The Bunker below Believers’ Palace ppt

The Bunker below Believers’ Palace: A Short Story By Paul Salvette Copyright 2011 Paul Salvette Smashwords Edition The Bunker below Believers’ Palace Lieutenant Nixon sat at his desk, browsing FunnyorDie.com to see if the new GI Joe parody videos were up. The early warning sirens blared, “Incoming, incoming.” A rocket impacted somewhere close by and shook the room, but the lieutenant sighed in frustration at the horrendous lag time of his internet connection. What the hell are these IT contractors getting paid for? “All clear, all clear,” the familiar voice said over the loudspeakers. Lieutenant Nixon continued staring at his computer screen, waiting for the next search page to load. Colonel Stotz stood up at his desk and put his hands on his hips. He remarked to no one in particular, “Damn it. Sadr’s boys are getting better with their aim. I’ve never seen the IZ take so much indirect fire.” He mumbled something to the Air Force major, whom Nixon regarded as a lummox. The colonel then headed toward Nixon’s desk as the lieutenant quickly clicked open his Outlook window to show a list of unread e-mails. “Nixon, I need those numbers on Anti-Iraqi Forces KIA in Baghdad. Report status.” “Almost done, sir. I just need to put the data into tables in Excel. Um, aren’t we calling them ‘Al-Qaeda in Iraq’ or ‘AQI’ now?” “Whatever the hell we’re calling the bastards, just label them correctly. Also, make sure you put the data into Powerpoint for me. I need slides to show General Pichek tomorrow afternoon, and he’s a real stickler for detail.” Despite being a career-staff weenie in the Army with a graduate degree, Colonel Stotz had not yet figured out how to import from Excel into Powerpoint. “Of course, sir. I’ll have it done by tonight.” “Good work, Nixon. I’m going to hit the gym for a couple hours. Looks like we won’t get hit for the rest of the day.” The lieutenant’s eyes followed the colonel as he exited the room. He re-opened his web browser and noticed FunnyorDie.com was still loading. “Goddamn it,” he said under his breath. Nixon ran both hands over his hair and winced in anger. He had already finished the slides the colonel wanted, but he held off on giving them to him to avoid being assigned more work. He didn’t care how many insurgents had been whacked in Baghdad over the last six months, much less about Colonel Stotz impressing General Pichek. To cheer himself up, Nixon double-clicked on the “Countdown to Happiness” desktop icon. A picture of a naked woman on a motorcycle appeared holding up a white board that read: “Arrived in the Sandbox: January 12, 2007 Leaving the Sandbox: January 12, 2008 Today’s date: September 29, 2007 Days left in this Shithole: 105.” Lieutenant Nixon was encouraged he’d be down to double digits next week, but he knew he still had a long way to go before he could catch that plane ride home. Life as a staff pogue in Iraq was frequently referred to as “Groundhog Day” because every day was exactly the same. For Lieutenant Nixon, however, each new day was worse than the last. Nixon was one of the many Navy officers stationed at the United States Embassy, formerly Saddam Hussein’s Presidential Palace, in the International Zone in Baghdad. The media call it the Green Zone, but military personnel have been ordered not to use this term because it’s offensive to Muslims for some reason. Now the Navy had seen fit to pick at random young lieutenants finishing up their 3-year sea tours and ship them over to Iraq or Afghanistan. “This ambitious new program will truly help our friends in the Army and Marines,” Nixon had once read in Navy Times from some admiral, who was probably an asshole. The Individual Augmentee program also promoted professional development in young officers, but no junior officer saw it that way. Nixon had been trained as a submariner to oversee the nuclear reactor and not collide with other shit while steaming around the Pacific Ocean. He knew little about combat in Iraq and even less about working on a joint staff with a bunch of career-weenies from the Army, Air Force, and Marines. He despised their gung ho attitudes with a passion. Nixon, fed up with the wait, turned off his monitor and walked out of the office. He headed toward the Green Beans coffee kiosk located in one of Saddam’s old ballrooms. Drinking overpriced coffee and masturbating in the palace’s marble bathrooms was all that kept him from going insane. He walked past three Blackwater contactors, clearly on steroids, who were flirting with a woman from the State Department. She had an okay body, but her face was covered with acne scars. By IZ standards though, she was a goddess. Nixon never bothered to hit on the civilian women, since his salary was about one-fourth of what the dickhead contractors were making. He shuffled past a bulletin board announcing Salsa Dancing Night on Thursdays and felt an urge to rip it down. Walking into the massive ballroom filled with civilians and military personnel lounging on couches, he kept his head down to avoid eye contact with anyone. He headed toward the Green Beans counter and ordered an iced coffee. The jolt of sugar and caffeine would be the highlight of his day. After paying three dollars for this luxury item, he collapsed onto one of the couches. He looked around for today’s Stars and Stripes paper, but they were all gone. Sprawling out in his desert cammies, he let out a sigh. “Hullo, Lieutenant Nixon. How are you today?” Nixon looked up and saw Hans, who often got coffee at the same time he did. “Hey, Hans. Sorry, didn’t see you there. How’s life in the shit?” “Haha, you are so funny, my friend. I am doing well. And yourself?” “Hanging in there. I’m almost down to double digits.” “That is nice. Lieutenant, I always wondered what a Navy officer is doing in Iraq. Are there any ships you must take charge of?” “Not exactly. I got piss drunk at my hail and farewell party last December, and I woke up on the shoulder of a highway with a cop tapping on my window.” “I see. So you were sent here as a form of punishment?” “Yeah, the Navy doesn’t like their officers getting DUIs. But enough about my sorry life, what’re you doing in Iraq? Shouldn’t you be retired on the beach in Thailand with some young babe half your age?” “No, no. I am here for the excitement. These are interesting times in our world.” Nixon looked curiously at the gray-haired man but couldn’t read the eyes behind those wire- rimmed glasses. This was a strange response. The young contractors usually give bullshit answers to why they’re in Iraq, like “I want to serve my country.” The older ones, however, are usually more truthful and admit they need the money for retirement or alimony payments. “I don’t think I follow.” “There are so many things happening in this country. You do know this part of the world was the cradle of civilization, ya? And I think it will be the last place remaining when the End Times finally come.” Nixon had no idea what this German was talking about. He quickly stood up and threw his half-finished iced coffee in a trash can: “Well, I should be getting back to work.” “Wait, lieutenant. Would you like to see something interesting tomorrow? There is a bunker below Believers’ Palace that I want you to visit. Do you know about it?” Fidgeting with the leg holster for his 9mm, Nixon responded, “That’s the palace that got hit with JDAMs, right?” “Yes, Believers’ Palace was bombed during the invasion in 2003, but the bunker is still completely intact.” Tomorrow was Nixon’s one day off for the week, and he thought about his plans for the day: jerking off in his trailer, doing laundry, watching bootleg DVDs, more jerking off. What the hell, Nixon thought. “Alright, Hans, let’s do it.” “That is wonderful. I will meet you in front of the palace at 8:00 a.m.” “See you there.” Lieutenant Nixon walked down the road that ran from the Embassy toward Believers’ Palace. Ten-foot high concrete walls stacked together to form a corridor down each side. Baghdad’s morning dust was gritty on his teeth. He looked down at the small, black squares from spent rocket propellant here and there. He had experienced the morning chill when he first arrived in Iraq, but today his back sweated as he trudged along. An up-armored SUV passed him on the deserted road, and he paid it no mind. In the distance, he saw Hans waving at him near the gates to the destroyed palace. He waved back as he crossed the road, listening for any incoming fire that would wake up the late-rising State Department pukes. He had actually heard of this bunker before. It was one of those rumors floating around the IZ, like Saddam’s hidden stash of seven million dollars or the Ba’ath Party sex dungeon. Nixon brushed these off as tales concocted by desk jockeys with too much time on their hands. Nevertheless, he was curious about this secret bunker where Saddam had conducted high-level meetings with his generals as the bombs pulverized Baghdad during the invasion. So he hoped this visit would break up the monotony. Hans extended his arm to shake Nixon’s hand, but as Nixon reached out Hans surprisingly slapped him five like they were back in middle school. “Welcome, Lieutenant Nixon. I am so glad you could come.” The German was dressed in white tennis shoes and black socks, confirming Nixon’s suspicion that Europeans were all pretty weird. They walked through a rusted gate and made their way toward a checkpoint surrounded by concrete barriers. A lone Iraqi soldier was plopped down on a plastic chair, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He waved Hans through and stepped in front of Nixon. “Do you have ID, sir?” the young soldier grumbled. Nixon fished through the plastic holder hanging on his chest to produce his military ID card. As he handed it over for inspection, he glimpsed at the photo that was taken right when he made lieutenant. He had been stationed at Pearl Harbor at the time, and he thought he had only one year left in the Navy. God was I stupid. “Here you go, my friend.” “Shukran,” Nixon replied, subtly mocking the Iraqi’s accent. “Okay, you can go,” the soldier said, falling back down onto his chair as his AK-47 dangled in the dust. Hans and Nixon walked into the entryway of the palace, which appeared to be structurally sound enough. Gaudy pillars of cheap plaster held up a balcony above the massive doorway. Once Nixon walked inside, it was apparent that the place had gotten its ass kicked by the Coalition Forces. The rubble in the main room was a foot high with wood, chunks of concrete, and warped sheet metal. The support beams that held up what remained of the roof were pockmarked with shrapnel. Twisted rebar and wiring hung from the ceiling and swayed as the breeze blew through. Two pillars of light came down at an angle from where bombs penetrated the roof during the invasion. “Can you believe what they did here, lieutenant? All this destruction is almost unbearable to see, to say nothing of this country as a whole now.” Nixon never understood why people, whether American or otherwise, felt the need to lecture him on the downsides of the invasion. Sure, the decisions of the Coalition Provisional Authority during the early days of the war were boneheaded to say the least. But Nixon reckoned such people feel self-righteous in speaking to someone who they think is in power. When President Bush announced America was launching a war in Iraq, Nixon was a lowly ensign struggling to pass Navy Nuclear Power School. He was hardly one of the swinging dicks calling the shots. “I’m not sure everything went according to plan, but at least Saddam’s done for,” Nixon said, trying to divert the conversation from politics. Hans leaned down and picked up shattered pieces of a chandelier. “Look at this. Something so beautiful, now destroyed in the name of freedom.” Nixon bit his tongue to avoid mentioning that Saddam, like Hitler, gassed his own people. He didn’t want to offend the German, even though he was acting bizarre. “Do you believe in this war? Do you like your president?” Hans continued. “I don’t know,” Nixon blurted out. “I’m in the military. We just do what we’re told.” “Haha, you always have a good sense of humor, lieutenant.” Nixon was confused. Nothing he had said could be construed as funny. “I wonder, if you were given the choice of whether or not to invade Iraq, which would you choose? Pretend you are the president of the United States and someone has put a gun to your head.” “I don’t know. Any asshole can look back in the past and say he would’ve made the right decision. But no, Saddam didn’t pose a direct threat to us.” Hans paused with an odd look on his face before nodding. He turned and stepped over some rubble in a doorway. He pulled aside a pile of debris to reveal a hatch with a circular wheel. Grabbing the protruding handle, he spun the wheel counterclockwise. He yanked the steel hatch as a puff of air escaped, blowing dust over Nixon’s uniform. “Come have a look at this bunker, lieutenant. It is so fascinating.” Hans pulled the hatch vertically so it stood on its own. He stepped down onto the ladder and descended into the darkness. Nixon reached for the tiny, blue Maglite he always kept in the front pocket of his uniform. He gave it a twist to turn it on and placed the cold metal in his mouth. Peering down the hatch, he could see Hans standing in a tiled hallway with a grin on his face. “Don’t you need a flashlight?” Nixon asked. “No, I am okay, my friend. I know my way around.” Nixon climbed down and left the hatch open. As he stepped onto the level below, he could smell mildew and diesel. It reminded him of those long days at sea, trapped in the metal confines of a submarine. He shuddered. “Are you claustrophobic, lieutenant?” “Not really. What the hell was this place used for?” “Ah, yes. Saddam had this bunker constructed during the Iraq-Iran War in the 1980s. However, he ordered it to be expanded and more heavily fortified in the 1990s. He thought Israel was going to strike Baghdad and end everything he had worked to build.” “Hmm,” Nixon grunted as he looked over the surroundings. Mold rotted the corners of the hallway, and a large rat scurried past his boots. Nixon followed Hans with his flashlight pointed down the corridor, which cast a long shadow of Hans onto the gray tiles. Hans turned a corner that led into a small room. A single candle burned below a framed picture of Saddam standing in front of a brick wall. A cluster of Iraqi children were in the corner of the picture, all smiling. The dictator had his right hand raised with an AK-47, while his left hand remained outstretched below a large stone block with an inscription in Arabic and English: “Built by Saddam Hussein, son of Nebuchadnezzar, to glorify Iraq.” “You like this picture, ya?” Hans voice echoed inside the small confines of the room, slightly disorienting Nixon. “Where was it taken?” “At the ruins of Babylon,” Hans replied, gazing in awe at the picture. Nixon stifled a laugh at Saddam’s ridiculous trademark mustache. Nixon scanned the room with his flashlight and noticed a metal conference table with eight chairs. A puddle of water sat in the middle of the warped table. Nixon tilted his flashlight up and saw a tiny chandelier hanging on a brass chain. “I guess the looters didn’t make it down here,” Nixon said. At the edge of the room, he saw a large control panel with indicator lights that were all dead. Everything was labeled in German and Arabic. The panel had a map of the bunker, with two lights for each room and corridor. “Do you know what this was used for?” Nixon asked. “Yes, of course I do. I was the one who designed it. I am very grateful no one found it during the invasion.” “You designed it? For Saddam? The guy who murdered his own people?” “Yes, indeed. We were hired to build a bunker that could withstand every type of attack, even nuclear. When this panel was functional, the lights showed if there were dangerous levels of toxic gases inside the compound. The idea was that we could stay down here and wait.” Hans ran his hand over the control panel, tracing the black lines of the extensive tunnel system. He knocked his fist twice on the outer chassis as a hollow sound reverberated through the dead machine. “Come. Look behind the panel.” “Is this where you hide your scheisse porn stash, Hans?” “No, no, lieutenant. Behind here lies something much more important than simple pleasure.” Now Nixon had come across some real creeps in his day, but he had no clue what Hans was after. Fear washed over the lieutenant as Hans led him behind the control panel into a dark recess. Hans pushed open a small door on the wall and ducked through it. Nixon crouched and saw a circle of candles dripping wax on top of a small pedestal. A pair of coat hangers duct-taped to the ceiling of the small recess held a picture of a spaceship. It had an Iraqi flag with Ba’ath stars scribbled on its exterior in crayon. The crude sketch looked like it had come out of a children’s book. “Nice drawing. Looks like the flying saucer they used in Plan 9 from Outer Space,” Nixon muttered. “This is no simple sketch, lieutenant. It is a prophecy. You see, when Nebuchadnezzar drove the Jews out of Jerusalem more than two thousand years ago, they vowed vengeance against the Babylonians. Saddam recognized that the rise of Israel in the Middle East means they are coming to seek retribution. This bunker ensures that he will survive while everyone else in the region perishes. So once the End Times come, Saddam will be able to escape in this vessel.” “Sure, and I hope he can take Peter Pan and Tinker Bell with him. Listen, Hans, this is all very amusing, but I’ve got to head back to my trailer.” “Wait. Please, lieutenant, you have to listen. Saddam had our firm in Germany construct this bunker, but he doesn’t want anyone else to know of its true purpose. That is why he has locked us down here. He wants to make sure that those with the necessary technical knowledge can help him escape after the apocalypse.” “Fucking weirdo,” Nixon mumbled as he began walking backward out of the room. Despite the terrible awkwardness of the situation, Nixon was glad Hans at least didn’t try to grope his genitals. Heading down the corridor, he heard footsteps approaching from both ends. Nixon shined his light and saw a group of men with white hair and skin even paler than Hans’. They were yelling something in German. “Who are you guys, the CHUDs?” The Hessian denizens then grabbed Nixon and pinned him onto the metal table. The light dropped out of his hands, hitting the ground and turning off, but the shadows still skittered on the walls from the candlelight. Hans pulled out a knife from his cargo pants and held it to Nixon’s neck. “We thought you hated being here, Nixon, and that you despised the war effort. We thought we could have used your expertise, but you ruined your opportunity to come away with us to a new world.” Nixon breathed heavily, realizing his death was imminent. “What spaceship? Saddam is dead, you morons. Didn’t you see him being hung on TV?” “All lies, Nixon. You must never tell our secret. Our plans must remain unknown.” Hans pulled up Nixon’s uniform and drove the knife into his abdomen through his undershirt. A group of hands began ripping away his skin and yanking at his innards, setting them aside in a sloppy, steamy mess on the cold table. What the fuck, Nixon thought as he looked into their cold, steady eyes. I was almost down to double digits. THE END Author’s Notes I actually served in the IZ as a junior officer when this story takes place. However, I never had the guts to actually go down to the secret bunker below Believers’ Palace. It really does exist. While Lieutenant Nixon is portrayed as bitter, I actually enjoyed serving in Iraq under the leadership of an Army colonel. He was the best leader I’ve ever served under during my time in the Navy. My buddies who were actually kicking in doors and driving around in Humvees always poked fun at me for living the cushy life while in Iraq. This book is dedicated to them. And, yes, Salsa Dancing Night was an actual event at the US Embassy in Baghdad. About the Author Paul Salvette is an author who lives in Bangkok, Thailand with his wife, Lisa, and newborn daughter, Monica. He grew up in the United States and served in the Navy from 2002 to 2009, with some time in Iraq. His day job involves working at a Thai foundation that focuses on poverty eradication, philanthropy, and education. He hopes to stay in Thailand until he is deported or dies of natural causes, whichever comes first. Learn more about Paul at http://paulsalvette.com About The Bunker below Believers’ Palace Lieutenant Nixon is a bitter, frustrated naval officer serving his time as a staff weenie in the International Zone. Bored with the monotony of war, he ventures to a secret bunker below one of Saddam Hussein’s former palaces with a quirky German named Hans. Crawling down to the depths of the destroyed structure, he finds more than he bargained for. The Bunker below Believers’ Palace is a 3,400-word (~15-page) short story about the mystery behind Saddam’s toppled dictatorship. Author: Paul Salvette Editor: Ben Salvette Cover Art: Paul Salvette [...]... from the zippers and shuffle around in blown-out flip-flops Kids talking among themselves trickle into the park as the massive crowd mills around a large stage A few mustached university cops stand by in riot gear, but they’re just chatting about the Avalanche game rather than looking to start a brawl The police certainly aren’t interested in the spectacle before my eyes, so I wonder if it’s just another... on the East Coast Travel with this veteran through the barren desert of California all the way to New York City as he learns about modern America, as well as himself America Goes On is a 16,000-word (~65-page) novella about the 21st century reality of war in America Coming soon to the Amazon.com Kindle store and Smashwords.com Excerpt from America Goes On The freeway descends from the Rockies into the. .. away in the distance, so I figure that must be the source of this “guerilla activism.” On the walk over, I pass all sorts of multicolored flyers stapled to telephone poles that announce the protest tonight against the war The flyers proclaim nonsense like “1,000,000 Dead in Iraq and Counting” (that’s ridiculous), “No Blood for Oil!” (we never put any Iraqi oil into our vehicles), and “Fuck the War”... on the job for them In front of the stage, a mish-mash of old hippies and college kids hold a variety of protest signs, mostly about Iraq, but some read “Free Mumia,” “Smash the Police State,” or random blurbs beyond comprehension Many among the younger crowd wear shirts silk-screened with that Che guy’s mug Many among the older crowd don sun hats and pastel-colored spandex pants that highlight the. .. was in the Marines because he came from a messed up family and needed the money for college It’s good to see he’s using the GI Bill to do what he really wants He served his time, and I’m glad he’s getting something back for it During chow he’d talk about why we shouldn’t be in Iraq He went on and on about how there are no WMDs, that we have no business being involved in the Middle East, and that the war... silk-screened with that Che guy’s mug Many among the older crowd don sun hats and pastel-colored spandex pants that highlight the disgusting fatness around their midsections Table of Contents Title Story Author’s Notes About the Author About The Bunker below Believer’s Palace About America Goes On Excerpt from America Goes On ... getting the shit beaten out of him, he never mentioned his opinions to anyone else During Mark’s diatribes, I’d usually give acknowledging grunts and nods, but whenever he veered into the ridiculous, I’d look to the side as a subtle way of showing my disagreement Even though he didn’t believe in what the White House and Pentagon were doing, he was still a good Marine Mark told me to meet him in the middle... what the hell he was talking about, nor what I should expect Pulling off the freeway into Boulder, I see lots of people walking dogs outside fancy houses and coffee shops It reminds me of when we used to go up to Ann Arbor to party in high school But this town has broader lawns, smaller dogs, and nicer cars I’m used to seeing college kids with couches on their porch and beer bottles tossed on the sidewalk,... Excerpt from America Goes On The freeway descends from the Rockies into the Denver skyline and the Great Plains beyond I’m stuck in rush hour and something is off If Colorado is in the Wild West, it sure doesn’t feel like it I’ve passed several ski resorts and seen too many damn rich people on vacation with their K2 skis on Thule roof racks, Botox injections, Dior sunglasses, and L.L Bean jackets This...America Goes On – Coming Soon A young veteran of the Iraq war drives across America while struggling to find his place in the country he just defended Confronted with complacent attitudes and narrow minds, he realizes his fellow citizens don’t even understand America is at war, let alone respect his sacrifice The only people he can relate to are his fellow Marines from his second . The Bunker below Believers’ Palace: A Short Story By Paul Salvette Copyright 2011 Paul Salvette Smashwords Edition The Bunker below Believers’ Palace Lieutenant Nixon. people, whether American or otherwise, felt the need to lecture him on the downsides of the invasion. Sure, the decisions of the Coalition Provisional Authority during the early days of the war. interesting tomorrow? There is a bunker below Believers’ Palace that I want you to visit. Do you know about it?” Fidgeting with the leg holster for his 9mm, Nixon responded, “That’s the palace that got