The Final GOD

The Final GOD

by D."Deuke" Eukel
The Final GOD

The Final GOD

by D."Deuke" Eukel

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Overview

When magazine journalist, Jonathan Tame arrives on the Caribbean island of Puerto Rico; after an alleged, "devastating hurricane" has struck the Island it doesn't take long for the nearly burned-out writer to re-awaken his investigative training. There is lots of money being poured into emergency coffers, but only a small portion is being allocated for repairs. He follows the money trail and discovers that an organization, controlling the U.S. government, and other superpowers, is using the cash flow for a secret building project; meant to ultimately disarm all of them. And further, that ancient archaeological artifacts, discovered years before and said to have immeasurable power, may be the core reason behind the usurpation. In his attempt to thwart the endeavors, he finds he is not alone. Other investigators are moving in the same direction; it's when their path intersect that all of hell is stirred up.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781491843215
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Publication date: 12/23/2013
Pages: 822
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 1.82(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Final GOD

A novel


By D. "Deuke" Eukel

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2013 D. "Deuke" Eukel
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4918-4321-5


CHAPTER 1

Determined


Monday

Sunrise on the island's eastern side brought with it piercing golden lances that cut through warm Caribbean water, and penetrated the vast array of mountains that eclipse the tawny sand beaches of Puerto Rico.

Jonathan Tame shielded his eyes as the shafts of light reached his perch. He stood on a third-story balcony treasuring the magnificent view of the mountains and the calm waters. He looked over the town of Humacao and wondered what mysteries were being concealed.

He was staying in a villa at the Palmas del Mar, a large resort hotel in Humacao that touted pristine beachfront property, three-story views, and luxurious accommodations—all of which were true—it was costing the magazine he wrote for hundreds of dollars a week, plus expenses, but it was a cost he attempted to justify to Frank, only days before.

"It's the only place on the island that has the Internet working," he told him. He was telling the truth—for the time being—there were other less expensive places with Internet accommodations, but those hadn't reopened yet—after the storm. He had picked the location mostly for the atmosphere. To him it was an unofficial vacation, one he was convinced that he truly needed. "Besides, the job," Frank had said, was supposed to be "... simple; something you can knock out with your eyes closed." Yet in spite of Frank's assertions the assignment was developing into something much more than Jonathan planned.

Frank told him to simply gather information about the hurricane and write a piece about the "government's helping hands." It wasn't his usual directive, but Frank knew that Jonathan was close to burn-out. He'd sent him to the island mainly to relax. He would justify the expenditure to the board easily enough, but he also expected Jonathan back in the saddle after a few days rest—doing what he used to do so well; investigating real stories—stories that had brought some stature to the magazine; admittedly, "Some time ago," he'd told Jon. But he and Jon were friends; he would give him as much time as he could. "We can kill two birds with one stone," Frank said. "You can get some rest while you get us a nice little story."

It was the beginning of his second week on the island and what he'd uncovered so far of the federal government's participation in a "Hurricane clean-up campaign," they called it, had left many unanswered questions. The category-two hurricane swept the South Atlantic several days before and "struck the 100 mile-long commonwealth with great force," according to U.S. government spokespersons. One low-level official said, "The devastating storm had caused untold misery." But as his investigative juices flowed, others told him what he saw with his own two eyes—the storm had soared by the island without inflicting any serious damage at all.

Officials bellowed about "Hurricane Jezebel's, devastatingly heartless nature," but he knew better. He knew the exorbitant expenses for repairs were blatant misrepresentations, displayed for public consumption. There were irregularities, in cost projections, damage estimates, and actual work invoices, which he'd been privy to. The inconsistencies spewed out by government entities, which he had tried on several occasions to record, were angering. Getting proof of the deception had become an all-consuming objective.

As a journalist, beginning to feel his age, with salt and pepper hair, and a weathered face that gave many the impression he was hard and insensitive, was contrary to his true nature—an affable character—unless crossed, many said. It was conceded that he'd grown more cynical. He'd witnessed just about every form of news-event that could be published or paraded on TV, but this one was different. There was a concerted effort to conceal something serious—some truth that they didn't want anyone to know about—at least that was the impression he got from the "officials" he interviewed.

Just when he thought he might get some rest, a story with "bullshit from the beast," written all over it—his phrase for government mouthpieces, presented itself. With political posturing, they fed the media with headlines; cover-stories that never told it all. He despised their methods; the trite metaphors slung onto the screen by news broadcasters, and the outright lies. It infuriated him. He made it a point to disrupt their pretense by writing articles that proved the sensational claims were spurious. He ridiculed broadcasters for their journalistic inexperience, and immaturity. He was rarely successful, but when he was, they hated him for it. That didn't bother him much; in fact he reveled in it. When he started in the business more than twenty years before, it was easier to find stories editors could "sink their teeth into." He was trusted; his peers respected him, and his audience looked forward to his many exposés. Now, he gladly spent his waking-days avoiding the melodrama. But this one wouldn't go away; this one was going to be a quest for the truth, no matter where the chips fell. He was tired of the spin. He began to focus on uncovering which corrupt bureaucrats were behind this latest deception, and he planned to slap them silly in public. He knew the few moments of solitude would be lost, but as he watched the endless waves crash against the island's natural barriers, the human boundaries set before him both fascinated and motivated him.

Before coming to work for Frank, typical franchise publishers, which he dealt with often, exploited vulnerable victims to sell their publications. He'd counter their propensity for sensationalism by hammering home the human-equation, he called it. It accounted for most of the reasons previous publishers pointed him to the door. They considered his philosophical approach, "fodder for bleeding hearts," and no longer bought his pieces. He continued offering his services to one publication after another. Having been turned away so many times, he had come close to quitting the whole racket and going back into his previous career-security. All he could think about back then was going home, kick back on the sofa, tug on a few drinks, listen to music, and forget that there was a world out there; a world full of news events and plenty of lies. That was until he came across a magazine produced in California, called the Alameda Pioneer.

While perusing the magazine's content he discovered that the publisher was the man he'd met in the war, the man whose life he'd saved on a very chaotic night, Frank B. Hinson.

After an exultant reunion with Frank, nearly twenty years before, he was offered a correspondent's position. And now here he was in a tropical setting, writing one of those politically-correct cub reporter articles, about "America coming to the rescue," or so he thought it was supposed to be. Instead, and if he could find the rest of the pieces to the puzzle, it promised to be a story with much more substance. There were very few clues as to what was being covered-up, but he knew that the data pointed to something very captivating. He was sure it wasn't just another numbers game. He was witnessing a deception that he believed came straight from the top of the federal government and wondered if Frank had known more than he'd told him initially.

He had indeed observed some water damage, and saw some minor structural destruction—in isolated areas, but as one victim described it, "The storm was nothing more than a small bag of wind and a bucket-full of water." It was obvious the disaster was less severe than reported by the feds, and the information pointed to persons, so far unknown to him, that exploiting the natural disaster for all it was worth, seemed to be the main goal.

He reasonably assessed that the millions of dollars in repair, and lately he was hearing, billions of dollars, that government sources said were needed, was to say the least; highly suspect. His knowledge of construction along with all the data he accumulated, told him that the ambiguous reports were more than slight fabrication, there was something very big being concealed—what it was, he didn't know yet, but he was determined to find out. It would be the crux of his expanding exposé. However, without something more convincing, more tangible which supported his assertions, his pitch to Frank on this latest controversial subject, might fall on deaf ears.

He looked at his watch and saw he'd been staring out over the bay for more than ten minutes. He walked back into the room and began checking the items he'd laid out on the dresser the night before: an old Pentax-1000, which he rarely used anymore, but carried anyway, "Just in case," he told Frank on numerous occasions—who in turn suggested that he, "Join the 21st century," and purchase the newest in digital cameras.

He picked up his Sony recorder, which the Associate Editor, Susan Slater, said was old-school. "You're stuck in the past," she told him, and made other comments meant to get him to react to her subtle accusation that he was, "Beyond his usefulness." She had friends that wanted his job.

At strategy meetings, she'd dig at his "slower methods." Frank tolerated her remarks and listened to her many opinions, but in private, though he thought she was a gifted writer and could keep the staff on task, he told Jon, "She seems to believe that anyone over 40 is a dinosaur and she didn't know when to shut up." Frank never told him why he didn't override her arrogance at the meetings. He figured he was just that kind of person—amenable, maybe even pliable—too much a nice guy. But he was his friend, for life.

He didn't know how old Susan was, maybe close to 40—which contradicted her opinions, but he never asked, and she never said. He did admit to Frank once that she was a good journalist, and "not bad-looking either," he'd said. But his interest in Susan was primarily a means to an end. He had to be nice to her just to be kept in the loop, something he always craved.

He confirmed the Sony was working: "It's 6:00 a.m., Monday, October 13th; I'm heading south this morning, to Las Piedras and Guarabe. There has to be more about this hurricane. So far, I haven't seen much damage ... curious why the feds keep saying this island was wrecked ... I'll add more later," he said to the machine. He grabbed a couple of notepads, extra pens, and made a notation in his private journal, then replaced it inside a hidden compartment in his well-worn brief case, one he also carried more for sentiment than its practical use.

He put together his notes from the official and local sources—sources that indicated he was on the right track, and stuffed them all into the case. He didn't carry a lap-top, for him the recorder and notes were all he needed.

Officials exaggerated the numbers and the locals, who were called, "surviving villagers," by some of the idiot bureaucrats he'd talked to, told him just the opposite—there was little, if any damage at all. The challenge was to decipher why the various agencies were escalating the numbers.

He had an interview later that afternoon which promised to yield information from an inside source; Norman Guidry, the owner of a commercial construction company based on the island. According to several records he was getting the bulk of work. Guidry promised to meet with him days before, indicating that he had figures no one else had. The appointment was set for 3:30—at Guidry's main office in Bayamon. He descended the stairs leading to the main floor and went over to the telephone on the bar. Intermittent success of the hotel's message service made him wonder how many calls he'd missed so far, because once again there were none. He snatched his rental-car keys from the Wicker-framed glass table that charmed the living room and left the villa.

He drove nearly three hours, making stops in Las Piedras and Guarabe, and every village in between. He talked to various business owners and residents; recording man on the street commentary. Much of his questioning related to his personal observations. The responses solicited curious answers from business merchants. Residents were indifferent to the storm. One man told him that he believed reporters really didn't want the truth. Jon assured him that he did. When he asked about the "Fury of the storm," one stout man answered what he thought he might; "What fury? This is fury," the man said, pointing to the many trees and structures unharmed. "This hurricane only spit on us," he said, then turned away disgusted.

Some citizens attributed the lack of destruction to "providence." Others said the storm was turned away by "magic spells," cast by "Sacred Mountain Priests." He had no idea what that meant. In areas near Juncos, he found contractors installing blue tarp, which FEMA seemed to have in abundant supply. The tarp was being installed on homes with little or no damage.

At several sites, he was able to get a look at lists that quantified large numbers of materials purchased, though none were actually applied. Foremen on these jobs shrugged off the curious looks and questions, saying they were only following orders given by the Corp of Engineers, or FEMA, or Puerto Rico's bureaucrats. One contractor told him, "FEMA just wants to see a shit-load of blue tarp from the air."

In Jon's mind, there was definitely a money game being played and the more he learned, the more he was convinced there was a larger purpose. If the money was being spent, according to official records, where was it actually going, and just "who was gaining from all this exploitation?" He was aware that contractors received enormous benefit from the assistance program, but what they were being paid was a drop in the bucket, compared to what was reported by the Feds. He'd seen official documents, supplied by Red Cross, and government agencies, and none of them seemed to tally. Officials did agree on one thing, the project was going to cost "millions, maybe billions of dollars ..." he had been told.

He was sure they were not telling the truth.

A contractor he had befriended not long after he arrived in Puerto Rico, might confirm that notion, he believed, and he wanted to visit the "old-rooster," again anyway. He pulled his cell phone from the belt case and punched in the numbers. A few seconds went by before the gruff sounding man answered. "Ola," the man said.

"Hey Digger, how are you, amigo?" Jon said pleasantly.

After a few moments trying to decipher Digger's words, he added, "Listen, if you're not too busy this evening, I'd like to come up and visit," he asked.

In his mind, Digger was especially helpful. He had an island-wide heavy equipment business in Ciebo and could be looked to as an honest weather vane—pointing to the alleged damages inflicted by the storm. Digger was what he considered a personal reference, one that could be added to in his short list of truthful sources. The contractor was generous with his booze, and also had four gorgeous daughters—one in particular Jonathan found quite exciting. With his slight comprehension of Spanish and Digger's broken English, they managed to communicate well enough. Jon was heartily invited for dinner.

"I will have Maria, prepare a fine meal," he told him. Jon smiled and thanked him and promised he'd call if there were any changes.

CHAPTER 2

Guidry's Information


At around 2:00 that afternoon he started on his westerly course toward Guidry's office. He was sure it would take less than an hour to drive, plenty of time he thought, to dodge the heaviest delays that began around 4:00 in the afternoon. That's when all 2.5 million people would be on the highways, he imagined.

As he drove off Highway 22 and onto the exit for Bayamon, he looked at his watch for the third or fourth time. It was 2:55. He thought about all the factors that his article entailed; U.S. Government agencies, stacking the numbers, spending a lot of money, at least on paper, and all in a U.S. Commonwealth that was being claimed as the victim of a "Devastating natural disaster." But the facts he accumulated, proved otherwise. Where was the money going and who was benefiting the most? Those were the questions he needed answered. He believed the interview with Guidry would shed some light on the subject.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Final GOD by D. "Deuke" Eukel. Copyright © 2013 D. "Deuke" Eukel. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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