at the gray-green official vehicle that the two older men had arrived in. “Is that one of the new flying cars?” she asked curiously. “I hear you guys in the cops are getting them now, even if us lowly civvies can’t have them yet.”
“Give it a couple of years for Cascade Motors to get the bugs worked out and they’ll be on the market, if you can afford one,” replied Bob. “Like everything else new, the first models will probably be pretty spendy, but eventually everyone in the Republic will be able to afford at least some simple, basic model, just like most people were able to afford the Model T when Henry Ford first made it, and most Germans could afford the VW bug when the Fűhrer first ordered it made. But to answer your question, yes, that’s a levitation-capable Heep, one of the first prototypes. It’s Tom’s, actually. BOSS gets first call on all the new stuff, like Wilkinson guns. Us common or garden variety coppers are getting a few next month. We came up here from town, but we haven’t been able to do much flying, though. Had to drive all the way down here once we left the Missoula city limits. Only the major highways have been re-laid with the magneto strips so far, and very few of the smaller towns like Anaconda. At least not yet.”
“Here comes Uncle Jace,” she said, pointing to a tall man walking down an elevated plank walkway toward them. It was Jason Stockdale, who was still Chancellor of the University of Montana more than three decades after the revolution, and was thereby nominally in charge of the whole dig. “So have you guys ever been out here before?” she asked while they waited for him.
“Nope, first time for both of us,” said Campbell. “Tom and I are going to be running point on the security aspect of this visitation of foreign eggheads. No offense, honey.”
“None taken,” said Allura with a merry laugh. “I am an egghead.”
“Anyway, we figured we needed to familiarize ourselves with the site. Can you give us the grand tour?”
“I think Uncle Jace probably wants to do that himself,” said Allura.
Jason Stockdale walked up to them. The boardwalk was one of a network which had been erected criss-crossing the site, to allow the diggers quick and easy access to various points without causing undue disturbance to the earth. Now in his sixtieth year, Stockdale was a vigorous man who still had a little more auburn than gray in his hair and beard. Today he was wearing jeans made in Pocatello, boots made in Spokane, a jacket manufactured in Seattle, a denim shirt from a family enterprise in Portland, a leather cowboy-style string tie hand-made by his daughter for his birthday many years before, and a traditional Party fedora from Olympia. On his jacket lapel he wore a button, the blue, white and green roundel of the Old NVA Association. He shook hands with Campbell and Horakova, who were in turn wearing the Seven Weeks’ War ribbon over their left front jacket pockets. It was sanctioned and accepted practice in the NAR that three decorations specifically could be worn out of uniform with casual dress. Tom Horakova wore the third of these as well, the red, black and white Iron Cross ribbon he had won along with his father Eli, when they had saved a Bluelight unit from capture by an American Special Forces team at one of the forward positions out along the Border Highway. Bob Campbell had been offered the Iron Cross for his role in Operation Belladonna, but had declined it. He hadn’t wanted Ally to grow up seeing him wearing a medal for an operation in which her mother had died.
“Bob, Tom, welcome to Lost Creek,” Jason said. “I have to admit, despite the fact that I have no actual role in the excavation itself and I just handle the paperwork and the money, the work Ally and her classmates are doing up here fascinates me so much that I’ve fallen into the habit of spending as much time up here as I can spare away from the campus,”
“Is Jenny with you?” asked Bob.
“Not today,” replied Stockdale. “She’s back in town ferrying assorted grandchildren around to swimming, the rifle range, and orchestra practice. Oh, Ally, she’s got young Clancy today as well.”
“Yes, I know, Bobby told me he was coming out today and leaving little C with Jenny,” said Allura. “He’s over there digging.” Allura was married to Bob Campbell’s son Bobby Three, and mother to Clancy Campbell, aged four. Bobby Three had followed his father into the Guards, but tended to spend his days off out here in the woods helping his wife dig up dead things. In most extended Northwest families, a number of children ended up being raised and cared for not just by biological parents alone, and certainly not by hired brown nannies, but by a wide range of uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins, family friends, and neighbors. It was not the village that Hillary Clinton had in mind when she wrote her idiotic book, but it certainly filled the bill. “Jenny comes out here whenever she can, though,” Jason went on. “She’s always been a Solutrean fan.”
“Bob and Tom said they want the grand tour,” Allura told Jason.
“Sure, that’s my favorite part of every new visit!” said Stockdale. “Follow me on up to the Shack first, then I’ll show you around the site itself.”
The Shack was a large pre-fab building set in a stand of pines, up on a rise about three hundred yards away. A lean 60-foot Tesla tower had been erected behind it to draw power for the site, although there were also backup ground generators in another prefab structure farther to the rear, in case the tower malfunctioned or was struck by lightning, as happened on occasion. It contained a small kitchen and dining area, two attached bunkhouses for overnighting male and female personnel, shower facilities, a couple of offices, and a series of glass display cases containing some of the more interesting and significant finds which had been made thus far at the site. There were hand tools, needles and other implements made from bone, elk horn, and mammoth ivory, as well as a number of the distinctive flat, thin, leaf-shaped Solutrean-style spear points, arrowheads, and blades. These were the most important harvest of the Lost Creek site thus far, artifacts that had a proven origin in northern Europe, yet which were now being dug out of the ground in Montana.
These spear and arrow points were officially archaeological anomalies, because they indicated a connection between early man in Europe and North America that in accepted, politically correct scientific dogma, wasn’t supposed to exist. According to established science, history, and “enlightened” liberal thought, Lost Creek itself wasn’t supposed to exist. Meticulous and faultless Carbon-14 dating by the chemistry department at UM, which could not possibly be challenged even by the most puerile and fanatical of liberal or Jewish flacks, demonstrated quite clearly that the age of the ruins, the artifacts, and human remains found at the few Level One strata which had been excavated so far dated to approximately 9,800 radio-carbon years of age, which made them roughly 11,000 calendar years.
To add further to the potential embarrassment of the world scientific community, the skulls of some of the site’s former occupants, photographs of which were also on display in the Shack, were a liberal’s nightmare even worse than the ancient Caucasian remains that had been found, because eight of them from the burial tumuli on the northern edge of the site were the only definitive Cro-Magnon remains ever discovered in North America. “Or at least the only ones anyone has ever admitted to finding in North America,” remarked Chancellor Stockdale as he was showing that case of exhibits. The bones were those of tall men and women with strong musculature; there was not a thick-skulled, low-browed Neanderthal or runty Siberian Asian anywhere in sight at Lost Creek. The frontal plumb of the skulls was straight, with small brow ridges, tall foreheads, and prominent chins. Both computerized and clay facial reconstruction of the skulls showed men and women with long faces, deepset eyes, aquiline noses, thin lips, and straight hair that residual DNA testing indicated to have been blond or red in color. Their mitochondrial DNA was Haplogroup N, which connected these early Montana settlers in a straight line with the main Cro-Magnon migration from the Black Sea area 24,000 years previously. No one had any idea on earth how they got to Lost Creek, but gotten there they had.
This was, of course, purest heresy anywhere outside the Northwest Republic, and controversy was already raging in the academic world about the Lost Creek anomalies. Heated controversy, in fact, including hysterical demands from prominent establishment figures in the liberal democracies that the American or East Canadian governments “do something” about it. In point of fact the authorities had been concerned even before the impending visit of the distinguished foreign experts that some covert attempt from outside the country might be made to damage or compromise the dig site or the artifacts being discovered there, and they were already taking quiet steps to protect the site and the integrity of the excavation. Many of Guardsman Bobby Campbell the Third’s “days off” that he spent out at the site weren’t really days off, and many of the volunteer laborers on the site were also “off duty” Guards. Allura knew, of course, but she didn’t worry about it and made sure she always got a full day’s work out of her husband.
“So how was the site discovered?” asked Bob Campbell.
“During the war, just before they got surrounded down in Anaconda, the Americans buried a large cache of artillery shells about half a mile from here, which they no longer had the cannon or the tanks to fire,” Jason told them. “Two years ago some Labor Service kids working for Fish and Wildlife accidentally stumbled across these shells when part of the creek bank collapsed and exposed the boxes. Fish and Wildlife called in the NDF, who removed the ordnance and blew it up in a big-ass controlled explosion, but they figured they’d better check out the area and see if our late unpleasant visitors left us any more surprises. They went over this stretch of woods with metal detectors and subsurface sonar and they detected the walls of the longhouse and the tumuli in the burial ground, about eight feet down, as well as the fact that the mound has hollow chambers inside with as yet unknown content. One of the army officers had sense enough to realize he’d found something, so he toddled on down to Missoula to show Arne Wingard his screen shots of the readings, and we took it from there.”
“Who?” asked Tom.
“Doctor Arne Wingard, head of the archaeology department,” said Allura. “My boss, the guy who is actually in charge of the project. He’s down on the site. You’ll meet him in a bit.”
The main feature of the Shack was a large picture window, through which visitors could view the entire dozen-acre site from the hill. Over the past two years, archaeologists and students from the University of Montana at Missoula had cleared a large patch into the whispering pine forest, on a slight rise above the trickling brown stream that gave the site its name. It was now active as an ant farm under the afternoon sun, with over fifty students, supervising scholars and staff digging with shovels, or in some cases carefully scraping away with trowels at lumps that might or might not be artifacts. Others trundled the excavated dirt away in wheelbarrows to a special ramp where it was tipped into dump trucks to be hauled away to the university, where the earth would be filtered one last time in case the seekers had missed anything. Looking down at the site, Campbell and Horakova could see long grids cut into the soil and smaller ones pegged out with twine and metal stakes, an arrangement that divided the whole site up into a grid pattern in which each section was about one meter square, so there would be a clear record of what was found where. Surveying and marking the excavation area into grids like this, once the surface detritus was cleared away, was always the first step in preparing any dig site, and it generally took a long time. This was where nearby universities with scores of eager young students came in very handy.
“We think that was the actual village area,” said Ally, pointing to the center of the acreage where a large rectangular scar had been cut into the earth.
“Village?” said Campbell.
“Well, I supposed it might better be called a big farmstead,” said Ally. “We’ve found postholes and petrified wood slivers from a stockade of almost three acres that surrounded the site at one time, but the ruins are all centered within that area, so there were probably gardens and small grazing plots for livestock surrounding the structures. If they’d gotten around to domesticating animals in those days, which we’re not sure of. We’ve found skeletal remains of dogs, not wolves, which may have been domesticated by then, and we’ve found the bones of pigs and turkeys and pigeons, but there’s no way to tell if they were domesticated or if they were hunted in the wild. There’s the longhouse and about eight other smaller buildings we’re working on now, but some of the other structures were probably barns, workshops, granaries, and other storage facilities. Most of the people themselves probably lived in the longhouse.”
“How many lived here, do you think?” asked Tom Horakova.
“During which era?” asked Ally. “There are multiple artifact-bearing strata which seem to indicate that the site was inhabited off and on over a period of several thousand years.” She pointed down toward the site. “For example, that big hole down there is definitely the remains of a longhouse, but it’s only on Level Three, which puts it at about six thousand years ago. We need to get below it and see what’s underneath it, down at Level One.”
“Meaning there were unexplained white people in North America as recently as six thousand years ago?” asked Tom.
“Contemporary with the beginning of Semitic civilization in the Fertile Crescent of the Middle East, yes,” said Ally.
“I’ll bet the big lefty nabobs at the Harvard and Columbia anthropology departments really groove on that tune,” chuckled Jason.
“But you were asking how many people lived here, Uncle Bob? We don’t know for sure, but the long house is eighty feet by thirty, the biggest Neolithic structure ever found. So say, twenty or thirty families? That’s just a guess, but a fairly educated one. We haven’t gotten down to Level One below the main area yet, except in a few of the trenches, and that will present the most exciting possibilities of all. That’s one of the gifts we’re waiting until our guests get here to unwrap, so they can monitor the whole process from the beginning and testify that we’re not cheating or seeding the site or messing around in any way to try and prove our race was here first. Plus, of course, there’s the mound itself.” She pointed to the right to where a previously wooded hill stood, carefully stripped of all its trees and major impedimenta, awaiting the first shovel. A crew of students stood on top of the mound taking more underground sonar readings. “We haven’t even stuck a single trowel in there. We’re waiting for the Eminent Persons Delegation to start on that, so that they can observe and hopefully participate.”
“You know that our visitors will be forbidden to do that, Al,” Jason reminded her. “Their respective governments insist on a strict no-hands-on stipulation in the agreement by which their travel permits to the Republic were issued. If the foreign experts actually participate in any way in the dig, then that might be construed as collaboration and recognition of UM as an institution of learning and of ourselves as fellow scholars, and that cannot and must not be. We’re all fascist thugs, remember. We are beyond the pale.”
“One does one’s best,” chortled Tom Horakova.
“Yes, I know all about the looky-loo-only terms, Mr. Chancellor,” said Ally. “But once we get into that mound, knowing what the earth-penetrating sonar tells us we’re going to discover, I find it very difficult to believe that truly dedicated scientists like Doctor Haskins and Professor Martineau from the Sorbonne will be able to resist picking up the odd trowel and digging in. When they understand what we’ve found here, they won’t be able to help themselves.”
“And what exactly have you found here, Ally?” asked Tom. “Sorry, I just got off the blower with Olympia and they did give me a briefing, but I’d like to hear you fill me in.”
“Me, too,” said Bob Campbell. “Oh, my kids got the Solutrean thing in school, of course, just like everybody in the Republic, but what exactly makes Lost Creek so special?”
“Two things of major importance so far,” said Allura. “First off, there’s the Cro-Magnon tumulus burials, which archaeologically speaking is about like finding a London double-decker bus a thousand miles out and two miles under the Pacific Ocean. They’re just plain not supposed to be here, and in the absence of any other explanation I think some of us are almost ready to listen to space alien theories. I’m sure you’ve heard of Kennewick Man?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Bob. “A prehistoric white man who inconsiderately showed up in Kennewick, Washington, back in the 1990s, with a very embarrassing carbon dating that showed he was around before the Indians. Got all the redskins’ noses out of joint.”
“Not to mention the noses of the politically correct academic and scientific establishment of the day,” put in Jason Stockdale. “When Kennewick Man came along the lefty-libs of academe suddenly announced, based on no evidence whatsoever, that the Indians marched over here across the land bridge from Siberia a good forty thousand years ago. By just picking a figure out of their bumpus like that, they’d make damned good and sure their redskin protegés got here before any annoying whiteboys like KM. Forty thousand years sounds like a nice round number, until one realizes that there is not one jot of anthropological evidence for the existence of Indians as such in America before about five thousand or so years ago. Even the oldest of the Anasazi pueblos in Arizona and New Mexico are only about three thousand years old, and they are amazingly bare of any human remains, which is very strange indeed when you consider how many people must have lived in those things. But all of America is like that. No Indian skulls, no bones, no burial sites going back more than a few millennia. No settlements or camp sites found, no Neolithic latrines so we can get DNA from coprolites, nothing, zip, zilch, nada. True, there are beaucoup Clovis and Folsom points found all over North America, dating back almost thirteen and a half thousand years, but who made them? There are no indication at all of where the makers of those artifacts came from, or who they were. They may even have been Neanderthal, for all anybody really knows. Or they may have been Kennewick Man’s uncles and cousins. The important thing to realize is that not only was KM here nine thousand years ago, he was almost certainly here first, and that is what is blew minds in the groves of academe around the world.”
“Well, we’re pretty sure we’ve found Kennewick Man’s relations here, as recently as Level Three, but also at Level Two, which was about nine thousand years ago and contemporary with KM,” Allura informed them. “We’ve proven that he wasn’t just some kind of bizarre fluke dropped out of the sky by a UFO. There were others like him, and along with the Cro-Magnon remains from the Level One tumuli, the world scientific community has been thrown for a loop. That’s just plain not supposed to be, by the standards of accepted prehistory. But not only do we have Cro-Magnons here in North America, we have apparently modern Caucasian people inhabiting the same site thousands of years later. The question about KM was never that he was white—the initial anthropological and scientific testing of the skeletal remains before political correctness got involved was conclusive that he was, and the United States government never did allow any independent DNA testing before the remains disappeared. But how did he get there? Where were the rest of his people, and what happened to them? Was there some kind of mutation or evolution down from the Cro-Magnons, who actually had brains larger than our own? We think we may be able to finally answer some of those questions here at Lost Creek, because we haven’t found just a single skeleton like KM or the Spirit Cave mummy, we’ve found over three dozen from various epochs and probably more to come, not to mention what’s in the mound. Those have to be burial chambers on that schematic! Add to that what’s left of several large farmsteads or small villages down through the centuries before men were even supposed to be erecting structures for shelter, when scientific orthodoxy has us all wandering the African savannah like baboons or living in caves. As I said, this site went through several periods of habitation. Already the things we’ve discovered are incredible.”
“But the problem is that no one will believe any of the answers we find,” said Jason. “Remember, we’re wicked and horrible and violent racist criminals who were so naughty as to defeat the mighty and wonderful United States of America, for which we can never be forgiven. We are incapable of producing anything of worth, and if by some chance we should come up with incontrovertible evidence that white people were present in North America prior to the Indians, then of course it’s all a lie and evil Nazi propaganda. No one in the outside world will be allowed even to hear of it. If they do, then any mere suggestion that the Lost Creek evidence be examined fairly and judged according to its actual merits will be shouted down. Anyone attempting to conduct a serious and unbiased debate on the Solutrean hypothesis will be arrested, probably tortured into recanting, and then buried alive for hatecrime. Liberal democracy has always manifested a violent aversion to the truth, especially when that truth contradicts their ideology. We’ve pretty much shredded their vile Holocaust myth—thank God—and they can’t afford to lose another one, the legend of the brutal white conquistadors who brought nothing but whiskey and smallpox to the gentle and noble and defenseless little Indians who were here first.”
“Like the heart-ripping Aztecs and the cannibal Pawnees and the turd-eating Karankawas,” remarked Allura sarcastically.
“For which we were repaid with tobacco and syphilis,” chuckled Tom. “Hey, the redskins got their licks in!”
“But do you really think you can get around all this by getting so-called legitimate scholars from other countries to sign off on your work here, Jason?” asked Bob Campbell. “I’m amazed you were even able to get any of these big muckety-muck academic egghead types to agree to come here at all, in view of the likely penalties if they do confirm the Lost Creek evidence, whatever that may turn out to be. They’ll be committing professional suicide.”
“Oh, they would never have come at all if their own governments hadn’t given them the necessary permits,” said Jason. “Remember, travel to the NAR is still illegal throughout almost all the Western world, and people who want to come here have to take flights to Russia or Ireland or Argentina and then transfer to Northwest Air, or else run the McCurtain, although that’s pretty easy these days on the American border.”
“Yeah, it’s Aztlan that’s the rough one,” agreed Tom.
“So why did several Zionist-ruled countries, including East Canada, which is probably our worst enemy in the world, issue exit permits to let these experts come here and examine the site?” asked Bob.
“Clearly they expect their tame scientists to denounce Lost Creek as a Nazi propaganda hoax,” Jason told them. “I think we need to expect that as well, frankly. But things may not go all their way. We’ve chosen the specific men and women we invited very carefully.”
“We?” asked Bob.
“This is being done by the university in close consultation with the Political Bureau,” said Jason. “They see long term advantage in confronting the Zionists with truth and forcing them to pervert or suppress it. Inevitably they will get caught doing so, and their immunity from accountability is by no means what it used to be since they have been shown to be distinctly vincible over the past two generations. Establishment history and science has screwed up time and again and been caught out at it, from the so-called Holocaust to Saddam Hussein’s non-existent weapons of mass destruction, from the global warming hoax to the alleged equality of the races, things nobody really believes any more because the practical experience of our lives and simple common sense disprove it all. The object is to smash racial and political PC orthodoxy in the scientific and academic world by forcing it to trip over its own shoelaces, if you will pardon that rather strained metaphor.”
“I assume that means you have invited scientists known or suspected to be racially inclined or sympathetic to the NAR,” said Bob. “I know WPB analysts profile just about everybody who is anybody in any liberal democracy. But won’t the Zionist régimes in Ottawa and Washington and London see right through that?”
“No, that’s not exactly what we’re doing,” said Jason. “The eight top archaeologists and anthropologists whom we have selected aren’t necessarily sympathetic to the NAR. As nearly as we can determine through careful study and analysis, these people are all either genuinely apolitical, or even leaning ever so slightly lefty-lib. But they all have reputations not only as top-flight people in their fields, whose opinions will be listened to, but also as objective and rational people who will either refuse as a matter of conscience to go along with their own government’s plans to smear the Lost Creek find, or else who will make a public stink about the pressure to do so.”
“This assumes that there are any Americans or Canadians or Europeans who have a conscience left,” said Campbell sourly. “I was only Out There for a few months, and I sure don’t remember meeting anyone with any principles. And that was twenty years ago. God knows what those people are like these days.”
“Actually, things have improved somewhat in the area of public morals in the U.S.,” said Tom. “When the United States government lost the last war and became too weak and underfinanced to maintain the Surveillance State, and the iron heel was lifted off people’s necks to a large degree, a lot of the remaining white Americans cleaned up their act voluntarily, including a lot of voluntary re-segregation, which has been allowed to happen because the Washington régime simply isn’t strong enough to force people to mix any more. There was nobody forcing them to wallow in filth at metaphorical gunpoint, and a lot of white Americans decided they didn’t really like doing so. For example, American media entertainment is actually a lot cleaner these days than it was back before the war. White Americans, who despite everything still have more disposable income to buy advertisers’ products than non-whites, simply stopped paying for perversion and degeneracy, and if they wanted to keep raking in the shekels the entertainment industry had to respond. Nowadays entire movies and television series are being made again where everybody keeps their clothes on. Remove the demand, the supply goes away.”
“Of course, the Circus boys culling most of the Jews out of the media and entertainment industry didn’t hurt,” said Jason with a chuckle. “I get what you’re saying, though, Tom. Sickness and degeneracy is not a natural human condition, and you have to force it on white people. After almost a century of solid defeats, the United States is no longer in a position to force people to be bad, and left to themselves most white people will choose to live their lives in some approximation of a decency that they seem to recognize instinctively. Come on, I’ll show you around the site.”
* * *
The Lost Creek dig consisted of three main sections or sub-sites. First, there was the longhouse and the clump of buildings around it, which Ally speculated had once been surrounded by a wooden palisade. “The walls of the Level Three structures are made from fairly goodsized local granite and limestone blocks on a foundation of gravel, carefully shaped with adzes or something similar so they could be fitted together without mortar,” explained Ally. “The construction is really skillful and we’re not totally sure how they did it with only stone tools. The roofs were probably thatch, but we don’t know for sure since only a few feet of wall still remain and we have no idea what they used as roof joists or rafters. Again I have to emphasize that this is the most recent stuff on the site, and it’s six thousand years old. These people, whoever they were, were among the first in history to erect permanent free-standing structures for shelter. Maybe the first. Even the oldest Mesopotamian ziggurats are only five thousand years old.”
“I didn’t know Mesopotamians smoked ziggurats,” quipped Tom Horakova.
Ally glared. “Nobody likes a smart-ass secret policeman!”
“Sorry, honey, this is all just a little overwhelming for me,” he apologized with a chuckle. “I’ve spent the past week listening to audio surveillance of a Pentecostal preacher seducing one of his choir singers, which no one gives a damn about, so long as he’s not the one slipping those stupid little Christian Zionist comic books into nooks and crannies all over Missoula.”
“You’re really worried about little subversive printed things?” asked Ally.
“That was how the Party got started,” he reminded her.
On the extreme northern edge of the area were six tumulus burial chambers made of fitted shale and limestone believed to have been brought to the location from the far-off banks of the Missouri River, probably dragged on sledges or travois. They had been built in the unusual manner known as the D-barrow, with one façade straight and carefully lined. It was believed that the original builders had covered the stone burial chambers with earth. All six had been very carefully exposed and opened by the archaeologists; it was in these that the Cro-Magnon remains and artifacts had been discovered, with two of the tumuli containing two skeletons each, male and female. Finally, about a hundred yards to the east of the old stockade line was the large mound that sonar indicated contained several hollowed-out chambers; Ally speculated that when uncovered there might be found beneath the earth something similar to the weird Newgrange monument in Ireland—except that core samples which had brought up minute ancient pieces of wood and bone indicated this mound was almost twelve thousand years old. “If it contains more Cro-Magnon artifacts and remains, that will be stupendous,” said Ally. “For one thing, most anthropologists believe they died out about twenty thousand years ago, and now we’re finding that not only were they here in North America, but they appear to have survived longer here than they did in Europe. But if the mound contains actual Caucasian homo sapiens remains, that will be downright earth-shaking. It will mean that white people were in fact contemporary with Cro-Magnon man, at least in this one small bit of time and place, and not the result of interbreeding between C-M and Neanderthal. That’s the official theory, you know, that modern men of all races are CM-Neanderthal hybrids, a mixture of two species, both of whom managed to evolve in Africa over hundreds of thousands of years without leaving any trace of the fact there. Then about 20,000 years ago, or maybe 30,000, they’re really vague on that, both species suddenly marched all around through Asia Minor, ended up in Europe, and then started interbreeding like good little race-mixers.”
Tom laughed. “I’m no anthropologist, but even I can tell that’s absurd!”
“Of course it’s absurd!” giggled Allura. “But it’s the best that politically correct science can come up with to maintain this article of liberal faith that mankind evolved in Africa, while explaining away the fact that there are no ancient homo sapiens remains to be found anywhere in Africa. All the evidence of early human biological and cultural development is to be found in Europe and the Fertile Crescent of the Middle East, and it appears to have migrated from the east, Siberia and central Asia, and not from Africa. But for any academic or anthropologist or historian in any of the democracies to say so risks professional ruin, physical assault by Jewish and left-wing students and thugs, and possible criminal prosecution for hatecrime. Every couple of years some university professor who thinks his tenure will protect him gets a Galileo complex and he questions or refutes some politically correct tenet regarding the biological or historical origin of man, and he ends up in the academic equivalent of the bottom of the river with his feet in concrete.
“But if it’s not true, then where did we come from?” asked Bob Campbell.
“That’s what we may be about to find out here,” said Jason soberly. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the site.”
They found Dr. Arne Wingard and several of his top students carefully removing soil sections from an enlarged trench in the ground about thirty feet past the north wall of the longhouse, using an instrument that looked like a motorized posthole digger. He was a thin man of about fifty, a Norwegian who had been educated in Britain before he fled to the Homeland one step ahead of a hatecrime charge for denying that there had been negro Vikings. He spoke English with a British accent. “Good afternoon, Mr. Chancellor,” he said from down in the hole.
“What are you digging up there, Arne?” asked Jason Stockdale.
“Shit!” said Wingard happily.
“I beg your pardon?” said Campbell.
“There is a lady present, doctor,” said Tom Horakova, frowning.
“No, you don’t understand,” said Ally, laughing. “That really is what he’s digging up. This is a Neolithic latrine containing coprolite, which is petrified excremental matter.”
“Coprolite is archaeological gold, gentlemen,” said Wingard, climbing out of the hole and taking off his gloves to shake hands with the visitors. “Especially the human material. From it we can find out a very great deal about the people who left such deposits. What they ate and how much, what parasites and in some cases what diseases they were suffering from, and sometimes we can even get DNA samples that identify each, uh, depositor, which will give us a good idea of how many people were living here generation by generation if the pit was used for a long time, as this one apparently was. Plus the artifacts, of course. In those days, as in this, people sometimes tended to drop things accidentally or throw items they wanted to get rid of down the khazi. So far we have found a bone knife handle that judging from the hafting groove in it once contained a Solutrean flint blade, several bone needles, broken bits and pieces of wood that appear to have been part of tools, and our prize find of last week, a small stone hammer head that appeared to be grooved on both sides so it could be fitted with a handle. Plus of course we found animal bones, hundreds of them, the remnants of many a meal. We know Lost Creek Man ate a lot of fish, which indicates that in those days either Lost Creek must have been a lot wider and deeper, or else they probably mounted fishing expeditions to nearby lakes. That means they must have had some method of catching large numbers of them, which implies nets and teamwork, maybe even rafts or boats. We also found a piece of slate which was grooved for hafting, which I will swear on a stack of whatever volume you care to name is a plowshare. It’s too large to be anything else. I can’t prove it yet, but I am convinced that these people were practicing primitive agriculture.”
“Oh, pardon me, I should have introduced our two guests,” said Stockdale. “This is Colonel Robert Campbell of the CID and Captain Tom Horakova from BOSS. They’re going to be making sure our coming visit from the outside world goes smoothly.”
“You mean you’re going to make sure that none of our colleagues from the so-called democracies is a spy and a saboteur sent here to contaminate and discredit this site,” replied Wingard with a scowl. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, then, gentlemen.”
“You don’t trust your fellow scholars?” asked Campbell.
“Good God, of course not! No farther than I could throw them!” exclaimed Wingard. “As far as intrigue and internal politics goes, the average university in Europe or America could give lessons to the Borgias! None of the Zionist governments will need to look far to find willing tools to do their dirty work for them. Academia is just like everything else under democracy, gentlemen. It’s all about money. Research grants, fellowships, tenured professorships, prizes, government and private sector contracts and consulting fees, an endless torrent of boodle flowing down the corridors of academe for those who are willing to sell their integrity and their souls for a bit of it and sing whatever tune their political masters call. There are men and women in the academic and scientific world, gentlemen, many of them, who have made good livings their entire lives and acquired respect and renown by maintaining and advocating theories and bodies of alleged truth and knowledge which are in fact pure politically correct poppycock. There were thousands of so-called scientists who ate millions of steak dinners for decades off the so-called scientific fact that the earth was growing warmer due to human activity consequent to capitalism, and the only way to quote-unquote ‘save the planet’ was to institute one-world socialist government. What gets me is that they were able to keep it up for almost a generation after mean global temperatures began to decline again in 1998.
“Lost Creek doesn’t just represent a political or intellectual embarrassment to the world scientific and academic establishment, gentlemen,” Wingard concluded, shaking his head. “Lost Creek threatens their very bread and butter. They will do anything to destroy this site and every jot of evidence of the past we have discovered here, and frankly I doubt it will even require foreign intelligence services to get them to do it. You need to watch every one of our distinguished visitors like hawks. I know I will be.”
“Unless he happens to be Scorpius himself,” Horakova whispered so low that Bob Campbell could barely hear him.