Café Crem

Art, Music and Words around The Coffee Table

Atlantic Bridge -2-

(Prologue) (Atlantic Bridge -1-)

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June 6th 2062, Kittery, Maine.

The Heli Jet disgorged its human cargo, taking off into the hazy blue skies of Maine again almost immediately. The Five men ran quickly into the innocuous looking gunmetal grey aircraft hanger. Once inside, they were met by a barrel-chested, tight-lipped marine who gave them a curt nod before ushering them into a stainless steel elevator in the corner of the hanger. With a barely audible whoosh they proceeded to drop 2 miles down into the bedrock.
Seconds later, the doors opened and a brightly lit corridor greeted them. It looked to go on for miles. They were ushered into a nearby conference room, and the marine, evidently well-briefed, announced them:

“General Sir George Lacey, UK Commander-in-chief, Armed Forces,
Lieutenant Commander Ben Tobias, His Majesty’s Royal Navy,
Sir Robert Westing , Universal Civil Engineers Chief Executive,
Daniel Rawlings, Chairman of the Board, Structural Solutions, UK,
and finally, Mr. Marius Cassel, CBE, B.A. Frcs. Institute of International Architects.”

The group exchanged pleasantries with their American counterparts, Cal Mooney of Buildcorp, Inc.,  Dexter Johnson of Statewide Corporate and Structural, and Bert Dwyer, C.O. of Polyflex Industries.

The meeting was chaired by the U.S. Strategic Commander General Thomas Alberstein, assisted by his Lieutenant, Edwin Newsome.

The USSC wasted no time. “Gentlemen, I hope we have managed to arrange this meet as speedily as you would have liked, now what in the blazes is so damned important that’s its got me running up to Maine like I’ve got a fire in my ass?”
“Your turn of phrase is as entertaining as ever, General Alberstein, “ said Sir George Lacey. “Ben, can you outline for the good general here our doomsday scenario?”

For the next five minutes, Ben Tobias painted a gloomy picture, the build up of terrorist battalions in Normandy and Brittany, the discovery of covert fundamentalist operations in US and UK territories in the Caribbean, and the continuing call from the ruling Bin Laden family to the muslim community of Great Britain to distance itself  from the population, and pave the way for “Shariah Law’s full implementation in spiritually Islamic Britain”. By the time he sat down, an air of depression had filled the room.

“Okay”, said Alberstein, “Now you’ve improved my mood, what’s your point, I’m damn sure you didn’t need to come all this way to tell me how deep the shit is.”

“Indeed not, Thomas, “ said Sir George patiently, “and I should now like to ask Mr. Marius Cassel to share his thoughts with us.”

Marius Cassel stood. An unassuming man, around 1.75m, short salt and pepper hair, and steel rimmed glasses, he was a fit 52, and was the product of a German father and Polish mother. He grew up in Ambialet, a beautiful town shoehorned into the sheer rock that rose out of the River Tarn, in southern France. It was a wonderful place to grow up in, the green river flowing by, caressing the golden sand banks that occasionally peeked above the surface. Ancient, rough-hewn steps found their way down the rocks to a riverside path which Marius spent hours wandering along. A church nestled between the jagged outcrops above the village, but high on the next rock looking down over all of Ambialet, was the Monastery. The Monastery was a source of wonder to the young Marius. How had it been constructed, in such a seemingly inaccessible place? The small town was full of such things to pique a young boy’s curiosity. A tunnel, through the rock itself, served to link the sections of Ambialet, as it struggled against nature to create a community on, above and between the jagged rocks, and an old stone bridge spanned the widening Tarn, as it swept by the town in an imperious arc. The walls of Ambialet seemed to merge as one with the natural rock as it plunged down into the river, giving the Southern aspect of the town the impression of a fortress. Marius’ interest in Architecture had begun at the age of 5, when his mother used to take him on trips to visit the worlds’ great cathedrals. She was a fanatical Catholic, but the religion made little impression on the young Marius. It was the gods who had built these wonderful places that he wanted to worship, better still, emulate, and with an I.Q. that was off the scale, and a wealthy family to fund his education, he went on to do just that. Living in Ambialet until he left school, the family then relocated to Chartres, with Marius opting to study in Oxford. After leaving University at the age of 22, he returned to his family home in Chartres to find his parents murdered, and the magnificent Cathedral razed to the ground by fundamentalists. Public executions were taking place daily amidst the ruins of that once mighty edifice, as weeping Catholics and Protestants alike were tortured for their beliefs. Marius had fled in horror, and found sanctuary in England. He now lived in a small cottage just outside Canterbury, with a view of the cathedral, where he could look upon that wonderful building and try and soothe the memory of the past….

© Kev Moore 2008 All Rights Reserved

(Atlantic Bridge 3)

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January 10, 2009 - Posted by | books, Cafe Literati, Kev Moore's Novel Atlantic Bridge, personal, politics, random, writing | , , ,

10 Comments »

  1. Warming up beautifully on the bonfire of Christians here…
    Egads, but that is a scary thought.
    I wept buckets last night watching the latest BBC production of the Diary of Anne Frank and then some more on Brannagh’s Anne Frank Remembered. I had to have a second glass of rose wine. I simply cannot fathom how people can be so evil and yet go home and do normal things like play with their kids.
    I nearly got up in the night when I couldn’t sleep, to write a post about the whole thing but the house was cold and I didn’t want to disturb everyone by being obsessive and writing in the middle of the night.
    Keep it up, Kev.

    Comment by viv66 | January 10, 2009

  2. […] (Next instalment Saturday 10th.January) Possibly related posts: (automatically generated)St. George IslandA Way of Life Slipping AwayWay of Life Slipping Away Along Chesapeake’s Edge […]

    Pingback by Atlantic Bridge -1- « Café Crem | January 10, 2009

  3. Thanks Viv. I haven’t managed to watch the Anne Frank production, but I’ve seen snippets. When I was touring Germany some years ago, I made it my business to visit Belsen. They have some of her things in a small museum there. Little else remains, but I swear there is a preternatural stillness to the place. As you walk around, you come across huge mounds with simple markings that say “here lie 6,000 dead…here lie 4,000 dead.” It is the stuff of nightmares.

    Comment by kevmoore | January 10, 2009

  4. Years ago I read Michael Bentine’s book The Door marked summer which covered his involvement through his whole life with spiritualism, and he was part of the allied forces who liberated Auschwitz. He commented that no birds would ever go near the place, or even fly over it. Utter stillness ruled that was deeply unsettling even many years later.
    On another note, my very first assignment as language school courier was to collect from Stansted airport a group of German children from Cologne and escort them back to Suffolk with a few hours spent at…The Imperial War museum at Duxford. Talk about feeling awkward.. but it went very well and I stay in touch with the teachers even now. It reminded me of Fawlty Towers and “Don’t talk about the war!”

    Comment by viv66 | January 10, 2009

  5. Kev,

    I experienced the same sort of feelings when I visited the War Tunnels on Jersey. It is so still down there and there’s an odd smell to the place. Puts the hairs on the back of your neck up.

    Anyway, looking forward to the next instalment! 🙂

    Comment by jennypaws | January 11, 2009

  6. Jenny,
    Some weeks ago I saw with Kevin the film “The eagle has landed” and for the first time pictures of Jersey there. I instantaneously fell in love with the island, i want to go and paint and sketch there1 So we have decided to go there, as well as to Guernsey, when we will do our trip to Devon and Cornwall, which should be within the 2 next years… And be sure that we will visit the War Tunnels there!

    Kev Moore,
    Just a detail here, you have heard enough compliments from me here at home! I would rather prefer Marius to be about 1,83m 🙂
    Yes, a smile, but I am not kidding… I just think that a hero of such a gigantic project must be a little bit taller than 1,75 (even if the biggest hero of my life, after you, is my brother and is exactly 1,75m). I am aware that I am very trivial here, following the basic norms (Hollywood norms or whatever…)… but well, these norms exist for some reasons.
    I would be interested to hear the opinion of our otehr Cafe Cremers about this “detail”…

    Comment by Miki | January 11, 2009

  7. Well, size isn’t everything Miki!
    I’m about 1m 70ish and my husband about 2 cm taller…
    I have always felt I have a six foot two soul in a five seven body and my girth is my attempt to achieve the right size body somehow!
    I wasn’t joking about being made of india rubber a while back. Yesterday I managed to dislocate my own forefinger while trying to use it as a shoehorn to get my boots on, got it stuck, tugged and screamed as it popped out of its socket and then sprang back in again. It was like something out of a Loony tunes cartoon. I have to drink coffee left handed now as my right hand hurts so much to hold anything heavier than a pen. I do wish I might stretch my whole body to my optimum height. As Garfield said, I’m not overweight, I’m undertall!

    Comment by viv66 | January 11, 2009

  8. Oh I know that, Viv! But I would still prefer a bigger Marius!!! Kevin was looking at me a little bit worried as I said that… but I really believe that he did not realise how much is 1,75m, he thought it is quite big. Kevin is till not used to the continent measurement units… so I guess he wanted a bigger hero himself! Even if he says Marius is a kind of anti-hero… even anti-heroes respect some common norms of success…

    I am myself a tiny little thing of 1.59 m… but even 1,60m sometimes, when I need to appear gigantic…
    I won’t give any clue about my soul size though… but my heart is bigger than a mountain! And my brain, hum… it has a very elastic size, varying between 0,00m and GIANT depending on what the world asks him…

    Sorry to hear about your finger, i hope the pain will vanish soon … sounds awful!

    Comment by Miki | January 11, 2009

  9. The finger thing is an example of why I won’t dance….I have dislocated my shoulder as a kid and have strained various joints badly because I don’t get the warning most people get. I have tendons that seem to belong to a much bigger person than me; my spine is especially vulnerable as I can twist almost right round without any effort in the strangest of ways more usually seen in yogi masters than normal people, but it is prone to injury because of this.
    I couldn’t get to sleep last night again but it may havebeen the pain that contributed.

    Comment by viv66 | January 11, 2009

  10. […] (Prologue) (Atlantic Bridge -1-) (Atlantic Bridge 2) […]

    Pingback by Atlantic Bridge -3- « Café Crem | January 14, 2009


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