Fantasy Delta Green Lore and Case Histories.

The Faceless King · Jun 1, 2017

Organizations

Covert government groups
The average government agency is ignorant to the abominations that plague this universe. However, a handful of less-than-public groups have glimpsed the truth. They have taken many forms, and many sides. Some fight body and soul against the horrors, while others have given the same just for power. Remember, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend", and "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." You can only go mad once.

North America

Delta Green

Born out of Project Covenant and the Innsmouth Raids of 1927. At first attached to the US Navy, during WWII it became a separate organization. A disastrous mission during the Vietnam War lead to the end of the official status of the organization. The agents continued on as an illegal network within the US government, which fights the darkness to this day.

"Delta Green: An organisation which encourages middle-aged accountants and bureaucrats to drive vans filled with dynamite into the homes of white supremacists who worship the risen spirit of Hitler."
— Tolervi

Once an official government agency charged with identifying and neutralizing preternatural threats against the United States, Delta Green was disbanded following a disastrous operation in Cambodia in 1969. Within a year, the leaders of Delta Green regrouped and continued the fight as an illegal conspiracy.

Background:

Prior to the raid, a team of U.S. Treasury Department agents under the command of Special Agent Wade of the Secret Service conducted an investigation of the townsfolk of Innsmouth. Their findings prompted President Calvin Coolidge to authorize a raid under the code name Project COVENANT. The Department of the Navy, in the form of the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) agents, U.S. Marines, and U.S. Coast Guard troops, provided both firepower and manpower. The Justice Department’s Bureau of Investigation, under director J. Edgar Hoover, was brought on board for its legal authority to seize “suspected aliens and seditionists” for deportation.

Results:

ONI captured approximately 200 Deep One hybrids; a copy of the log of the Sumatra Queen, the ship of Innsmouth’s most prominent merchant-captain and founder of the Esoteric Order of Dagon, Captain Obed Marsh; a Marsh family history dated 1862; two copies (one badly burnt) of the Ponape Scripture; five conical stone tablets inscribed with glyphs (weighing about fifty pounds each); and incomplete translation notes for the strange glyphs, compiled over many years by Robert Marsh, who was killed by Marines while resisting arrest. Rumors persist that a submarine fired torpedoes off of Devil’s Reef at an unknown target.

Majestic-12

In 1947 a craft of alien origin crashed just outside Roswell, New Mexico. The government created an agency to handle the remains of the ship and its occupants, and prepare for any further contact with beings of extra-planetary origin. In 1980, that contact was made, giving MJ-12 access to advanced alien technology and information. How they got that information and what they did with it could be considered treason.

MJ-12 was founded by Presidential order after discoveries made following the Roswell Incident in 1947. The depth of its mission changed in 1980, when MJ-12 made contact with Greys, actual Extraterrestrial Biological Entities. The Greys provided them with advanced technology and other information, which MJ-12 adapts for use. The organization has twelve divisions, each with their own responsibilites and sub-projects:

MJ-1: Project AQUARIUS

Director: Justin R. Kroft

AQUARIUS is the administrative section of Majestic 12. It reviews the records of all the other offices, recruits personnel and coordinates the logistics and financing of the group.

MJ-2: Project PLATO

Director: Dr. Abner Ringwood

PLATO is the strategic planning section of Majestic 12. The members of this project create contingency plans and draft provisional treaties for use in contact with EBEs.

MJ-3: Project GARNET

Director: Gavin Ross

GARNET is the counterintelligence and information security section of Majestic 12. It is responsible for the control of all information and documents relating to the US government's relations with EBEs. They are also detailed with concealing the Greys' activities on Earth.

Project MKUltra, or MK-Ultra, was a covert, illegal, real-world human research program into behavioral modification run by the Central Intelligence Agency's (CIA) Office of Scientific Intelligence. The program began in the early 1950s, was officially sanctioned in 1953, was reduced in scope in 1964, further curtailed in 1967 and finally halted in 1973. The program used unwitting U.S. and Canadian citizens as its test subjects, which led to controversy regarding its legitimacy. MKUltra involved the use of many methodologies to manipulate people's individual mental states and alter brain functions, including the surreptitious administration of drugs (especially LSD) and other chemicals, hypnosis, sensory deprivation, isolation, verbal and sexual abuse, as well as various forms of torture.

MJ-4: Project SIGMA

Director: Dr. Friedreich Lounds

SIGMA is the communications and cryptography section of Majestic 12.

MJ-5: Project MOON DUST

Director: Lt. General Eustis Bell, USAF

MOON DUST is dedicated to intercepting and recovering any alien craft that enters areas under American control. They are also detailed with concealing information about the intercepted alien craft.

MJ-6: Project PLUTO

Director: Maj. Gen. Kurtis Schenk, USAF

PLUTO evaluates all scientific and technological information received from EBEs. It has a host of sub-projects dedicated to further research along specific lines. Its intelligence center is located in the COUNTRY CLUB, while its science facilities are at the S-4 laboratory at Area-51 on the Air Force's Nellis Test Range.

CLASSIFIED

MJ-7: Project REDLIGHT

Director: Dr. Edward Penn

REDLIGHT is dedicated to applying alien technology to terrestrial aerospace research, such as the Aurora craft. They have facilities at the Skunk Works at Area-51 of the Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada.

MJ-8: Project DANCER

Director: Unkown

DANCER is the xenobiology section of Majestic 12. They maintain the EBE specimens located in the ICE CAVE facility.

MJ-9: Project OVERVIEW

Director: Unknown

OVERVIEW is responsible for deep space reconnaissance and monitoring. They scan the solar system looking for evidence of other EBE activities in local space.

MJ-10: Project SIDEKICK

Director: Unkown

SIDEKICK is the liaison section of Majestic 12, and keeps in contact with foreign military and civilian intelligence services in allied nations the world.

MJ-11: Project LOOKING GLASS

Director: Sandra White

LOOKING GLASS is the intelligence section of Majestic 12, and keeps contacts in Communist and former Communist nations around the world.

MJ-12: Project DELPHI (the organization as a whole does not refer to itself as MJ-12)

Director: Unkown

DELPHI is the analysis section of Majestic 12. It collects and collates reports from all the other branches of MJ-12, as well as military, intelligence, and academic communities around the world.

CLASSIFIED

Asia

Xianfeng / Bureau 11

A Chinese group that originally used the pretext of anti-superstition and anti-feudalism campaigns during the Cultural Revolution to fight the Mythos, this organisation now exists as an unofficial and shaky alliance between vigilante groups, civil society and the Ministry of State Security, protected and threatened by powerful individuals within the Politburo.

Kurotokage

A covert intelligence branch of the Japanese government. Its mission is to combat the cosmic horrors as they exist or threaten Japan. It is deeply covert, hidden from all other Japanese intelligence and government agencies, and completely independent. It serves the Emperor directly, and can trace its history back to before the Meiji Restoration.

GRU SV-8

A group that can be traced back to the 1920s, it was originally Stalin's tool for the investigation of occult power in Russia. After the fall of the Soviet Union, GRU SV-8 became a shadow of its former self. Though part of the Russian government, they had long ago become hidden from oversight, which meant dwindling funds and few new recruits.

Europe

PISCES

An official British intelligence service that investigates the paranormal. It grew out of an investigation into psychic powers, and cut its teeth during World War II. It investigates many of the dark secrets in the British Isles, but along the way has picked up a dark secret or two of its own.

The Paranormal Intelligence Section for Counterintelligence, Espionage, and Sabotage (PISCES), also known as the Section, is Delta Green's counterpart in the United Kingdom. Created on June 26, 1940 by an executive order of Winston Churchill, PISCES continues to serve as the official arm of the British government charged with defending Great Britain from supernatural threats. Unlike Delta Green, PISCES has studied the secrets of the unknown for possible exploitation in national interests.

Silent 13

Growing out of experiences during the Irish Troubles, this is an unofficial group of former soldiers who have continued to serve as defenders of England. The longer they have fought, the more enemies they have discovered.

Karotechia

An outgrowth of Nazi Germany's research into the occult. They discovered that magic not only existed, but that it could be harnessed and used. After the fall of the Third Reich, survivors of this group fled to the corners of the globe, taking their discoveries with them, and keeping alive Hitler's dreams.

The Karotechia was a secret organization in Nazi Germany dedicated to the research and use of Mythos forces for the Third Reich. The name is a bastardization of Hexenkartothek, an SS project to investigate and catalog witch hunts by order of Heinrich Himmler.

Growing out of the Ahnenerbe-SS, the Thule Gesellschaft and the general Nazi interest in the occult, the Karotechia were active throughout World War II, and were often opposed by Delta Green, PISCES and GRU SV-8 in a secret war that decided the fate of Europe.

After the war, 37 members of the Karotechia escaped to the Middle East and South America with other Nazi fugitives. For decades they remained on the run, hiding and growing old in foreign lands. At least 17 were killed by Delta Green and Mossad, or other Nazi-hunters.

That changed in 1975, when "Dr." Olaf Bitterich recruited two other Karotechia survivors, Reinhard Galt and Gunter Frank, to become the core of the new Fourth Reich, which was headquartered at La Estancia. Bitterich was inspired by N̡͎͖̟̰̯̠̫̯̺̤̺̮̦̰̯͕̖͋͌̆̀ͤͪ͟ͅẏ̵̛͇̥͓ͧ̓ͩ̿ͭͬͤ͛̏̀͡ã̈̓́ͦͬ̃ͮ҉̵̠̼̻̞̤̱͕̟̳̘̮̖řͥ̏̒͑ͭ͌͛̑̇ͪ҉̢̖̤͉̭̤͖̩̝̙̩̗̕ͅͅl̲͎̘̙͋͗ͧ̌ͤͭ͝͝a̎̆̑͋̍̾̔ͨ̓͡҉҉̨̪̟̻̰̹̼̝t̴̢̬͙̞̫͔̫͕̪̟̣̠͔ͣ͋͐̑ͯ̌ͣ̉ͪͫ͆̍̓͌̇̀́̚͜h̴̸ͮ̾̅̊ͮ̈̃̈́͏̵̰̼̰͇̪̤̼̹̮̻̦̰̹̮̗͈̟̼͠ȏ̵̴̵̱͔̜̝̭̟̗̫̗̝̭͕̳̦̟̅ͪͨ̽̑͆͂͐ͫẗ̘͔̺̮̯̬̲͔̬̳̪ͣ̌̓̾́ͭ̓́͞e̷̷̢͔̜̜͍͍̱̠͉͍̹̜̬̮͖̲̰̺̒͌ͮ̉ͮ̈́̀ͨͦ͗ͧͪͬͤ̿̿ͯp̫̻͕͈̏ͤ̔͊̉͒͑ͫ͆ͨ͌ͥ̂̐̚͘͞, who appeared before him in the form of Hitler, claiming to have ascended to Godhood. Bitterich chronicled the revelations of Hitler in a book entitled Mein Triumph. The Karotechia is particularly interested in re-obtaining a copy of the Gothic Necronomicon, which they believe will let them duplicate Hitler's Ascension.

Since that time, the Karotechia network has been spreading its dark tentacles through the hate-filled corners of the world, preaching an Undying Reich.

SS Oberfurher Reinhard Galt was a decorated SS officer (Iron Cross 1st Class with Oak Leaves and Swords).

On an expedition to Africa, he discovered a nomadic tribe whose invincibility and longevity were the result of ghastly cannibalistic magical rituals. Unwilling to abandon this fountain of youth, he handed over his men to the Anziques to be killed and eaten. He stayed with the Anziques for six years, learning many of their rituals. Galt was one of three former Karotechia members who reformed the organization.

Gruppe Rubin

After World War II, Germany had to clean up the terrible damage done by the Nazis. Gruppe Rubin is a network of scholars and leaders in Germany dedicated to cleaning up the taint of the Karotechia. They face the terrible truths as a second Holocaust, with the same promise: never again.

In 1946, Edmund Rubinstein invited a number of scholars, businessmen and influential people to his family mansion in the then-ruined city of Essen. Some of these people were experts in the fields of history and archaeology, while others were bankers and politicians. Most of them were Germans who had been able to escape Germany, for they would have faced Nazi persecution, either for their political beliefs or their Jewish heritage.

After a fine dinner, Edmund took his guests into the living room, where he had set up a film projector and a screen. He showed his audience two films that he had gotten from an unnamed source. These films had been made by the Karotechia. The first showed some of the results of their experiments into reanimating corpses. The other documented the summoning of Deep Ones on the Normandy Coast. The audience was shocked.

Edmund was not finished, however. After the films, he brought out several survivors of certain concentration camps. These people had either witnessed or been victims of Karotechia experiments. The stories they told would have been difficult to believe if the audience hadn’t just witnessed those grim films. These men, part of Germany’s new post-war leadership, had incontrovertible proof of what horrors the Nazis had tried to unleash on their country.

Edmund called on these men to promise to protect the new Germany from this taint, to help resist it in the future and to clean up all the damage already inflicted. Those present readily agreed. There are things that no human should deal with; any contact would lead to the corruption of the whole human race. All of the damage done by the Nazis must be healed, and must never happen again.

At first the group was nameless, but when Rubinstein died in 1950 the group continued and gave itself the name "Gruppe Rubin" in honor of their founder.

Civilian resistance and dabblers
These men and women knew what Franklin meant when he said: "We must all hang together, or surely, we shall all hang separately." These men are committed to their causes, men who have seen the dark recesses of the universe and have decided to fight back. They carry the torchlight of civilization into those dark places to expose the monster and drag them into daylight. Of course, there is more than one way in which a man can be committed.

Established religions

The Congregation

Before the borders of Europe congealed, the Catholic Church was fighting supernatural horrors. They have two thousand years of “knowledge” behind them, and a network of people who believe in angels and demons.

Fist of Allah

Little is known about this Libyan organization except that they are sponsored by Col. Muammar Gaddafi (1942-2011), and they are devout Muslims.

Academics

Voelz Grant Conservatory

The Necronomicon-hunting librarians from hell.

The real impetus behind the project was the loss of Dr. Voelz's daughter, who had been kidnapped and sacrificed to a Cthulhu cult during a trip their family took to to Australia. His grief-stricken wife died soon after. Voelz discovered that the cult had been carrying out a ritual from the Shazak scrolls, a bastardized copy of which was found on the body of one of the cultists after a police raid on their hideout that came too late to save Juliet Voelz. The shattered doctor, learning of Armitage's involvement in the Dunwich affair, conspired with him to create the Voelz Grant Conservatory in order to buy up mythos tomes, and lock them away from the cults that could put them to dangerous use.

Miskatonic University

Ensuring that "Things That Man Was Not Meant To Know" are correctly filed since 1922. ; )

Roleplay Skittle

The Fraternal Order of Librarians

A peaceful, international bookworm society with a Mythos-aware, dangerously ambivalent core.

The Starkweather Foundation.

Founded in the late 1930s, this group promotes the scientific exploration of the polar regions. They often give financial aid to students wishing to work at the ends of the earth. There is some evidence that they have relations with Delta Green, but few can guess the nature of that relationship.

Other

Saucerwatch

A small group of individuals who investigate UFO sightings with great seriousness. They have seen things that no one else could.

SaucerWatch is a private UFO investigation group that had its start with the UFO craze, which began with with Kenneth Arnold's June 24,1947, sighting of "flying disks" over Mount Rainier in Washington state. The 1950s was a period of rapid growth for the UFO "contactee" community. Contactees claimed either to be in or to have had communications with various intelligent and benevolent "space brothers" who were coming to Earth to spread the message of intergalactic peace and enlightenment.

Howard Fender — a retired newspaper reporter and the founding father of SaucerWatch — took a different perspective. Perhaps he had read too many issues of Weird Tales and Amazing Stories, but Howard Fender worried about the unguessable motives of the mysterious beings who were visiting Earth. Fender began SaucerWatch in 1951 as a network of similarly concerned observers of UFO phenomena who wanted to share information. Beginning in 1953, SaucerWatch published a newsletter called Semper Vigilus ("Always Watchful"). The newsletter was a financial drain but continued nonetheless on an irregular publication schedule.

SaucerWatch concentrated on the darker aspects of the UFO phenomena: abductions and mysterious experiments, "missing time" and repressed memories, livestock mutilations, and unexplained disappearances. SaucerWatch supported Semper Vigilus through volunteer work and the contributions of its members. SaucerWatch was always underfunded and understaffed. After Fender's death from lung cancer in 1961, SaucerWatch stumbled along in one form or another for twenty years, its fortunes and credibility waning and waxing depending on which of Fender's protegés was running the organization.

In 1980, SaucerWatch gained the support of Harvard-trained psychiatrist Dr. Denton Shaeffer. Dr. Shaeffer supported the claims of several UFO abductees and brought new attention to the phenomenon of "missing time." Unfortunately, in 1983 Dr. Shaeffer lost his medical license when he was accused by two alleged ex-patients of molesting them while they were under hypnosis. This seriously damaged SaucerWatch's credibility despite the fact that there was no evidence that either accuser had ever been a patient of Dr. Shaeffer's. Despite that disaster, SaucerWatch (and Dr. Shaeffer) continued to investigate UFO phenomena. To restore their credibility, SaucerWatch became very skeptical and conservative. Polygraphing witnesses became standard procedure. SaucerWatch's investigators became proficient in the fields of photographic analysis, special effects, and stage magic. On several occasions during the 1980s, SaucerWatch even debunked UFO hoaxes. By the 1990s, this network of people working out of their homes and in their spare time had managed to reestablish the group's reputation as a serious investigator of UFO phenomena.

Today, SaucerWatch is one of the best-funded UFO investigation groups in the country. This is due to the financial assistance of Sheridan Dunwoody-Smith, a UFO abductee from an East Coast, old money family. She joined SaucerWatch in 1991 and set up an endowment of three million dollars to fund the group. The SaucerWatch endowment's annual income- usually around three hundred thousand dollars- comprises nearly all of the group's annual budget. SaucerWatch now has offices in Topeka, Kansas, first-class desktop publishing facilities, data processing facilities with fax and Internet access, teletype machines hooked into most news services in North America, a fleet of three vehicles (including a motor home decked out as an investigation unit), and an impressive forensic laboratory. SaucerWatch even has the use of a twin-engine Beechcraft aircraft provided by SaucerWatch member and pilot Donna Larkin.

Other financing comes from members who contribute money and information to SaucerWatch, sales of reports on the various UFO and abduction cases SaucerWatch has investgated, and sales ofSemper Vigilus. With the new financing, Semper Vigilus has expanded to a bimonthly magazine with a worldwide circulation of about 75,000. The popularization of the Internet led Semper Vigilusto add a World Wide Web site and Usenet forum. All this has forced SaucerWatch to hire a permanent staff to manage the office, get Semper Vigilus out on schedule, and generally keep things running smoothly. Besides the five-member investigation team, there are eight paid employees. Global membership in SaucerWatch numbers about thirty thousand.

SaucerWatch's files contain hundreds of hours of videotape with recorded interviews and hypnotic regressions of witnesses and abductees, as well as thousands of photographs of "landing sites," mutilated cattle, and unidentified lights in the sky. These cases are filed under four classifications: "Credible Physical Evidence," "Credible Circumstantial Evidence," "Credible Testimony," and "Bullshit." Naturally the "Bullshit'' file takes up too much room.

The members of SaucerWatch feel that they may be close to something, but they are not sure what. The circumstantial evidence suggests that some people are genuinely abducted by aliens and subjected to psychological and physiological examinations, some of which focus on human reproduction, but for what purpose only the aliens know for sure. The use of Larkin's plane has dramatically increased the investigative team's response time, allowing them to get to sites of UFO phenomena before they are trampled by the press, the curious, or (worse) bumbling UFO enthusiasts. As of yet, they have not obtained a single clinching piece of physical evidence, but their investigations continue.

The Army of the Third Eye

Our favourite limey terrorists.

One of Britain's most wanted terrorist groups is the Army of the Third Eye. For two years during the mid-1990s more resources were used to hunt the Army than were used against the IRA. Today Irish terrorists, foreign terrorists and animal rights groups again dominate Britain's headlines, but the Army of the Third Eye is still operational and still hunted by Special Branch and PISCES.

Don't believe everything you here about The Army of the Third Eye. They have seen more than most.

Tiger Transit

A compromised US corporation.

OOC
CS
Mission Log
IC

The Faceless King · Jun 1, 2017

Case File #207

Karotechia Related Files. Point 103 Related Files.
"An Item of Mutual Interest"

Adam:

I have attached here an item of mutual interest.

This photocopied document turned up in the hands of an acquaintance of mine two days ago. He claims to have no idea where the photocopy came from or who delivered it. The fact that someone knew to give the document to him could indicate that his association with our group has been exposed.

I’ve kept a photocopy of the original for myself. If there’s anything the forensics wizards can tell us about the original, let me know. We need to determine whether this document is a fraud or not.

In any case, read though the document and let me know what you think. There are a number of familiar and unfamiliar terms here. I think I may have let slip about the Karotechia once or twice over brandies with you. My theater was mainland Asia, but I heard a few things about the Karotechia from colleagues who worked OperationLUNACY. Some of the terms mean nothing to me. Anything you can tell me about “MAJIC” or “MJ-5, Project MOONDUST” is critical. A few discreet inquires among our colleagues at the Pentagon and NASA would seem to be in order.

Be Seeing You,
Alphonse

CLASSIFICATION TOP SECRET / ORCON / MAJIC

CIRCULATION WITHIN MAJIC CHANNELS ONLY

COPY 3 OF 12
DO NOT COPY

FROM: MJ-5, PROJECT MOONDUST
SUBJECT: AKTION EISSCHLOSSE, Operational Update

Addendum “C”–The Journal

The handwritten, hardbound journal was recovered December 23, 1996, among the wreckage of a Focke-Wulf Fw 200 Condor, a four-engine turbo-prop transport plane manufactured by Nazi Germany. The wreckage was located at latitude 74°14′ south, longitude 4°6′ west, east of the Riiser-Larsen Ice Shelf in the Queen Maud’s Land region of Antarctica.

Forensic examination has determined that the journal dates from the same period as the aircraft and the deceased occupants. (See Addenda “A” and “B.”) The paper used is a bond typical for European bookbinders of the late 1930s. The ink is similar to inks used in other documents of the era.

The journal was severely damaged by exposure to the elements. Passages were also obscured by blood from the aircraft’s occupants. Only about 10% of the journal’s text is salvageable.

Text Follows, translated from handwritten German.

. . . his personal choice for the assignment. My youth spent high in the Bavarian alps, my years as a mining engineer, combat engineer, and amateur archæologist. And of course, the excavations we conducted under Krakow. My previous work for the Karotechia demonstrated my abilities beyond question. Such skills would be invaluable to Operation ICE PALACE. Or so said Reichsfuhrer [Himmler] . . .

. . . [As my ship] pulls away from Wilhelmshaven dock, I cannot think of this mission as anything less than a voyage into the past–a quest for the secrets of Thule, the wellspring of the Aryan race. Our destination has been referred to only as “Point 103,” but I cannot seem to think of it as anything other than ancient and hallowed Thule. How appropriate that the commerce raider that is taking us on the first leg of our journey is named “Atlantis.”

For reasons of security, I do not know my team’s ultimate destination. Not even the Captain of the Atlantis knows. We are due for a mid-ocean transfer to a U-boat, somewhere in the South Atlantic. From there the journey will be beneath the sea. The Reichsfuhrer hinted that Point 103 is only accessible from beneath the sea, cut off by the permanent ice shelf surrounding the coast of New Schwabia.

September ?: God in heaven. Still seasick.

October 2, 1941: My voyage has been nothing short of horrific. The last three weeks aboard the Atlantis, there has been little break in my violent bouts of sea sickness. I find the close, stale confines of the U-188 to be a pleasant and soothing change. Beneath the gray [waters] of the Antarctic ocean, this submersible glides effortlessly. Thank God, no more waves.

Kapitain Ostmann has said little about Point 103. He claims to have seen almost nothing of the site’s interior, his crew’s liberty being limited to what he referred to as “The Harbor,” the underwater entrance to Point 103. Ostmann claimed to have been the first U-boat commander to guide his vessel under the ice shelf and into the Harbor. The U-boats follow a sonar signal that the team inside Point 103 broadcast to guide them in. But Ostmann seems uncomfortable even talking about what little he has seen of “Ancient Thule.” He was quite taken aback by my assumption that Point 103 is Thule. Ostmann described what he saw as more like a creation of nature than a construction of man. Gargantuan. Weathered by time and the elements.

Ostmann is a Prussian and can fathom little beyond his weapons of war. The edifices of the Maya and Sumerian cultures are of a scale that . . .

October 7, 1941: We’ve been at Point 103 for seventy-two hours and I still cannot comprehend the enormity of what we have found here. At first I thought that the U-Boat had surfaced inside some kind of underground submarine pen like the ones I’d seen at Wilhemshaven. Then Kapitain Ostmann turned the conning tower’s spotlight on the ceiling of the half-flooded chamber, revealing a dome ceiling perhaps a hundred meters above us. The chamber had to be five or six kilometers across–a vast underground harbor, accessible only under the sea.

The U-188 moored at a makeshift dock at the far shore. There, under electric lights, was the camp of Operation ICE PALACE. There are a half-dozen prefabricated shelters and several more tents for supplies. The ICE PALACE personnel assisted the U-Boat crew in unloading our supplies but did not speak with them. Apparently this is part of the security [protocols].

The camp is quite cold. Dr. Walter Kluge, project leader, explained that the sub-freezing salt water keeps the air at just over zero degrees Celsius–still far better that what it would be like on the surface. New Schwabia is perhaps the most inhospitable outpost of the Reich.

Dr. Kluge has been less than gracious while giving me the tour of his domain. He’s been down here with his staff for nearly a year, and the strain and isolation are showing in him. He seems, for lack of a better word, nervous. I believe he sees my team of combat engineers as a threat to his position as project leader. If we succeed in [accelerating] this excavation where he and his archaeologists have failed, he may find himself answering to me.

Dr. Kluge derides my notion of New Schwabia being the site of ancient Thule. He claims there is no evidence these colossal stone galleries were constructed by humans. There are no stairs, which he claims indicates that the builders of these halls didn’t have articulated legs like our own. The doorways are, on average, three meters tall and are in the shape of a pentagon–a size and a shape that does not describe a human figure.

. . . five-sided motif throughout the halls is even more reminiscent of starfish anatomy. Pentagon-shaped halls, doorways, and even rooms. Equally curious is the apparent total lack of masonry. The dark primeval stone segments interlock like a titanic puzzle.

A puzzle. How appropriate.

Dr. Kluge has shown me numerous mosaics lining the walls and ceilings of these vaults. The images on these walls do not depict men. They depict the builders of these ruins as something inhuman. Things unlike any that ever walked the Earth. Kluge believes that the true builders of this underground complex were not human, or even remotely related to mammals. The mosaics show them to have a radial symmetry, like primitive invertebrates. These “masters” are shaped like upright sea cucumbers, topped with a thick, star-shaped organ. Midway down their torsos is a ring of five delicate tentacles, and at the bottom are five thick tentacles for locomotion. Some of these “masters” are equipped with wings, but there just doesn’t seem to be any way such . . .

. . . however; there are other even less wholesome things depicted in the murals. Things possessing a vile elasticity . . .

. . . [Dr. Kluge] believes that humans, or some kind of proto-humans, may have coexisted with the masters of this labyrinth, as pets, or perhaps a source of protein. Certainly there are ape-like creatures moving among the barrel-shaped masters and their shapeless [slaves] . . .

. . . Hoss is no closer to translating these disgusting pictograms and their braille-like captions than he was when he arrived a year ago. We are going to need [assistance].

December 17, 1941: Yesterday I made a trip to the surface through the original shaft that Kapitain Ritscher’s men descended on the first expedition to this buried necropolis. A winch and gondola has been added up to link the warrens with the camouflaged airfield on the surface. U-Boats bring our supplies, so the planes lie idle. Even so, the tenuous connection to the surface is important. The men come here often, just to stare up at the sky, to relieve the suffocating claustrophobia. It makes me feel like a deep-sea diver at the end of a long air-hose. But instead of the sea pressing in around me, it’s the ice of this dead continent.

The unsetting sun reminded me of our racial destiny, the sun which shall never set on our thousand-year Reich.

December 25, 1941: Merry Christmas. Point 103 has yet to reward our efforts. Blasting is out of the question. These galleries and halls will have to be excavated by hand and shored up like mine shafts. Otherwise, they will continue to collapse. The ice-choked chambers and corridors will have to be cleared with flamethrowers, or perhaps phosphorous charges. It will take dozens of men working hundreds of hours. To properly exploit Point 103, it will be necessary to call for extreme measures.

January 1, 1942: I have dispatched the U-boat to take our request back to the Reichsfuhrer himself. Perhaps the new vault will offer up something of interest besides rubble and ice.
. . . some kind of mechanical apparatus, although its function has yet to be [determined] . . .

. . . while it is too large to be removed from the chamber, it has solved our power requirements. The megawatt output is comparable to what I’d expect from a hydro-electric dam.

As if it weren’t beyond belief that this generator functions after tens of millions of years of inactivity, without any discernible fuel source, it also broadcasts the power it generates like radio waves. When we activated it, every piece of electronic equipment in the camp surged to life. Power flowed through the air and lit up the electronic circuitry of radios, electric torches, power tools, everything. It was like nothing I could even have imagined had I not seen it.

With this much power at our disposal, Operation ICE PALACE will be able to support a labor force of any size necessary to [exploit] . . .

. . . [I am] not comfortable with the number of Jews they have sent us. This can only lead to trouble. There are sufficient Waffen SS troops to keep them in line, but Jews have a corruptive influence. Having them in our proximity just seems unsanitary. After all . . .

. . . Hoss’s translation efforts have been increasingly successful. The book he calls The G’harne Fragments has proven to be the key. But the problem with the Thule Generator is not mechanical.

It is biological.

It needs to be fed.

Literally.

I detailed a couple of trusted guards to shoot some laborers in order to provide the Thule [Generator with fuel] . . .

. . . hurling them into the generator’s “mouth.” Five laborers seem to keep the generator running at power levels sufficient for our purposes for a week. Undoubtedly we would need hundreds more if we were to really light a city. It is a shame we have not found more of these generators. It would simultaneously solve the Fatherland’s power problems and clear out our ghettos and concentration camps. When I think of all the effort and energy wasted on crematoria and mass [graves] . . .

August 12, 1942: The history of the Thulian race is becoming increasingly clear to us. Their civilization rose and fell before mankind came down from the trees, pre-dating even the dinosaurs. During the aeons of their rule they fought numerous wars with other non-terrestrial civilizations. At least three of these civilizations appear in the mosaics, including a community of conical time travelers centered in Australia, crustacean-like entities who mined Earth’s highest mountain ranges, and semi-aquatic octopoid creatures whose home was a now-submerged continent in the Pacific. The wars fought with these other empires were conducted with weapons of incredible destructive power. This is what we must find. Our buried treasure. Our Grail.

. . . [the Thulians] used it to sink the continent of Mu, the fabled Atlantis of the Pacific, except the Thulians called it Rel Yeh, as far as we can tell, according to a brief corresponding passage in the G’Harne Fragments. This superweapon was also used to cut the land bridge between Australia and Antarctica, which ended the war between the Thulians and the conical time travelers, although this seems to have been part of a negotiated peace settlement to separate their respective spheres of influence.

Once this weapon is recovered, we shall have the ability to effortlessly obliterate the enemies of the Reich. But the galleries and halls we have so far explored give the impression that they were cleared out with studied deliberation. Almost nothing remains, except what could not be . . .

. . . [efforts] of my engineers. Dr. Kluge has not acquiesced gracefully to the change of command. His objections to deeper excavation are becoming obstructive to our efforts. He rails that there still exists life in the bowels of this tomb-city, and that our digging will free it. I fear his hysterics are beginning to affect the staff.

. . . [Ostmann keeps] asking what we are doing with so many prisoners. Ostmann has noticed that the food supplies his U-Boat brings to Point 103 are nowhere near sufficient to support our laborers. I’m sending a message back to headquarters with Ostmann, Reichsfuhrer Himmler’s Eyes Only. The message recommends Ostmann’s execution as a security risk. The next U-Boat officer they assign to ICE PALACEshould be a party member. Ostmann is asking too many questions.

. . . [U-188 was] sunk by American warplanes. It is just as well. A new U-boat will be dispatched soon. It should be here by October.

. . . unquestionably an act of sabotage. We executed a dozen of the weakest laborers as an example, but I suspect that we will find our saboteur elsewhere than the slave pens.

. . . caught him in the act. I had suspected as much for months. I suppose I should have ordered him sent home months ago, but it was far more satisfying having the old fraud fed into the Thule Generator. Kluge doesn’t appear to have been working with or for anyone. His motivation for sabotaging our excavation seems to be nothing more than the result of his complete mental collapse. The isolation, the claustrophia, and, of course, my wresting command away from him broke his mind. He must not have wanted us to succeed unless the glory could be his and his alone.
As it stands now, it is mine. The name Ohlendorf shall be inexorably tied to the salvation of the German people.

. . . will begin tomorrow.

February 23, 1943: Our first test of the weapon was only partially successful. A weapon designed to be aimed and fired by a five-armed, radially symmetrical being with twenty-five sub-digits proved impossible for just one human to activate. It took three of Stahlecker’s technicians to trigger the ring-shaped weapon. The weapon vaporized several dozen cubic meters of matter in the blink of an eye. Unfortunately that included most everything in the lab, including six of Stahlecker’s staff. I suppose I should have seen it coming. A radially symmetrical being could mean a weapon that can fire in five different directions at once. Which it did. The next test will be conducted up on the surface.

The process by which the contents of the lab were turned into hot gas remains unknown. Stahlecker has speculated that the weapon breaks matter down into its component atomic particles. But again, we are like ants trying to contemplate a telephone.

I have forbidden any tampering with the thing Hoss has called “a sphere of Nath.” Hoss speculates that it may have the destructive power to remove an entire city from the face of the Earth.

March 2, 1943: Berlin has made the decision to send the experts to Point 103 rather than send the artifacts back to Germany. There’s less chance of the material being lost or hijacked, and with all the researchers here at Point 103 the possibility of a spy or a leak is reduced.

. . . fleet, [including] a “Milk-Cow” U-boat tanker, three of the newest Type XXI U-Boats, and two Type-X minelayers converted to cargo carriers arrived today. Their orders were to begin turning Point 103 into a site from which to launch a superweapon strike at the Americans. I had no idea things were so bad at home that Point 103 could be considered more secure than our facilities under the Harz mountains.
Several dozen officers and technicians from the V-2 Rocket facility at Peenemunde arrived as well, along with their equipment. There is some hope that we can combine the V-2 delivery system with the Nath Sphere . . .

August 28, 1944: The V-3 launch facility should be ready in about six months. The shaft to the surface has proven to be an excellent site to erect their launch scaffolding. One V-3. One Sphere. The question now is, What to target?

The hypothetical range for this V-3 is only 6000 kilometers. They’ll be lucky if their rocket reaches the equator. That leaves Australia, New Zealand, maybe some of the English possessions in Africa. They are wasting my time and limited resources with this distraction.

September 4, 1944: U-boats continue bringing supplies, but our excavations into the lowest galleries are far behind schedule. As is the V-3. My men are driving the slaves to exhaustion, and yet the entryway into that sunless sea, the site of the “last city” spoken of in the inscriptions, remains hidden. The mortality rate among the workers is growing too high. Not to mention the generator’s appetite. We cannot be assured of new shipments of labor from Europe. Stahlecker has suggested trying to arrange a trade with Perón. The Atlantic blockade doesn’t extend far south of the equator, so there’s a chance one of the U-boats could make it to Buenos Aires. Still, the English presence on South George’s and the Maldives would make any such mission perilous in the extreme. Regardless, I have vetoed that option for the time being. That opportunistic little monkey might try to seize Point 103 for himself. Instead we will follow Kapitain Koller’s plan and acquire new labor from . . .

. . . [the passengers and crew] of the liner are proving nearly worthless as laborers. However, the Generator’s hunger is sated, and that will do for now.

May 3, 1945: The Fuhrer is dead. But as I do not worship Hitler, I am not hopeless. National Socialism is not dead. Germany is not dead.

The BBC began broadcasting the news about the Fuhrer yesterday. Shooting the radio operator on duty was the only thing to do. If the others knew, or suspected, my command would disintegrate, and we are so close. So very close to unlocking the secrets of grand and mystic Thule. The Thulians waged wars millions of years ago on a scale so savage it would wither the hearts of the fiercest men. If only we could find the weapon they used to sink their Muvian enemies to the bottom of the sea.

We are the Reich now. We of the Karotechia. And with the tools of ancient Thule, we will drown Germany’s enemies beneath the boiling sea. What will it matter if Germany lies in ruins, when all the world becomes a watery graveyard?

May 14, 1945: Hoss was beginning to suspect the war is over. I shot him this morning. This is a setback. Hoss was fluent in the language of ancient Thule, and my own command is so much feebler.

We are rapidly running out of workers to feed the Thule Generator. I think perhaps I shall need to prioritize my staff.

June 1, 1945: I can scarcely believe it. I have been buried in this ice-bound tomb for over three and a half years, toiling in the ice and blackness. Now we have won. We have won it all!

We have the weapon. The Tectonic Agitator. The Navel of the World. From this dead city we can reach out and sink continents or raise new ones.

The power to reshape the face of the Earth! Where shall I begin? Where shall I draw my finger and erase the works of God?

June 15, 1945: Lt. Schaeffer, Corporal Mueller, Sergeant Recke, and myself are the only ones to escape. It must have been one of the Jews, or perhaps we pushed the Thule Generator too far. Somehow the biological motor tore free of its bonds. Power was lost. The tunnels plunged into impenetrable blackness. Then it boiled out of the generator room with a loathsome mobility I could never have imagined from something with no skeletal structure.

It tore into the slave pens and rolled through the vaults swallowing my men in the dark. Sucking them apart. Howling that strange cry, “Teckelly lee! Teckelly lee!” over and over again. The crack of impotent gunfire. And the echoing screams.

I don’t know how many died before we activated the backup generator, got the lights back on. Dozens? More? The surviving Jews fell on us like wild animals and much time was wasted trying to beat them back. I saw a pack of them, malnourished and sickly, bring down Stahlecker with their teeth and nails.

I screamed, I bellowed, I even shot them. No one paid attention. No one followed orders. They ran, mindlessly screaming. Most began fighting and killing each other for space on the U-Boats, hoping to escape by sea. Even amidst the chaos and insanity, one U-Boat got its diesel engines up and running before the thing from the generator burst into the harbor.

Like a boiling froth of iridescent black slime, it surged down the hallway, filling it from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling. It rolled like an avalanche, burying the men in its loathsome bulk. I could see them, submerged in its mass, screaming soundlessly as their flesh and bones were pulled apart. The men shot it. Hurled hand grenades into it. Nothing slowed it. Nothing distracted it. It latched itself on to the hull of the U-1406 and burst its deck open, flooding its interior and spilling its fuel into the water. The U-boat sank in minutes, taking all aboard to the bottom. Somehow the fuel ignited, and the harbor became an inferno. Remembering the fat tanks of fuel on the U-boat tanker, I fled the harbor, running for the shaft to the surface. Behind me were only the screams and the thudding explosions as the fuel tanks went up one after another.

Fleeing blindly, four of us squeezed into the gondola, Zundel and another man, badly burned, clung desperately to the outside of the cage. The burned man lost his grip almost immediately. The fall, I would guess, did little more than break his legs. Then Zundel lost his grip about halfway up, died as soon as he hit the stone floor.

From below, we heard it, wailing.

And the screams of the men.

We scrambled after Schaeffer to the Condor and piled in. He had us airborne before I could calm myself enough to focus. It was only then that I realized what I had lost.

So close. A few more weeks and the shadow of my hand would have fallen across the face of the Earth.

The power to remake the world . . .

The handwritten German text in ink ends. The last page is painted in human blood. The blood type is matched to that of the corpse now identified as SS Standartenfuhrer Karl Ohlendorf (see Addendum “B”). The following is an approximate translation of the text:

FORGIVE ME, BELOVED GERMANY. I FAILED YOU.

Analysis of the aircraft (see Addendum “A”) indicates that its fuel tanks were dry on impact. The maximum operation range for a Focke-Wulf Condor is 2,210 miles. Therefore, the aircraft could have been launched from any point on the Antarctic continent, or even Tierra del Fuego in South America. The journal hints that the airfield is located in Neu Schwabenland, or New Schwabia, an area of Antarctica claimed by Nazi Germany following the 1938-1939 German Antarctic Naval Expedition. All MOONDUST search operations are concentrated in that area. We are, however, no closer to discovering the location of Point 103 than we were four months ago.

The search for Point 103 continues.

The Faceless King · Jun 1, 2017

Case File #113
Email From Major General Reginald Fairfield, U.S. Army (Ret.)
"Final Report"

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Major General Reginald Fairfield, U.S. Army (Ret.)
Final Report
2/25/94

It’s been twenty-four years, a month, and two days since the bastards brought us down.

In that time we’ve come back strong, doing things they couldn’t conceive of doing. They think they understand us, those who know we’re still around. They think we’re cowboys, meddlers… They think we’re just too pig-headed and selfish and old to let go of what we once were.

They know nothing.

They think they’re better than us. Stronger than us. And worst of all, they just plain think they’re right. They sit in their offices and debate the Accord with the skinny little fucks from space. They sell out the American dream in exchange for stealth technology and sonic weapons. They betray our highest ideals, our loftiest principals. They’ve lost sight of who they serve–the people who vote them and their kind into power. They’ve forgotten why they’re in power.

They know nothing.

Every night my teeth rest in a glass and every morning I have a bowel movement and I couldn’t even begin to get it up these days. My eyes are hollow and bloodshot and my wife left me fifteen years ago. My children are callow monsters who laugh at me and the ideals I cherish and vote fools into office because they saw them on MTV.

They know nothing.

My generation supposedly saved the world from the forces of darkness. Now everyone thinks that evil died in 1945–or was it 1989? They think that things will never be that bad again. They think the apocalypse, the end of all we hold dear, just isn’t going to happen. They abandon the Lord and don’t go to church and teach sex in the schools and put filth on the television.

They know nothing.

Evil never dies. Darkness never retreats. In the cracks and the crevices of our society there are monsters undreamed of by the rank and file of humanity. I’ve been there. I’ve seen them. They exist in the spaces between things, in the folds of existence where we can’t find them. Sometimes they cross over, sometimes they manifest, and all Hell breaks loose. Only this is not Hell, nor Heaven. This is like nothing anyone has ever understood. This is pure evil, pure destruction. This is the apocalypse, and I’ve been fighting it tooth and nail since 1961. They made me retire in 1970 when Cambodia blew up in their faces and they blamed us, but I didn’t stop then and I’m not stopping now. They think I gave it all up that day in the Pentagon when they told me the choice–the only choice–I would be allowed. I took it, and then, like most of us, I made the decision to continue the fight. They thought we were washed up.

They know nothing.

But they know enough. They know how we started–a little slice of the OSS, investigating the Nazis’ interest in the occult. They know what we found–how the supernatural was realer than real and more powerful than the A-bomb. They know what we accomplished–three decades spent fighting the monsters wherever they cropped up, three decades that kept the world a saner place. They know what we want–to abolish the accord and send those ET fucks back to wherever they came from.

They know nothing.

Things are different today. There’s a whole new generation coming into the ranks, men–and women, for Christ’s sake–who are smarter and slicker and tougher than I ever was. We’ve got it down to a science. Something crops up, phone calls are made, operatives are re-assigned, paperwork is filed, and the darkness gets pushed back for another day. When it’s over everyone goes back to their routine and no official records exist to reveal the truth. We travel light, we probe deep, and we strike hard. We’re Delta Green, and we may be outlaws and cowboys and fools, but we’ve kept this green ball of shit safe and sound for longer than most people have been alive. They think we’re idiots.

They know nothing. But they know enough.

The Majestic group made the deal. They signed over the constitution to the Greys, those bastards from space–or so they claim–in exchange for technology and information. Majestic thumbs their nose at the Executive Branch and has more security clearances than brains. They call the shots when it comes to the Accord with the Greys, and they dispense the technology breakthroughs and they cover their tracks and they let the aliens do whatever they like to God-fearing U.S. citizens. They’re fools. I’ve seen the Greys for what they really are, and they sure as hell aren’t refugees fleeing a sun gone nova. The things that lie behind the Greys are no different from the things I’ve been fighting on the edges of reality since ’61. I couldn’t begin to guess what they’re really up to, but Majestic couldn’t care less. They just want to make deals and cover their ass.

They know nothing. But they know enough.

They know what I’ve been up to. Finally, after fourteen years, a month, and two days, they’ve figured it out. The news reached me fifteen minutes ago through six connections and two satellite bounces–the news that they were coming for me. I could give a shit. I’ve lived life true and full and rich and I’ve never betrayed my country. I’ve done my duty and ten times more and I regret nothing. Nothing.

I have, perhaps,another ten minutes before they arrive. They’ll come tromping through the snow and put a bullet in my brain. My communications have been “out of order” for hours, all except for the line I laid myself three years ago after hoarding the equipment for twice that time. That’s my escape route. A digital relay that will take this letter and the accompanying files and put them in the hands of my successors. A line that our slimy twin DELTA, the Majestic wetworks boys, know nothing of. I’ve used it five times since I set it up, and it, at least, is secure. It’s enough to get this information into the hands of Delta Green. It may be enough to save this planet a few times more.

That’s it. My power just died, except for the backup generator I installed in the basement for this room. They’re upstairs, tripping my internal alarms. In minutes they’ll come through the hidden passage and spread my insides across the wall.

Before they do, they’ll have a fight on their hands. I may be eighty, but I’m the toughest goddamn son of a bitch these assholes will ever meet. I’m Delta Green, and I’m not dying alone.

But first, I’m going to hit Send and put this information into the hands of a few people who will carry on the fight. People who will crush the Accord and–when the time comes–who will tell the public about all the lies our government has been force-feeding them since the Roswell saucer crash in 1947. They’ll carry on and they’ll fight hard and true and maybe they’ll leave a better world for their children than the one I’m leaving behind.

Entry One has been breached. Time to get this show on the road. They have no idea the kind of Hell I’ve prepared for them. May God have mercy on my soul.

(signed)

Major General Reginald Fairfield, U.S. Army (Ret.)

:: transmitted 1323 est 2/25/94:: PGP encoding enabled::

<eof>

The Faceless King · Jun 1, 2017

Case File #417
DG OP Case File
"My Father's Son"

I’m in this dream, deep down, and there’s a baby crying. It’s a boy. The scene is murky. I assume it’s a hospital, but I’m just grafting assumptions on, limning a shadow with whitewash. It’s baffling. The boy is crying. I’m dreaming. “Wake up.”

I’m twenty-seven. I’ve just gotten my masters diploma in Political Science. My dad is there. My mom is there. They’ve brought their “friends,” those three guys that turn up at every big occasion in my life. It’s weird. They’re like a Greek chorus. They show up, they don’t give their names, they offer me homilies about my progress. Around them, my parents are affable but subtly guarded. These men were at my Eagle Scout ceremony, they were at my high school graduation, they were at my bachelor’s graduation, they were at my writing award ceremony, and now they’re here. My younger sister isn’t here today, but I’ve talked to her about these three men. They never go to her events. Just mine. My parents refuse to discuss this. They just say that the men are people who are interested in my progress, friends of dad’s from the State Department. When I’ve pressed them on this issue, mom starts to cry. Dad says, “See what you’ve done?”

I’m seventeen. I’m at a party at Doug’s house and I’m pretty drunk. Sarah is a senior, a year older than me. She leads me into one of the upstairs bedrooms. We chase out Ricky who is passed out in a corner. Sarah takes my hand and we sit on the bed. I’m nervous, I haven’t done this before. She kisses me. It’s nice. It’s wet. Suddenly she grabs the folds of my shirt and pulls it up over my head and then tosses it in the corner. We’re still kissing. Her hands run down my chest, stroke my skin. She rubs me for a moment just above my waist. She stops kissing me and looks down, baffled. She looks back up at me. “Why don’t you have a belly button?”

I’m twenty-nine. I’m an agent with the DEA. I’m in Colombia in a personnel carrier full of local troops. A rocket strikes the carrier in front of us; there’s a massive explosion. Our vehicle swerves to avoid the flaming wreckage and we go off the road. Inside the carrier, we’re falling all over each other. Outside, the carrier is tumbling down a hillside. I hang onto cargo straps as bodies flail around me. The carrier comes to a stop. I shove the door open and climb outside, dizzy and stumbling and spattered with blood from the injuries sustained by the troops during the wreck. A dark shape obscures my vision. “What does the shape look like?”

“What?”

“The shape, the one in your dream. What does it look like?”

“It’s not a dream. I was in the DEA.”

“Derek, please. I’m familiar with your history. You were never in the DEA. This is just a dream. The drugs are confusing you. What does the shape look like?”

“It looks like my father.”

***

Derek takes a drag on the cigarette. His feet, shod in expensive Italian shoes, are propped irreverently on the conference table. His fingers, carefully manicured, tap on the sides of the cigarette like it was a trumpet. His hair, combed and oiled, is just short enough to be regulation but just styled enough to look out of place in the bureaucracy of the federal government. His teeth are where his skeleton shows through, dead white. When he grins it’s as if the skin is gone and there is nothing but his skull before you. He doesn’t mean it that way–he’s a nice guy. It just happens.

We move slowly over the table, beginning at Derek’s end. The table is a modern piece of shit, particle board overlaid with contact paper. You could buy it at an office furniture store for $150. The Pentagon paid $600 for it. Of the additional $450, $100 went to the requisition officer, $100 went to the sales rep, and $250 went to the owner of the vendor. The only thing French about this tacky piece of American crap furniture is that the process it was acquired by was strictly de rigeur.

For starters, we see a speckled-green cardstock folder in front of Derek. It’s currently closed. Affixed to the cover of the folder is a chalky piece of cardstock with an orange border an inch and a half wide. Repeated at the top and bottom, in large orange sans serif letters, are the words TOP SECRET. In the middle, also printed in orange but much smaller, are the words:

ALL INDIVIDUALS HANDLING THIS INFORMATION ARE REQUIRED TO PROTECT IT FROM UNAUTHORIZED DISCLOSURE IN THE INTEREST OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY OF THE UNITED STATES.

HANDLING, STORAGE, REPRODUCTION AND DISPOSITION OF THE ATTACHED DOCUMENT WILL BE IN ACCORDANCE WITH APPLICABLE EXECUTIVE ORDER(S), STATUTE(S) AND AGENCY IMPLEMENTING REGULATIONS.

(This cover sheet is unclassified.)

Cigarette ash dots the cover sheet.

Moving forward, we pass Charlie. Like Derek, he’s in the DEA. Unlike Derek, his feet are on the floor. He has an identical folder and cover sheet in front of him. His copy is open, disgorging an unkempt sheaf of papers, photographs, and charts, amended with various notes he’s made.

Beyond Charlie, we pass an expanse of bare table until we reach the end. Seated there is Special Agent Matthew Carpenter, a Deputy Director within the FBI national headquarters in Washington, D.C. Carpenter doesn’t have a folder in front of him; he doesn’t need it. Its contents have become a catechism for him. He could summarize or repeat verbatim any paragraph on any page within the primary report. As we cease our movement across the length of the table, he speaks. (We are ignoring the two armed guards standing outside in the hall, securing the entrance to this Pentagon briefing room. The incongruous nature of a meeting within the Pentagon chaired by an FBI deputy director and attended by two DEA agents does not concern us; the meeting is, after all, of Delta Green origin.)

“His name is Darryl Montgomery. He’s 32, works for NYC gov pulling corpses outta the Hudson. Masters in Library Science, believe it or not, though he’s done jack shit with it. Near as we can tell he’s a complete non-entity.”

Derek chuckled. “And the punchline is…?”

“The punchline is that an NSC analyst spotted him in three photographs of three apparently unrelated national security incidents in NYC during the past year: an accidental car wreck resulting in the death of a Russian Embassy attachÈ, a hit by a Jamaican posse on an NSA file clerk deep in debt with a bad coke habit, and the suicide of NYC Deputy Mayor Andrew Smith–his brother is the CIA station chief in Lisbon. There was no connection between these incidents whatsoever until the NSC realized that this guy Darryl was at the scene every time in after-the-fact photographs taken by reporters and investigators. As a result, we can’t be sure that he wasn’t there from the get-go and maybe had a hand in things. It is the official and classified opinion of the NSC that he’s a low-rank schmo in with one of the five families of the east coast La Cosa Nostra, and that they somehow had their hands in each one of these situations. It is my official and top-secret opinion that the NSC is full of shit. They don’t know from mobsters; that’s my turf. They did know shit far enough from shinola to hand me the investigation, at least. I’ve got an FBI task force assembled and I’ve fed them the usual line of bull. You two bright boys are the realinvestigation.”

Charlie stroked his jaw and tried to look thoughtful. He seemed to fail.

Derek looked away from Charlie, took his feet off the desk, and leaned forward. “I’ve heard the punchline, but I don’t get the joke. What makes the investigation of Mister Synchronicity a DG op?”

“All three victims–the attache, the file clerk, and the Deputy Mayor–appear on our routine surveillance roster of known persons frequenting Club Apocalypse.”

***

I’m twenty-three. Lisa and I are in love. We’ve been dating since we were freshmen. Now we’re planning our future, seriously. Graduation is just a few weeks away. I’ve already applied to grad school for the fall. But Lisa and I have a secret plan. We’re going to elope after graduation. I’m not going to grad school. Her dad owns a chain of small bookstores in the northwest. He’s going to let us manage one. We’re moving to Portland in two months. If it goes well, we’ll buy the store from him as soon as we can afford to. We’re very happy. This is the life I want to live. I hold her close. “I love you.”

I’m eighteen. I’m in the hospital. My parents’ three friends are here. I lie on the table while the plastic surgeon works on me. I’m sedated but semi-conscious. The three men are paying for this procedure. I don’t understand why. But I’m going along with it just the same. The surgeon is nervous. He’s never worked in an Army hospital before, but they wanted it done here instead of his clinic. He’s supposed to be very good. The three men are buying me a belly button. “You may feel some discomfort.”

I’m thirty-one. I’m in the library of congress. Dr. Camp is showing me an old statue. It smells to me of Colombia and what I saw there. There are inscriptions around the base. I can’t translate them. He’s clucking away about antiquity and legend. I’m nodding, doing my best to keep up. I’m not sure why my boss at the DEA sent me here today; what does this have to do with me? Then Dr. Camp looks at me cannily. “We know what you saw.”

I’m twenty-four. Graduation is behind me. I’m wearing the sweater that Lisa gave me for my birthday last week. She says it’s chilly in Portland. We’re eloping tomorrow. I’m packing up my apartment. There’s a knock at the door. I open it. It’s the three men, the Greek chorus. They look grave. They say there’s been an accident. They say Lisa is in the hospital. They say it looks bad. They say they’re very sorry. Then they say that my parents found out about our plans to elope and they are very unhappy. Mom and dad? “No. Your parents.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m adopted.”

“That’s ridiculous, Derek. You’re not adopted.”

“I’m adopted.”

“Derek, please, I thought we got through this already. You’re not adopted, it’s just this idea you’ve embraced to justify your estrangement from your mother and father.”

“You know!”

“What?”

“Even you know! Your behavior is just as institutionalized as the Greek chorus!”

“What do you mean, Derek?”

“Even you, doc. Even you can’t refer to my mom and dad as my parents. Because you know they’re not.”

***

We begin at the bar. Chet is behind the counter, pouring drinks for an eager clientele. We drift lazily across the ceiling, looking down. The band Charnel Dreams is on stage, making a lot of noise. The crowd is dancing frenetically. Anton Merriweather, the lead singer, is flailing about with the microphone. He’s cut himself again with the microphone stand, a clean red line across his bare chest slowly dripping streaks of blood mingled with sweat. We pass Belial, standing idle and looking immaculate all at once. He watches Anton on stage, watches the crowd watching Anton, and keeps a mysterious smile in reserve solely for himself. We drift further, over the heads of moshers, over the small candle-lit tables crowded with the tragically hip, over the uneasy jock lounging against a pillar and trying to fit in, over the high-school Gothposeur here alone on a dare, over the married swingers here for new conquests, over the drunken would-be poet here for inspiration, over the waiter who takes weekend trips to upstate New York with his zoophilic friends to fuck goats, over the twenty-something photocopy-shop clerk who is itching to try watersports, over the black corner-market owner who yells at Koreans, over an aging realtor whose desperate clutch at fame was that she hung out at Warhol’s Factory in the early 1970s but never scored a mention in anyone’s memoirs, over the reporter for theNew York Post who thinks he’s scoring a coup by getting in here but doesn’t realize that the last of his life-blood will pump out of his veins late tonight in the private club down the spiral staircase from the club proper, over the old man who masturbates on the train every day as it passes by the World Trade Center, over the young couple out on the town and in over their heads, over the guy dealing Aklo, over the girl wearing nothing but wax paper, over the musician tapping his foot to the music in his head, over the web designer who wants to score with the girl in the wax paper, over the janitor from the NY Public Library who is writing a biography of his mother, over the counselor from P.S. 159 whose life is a procrastinated suicide, over the six terminally bland yuppies here because one of their college-age children said she heard it was “a happenin’ spot,” over the guy who OD’ed on alcohol ten minutes ago but who hasn’t been noticed yet except by Belial who finds it amusing that a librarian is still trying to hit on the guy, over the librarian who’s still trying to hit on the guy, over the rad dyke who wants to hit on the librarian and wishes that she’d stop hitting on that passed-out drunk, over the crew of crack dealers here to make a bargain with some Russian mafia fuckwits to ace a mutual competitor, over the Metro Vice cops here to get drunk on the house tab and write faked reports on the laudable lack of drug traffic in Club Apocalypse, over poor Darryl Montgomery whispering the secrets of the dead to himself near the entrance, over the two DEA/Delta Green agents just now walking in the front door, and then we come to a stop over their heads as Derek and Charlie both spot Darryl simultaneously and start moving towards him as innocuously as possible and we watch them as they move off into the crowd.

***

I’m thirty-three. I’ve been a Delta Green agent for eighteen months. It’s exciting. I feel privy to a world of secrets. I’ve seen things I never could have imagined. The world isn’t the place I was told it was. I’m in San Francisco, staking out an alleged crack house–that’s what my report will say. It’s not a crack house. It’s an abattoir. The walls are lined with human skin. A shelf in the kitchen holds a row of dried genitalia. The bathtub is full of feces. He extracts it from the digestive tracts of his victims. He wants them to be clean. He washes them, inside and out, shampooing hair and organs alike. Purifies them. For the ritual. For the offering. A light goes off. It’s time. I sprint across the street, Charlie close behind. I kick in the door. I don’t wave my badge. I don’t shout a warning. I just shoot the fucker. Charlie slams the door shut behind us. We’ve just broken a host of procedures and laws–but not in the eyes of Delta Green, who sent us here. Blood and chunks of brain run down the wall behind the dead murderer. We grin. Charlie speaks: “Good shot, cowboy.”

I’m nine. I’m playing in a stream near my home. My friend Tim is there. We’re skipping stones. An old guy, maybe fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair and a dark suit, steps out of the bushes. He smiles at me. He reaches in his jacket and pulls out a gun. He aims it at me. A shot rings out. There’s a hole in the center of the man’s forehead. His head snaps back. He drops to his knees. His gun falls into the stream along with streaks of his blood and bits of brain and skull from where the bullet blew out the back of his head. One of my parents’ friends, a member of the Greek chorus, is behind me. There is another gun present. He puts his left hand over my eyes and holds me close. There’s another shot. He leads me away from the stream. He takes something from me. I hear two voices behind us. I never see Tim again. The papers say he was kidnapped by a wanted child molester. His blood flows down the stream with the dead man’s. The man with his hand over my eyes smells of something which I imagine to be cologne but will much later in life recognize as semen. My right hand is bruised and it smells of something I will recognize much later in life as cordite. “That was a close one, kid. Shame about your friend.”

I’m twelve. My parents and I are at the cabin on the lake. The afternoon is spent fishing from the balcony on the second floor over the water. My dad has a beer. He’s smiling, a little drunk. My sister is off riding her bike. My mom is reading a magazine. My line jerks. I’ve got a bite. My dad is excited. He coaches me. I fight the fish. Eventually I win. I reel it up through the air. It’s a three-pound bass. I’m ecstatic. My dad hugs me. He looks at my mom. There’s a tear in her eye. She lies: “It can always be like this.”

I’m thirty-five. I’m in a long corridor underground at Los Alamos. There’s a large pane of glass before me. I’m wearing a technician’s outfit. The MP-5 is jammed in under my shirt. Fake identification hangs from my chest. A micro-camera is in my lapel. I’m looking in the window to another room. There’s a bed, surrounded by all sorts of equipment. Something is lying in the bed. It’s humanoid, built like a short and stocky Graeco-Roman wrestler. Its skin is slick, even in the dry recirculated air. It’s sea-green. Its head lolls stupidly to one side. The instruments beep. Its crystalline eyes, which never seem to close, are the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. They’ve seen all the secrets I’ve seen a hundred times over and still found them fresh and wondrous. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. I’m just here to take photos of it.”

“What were you told?”

“Not much. Just that there was a patient in this room and I should photograph him.”

“Were you told to record data from the instruments?”

“No. Just pictures.”

“What did you do with the pictures?”

“I gave them to you. To Dr. Camp.”

“Who was the patient in the bed? Who did you tell about this assignment?”

“I don’t know. No one.”

***

“Darryl,” Derek says. “We’d like to have a word with you.”

Darryl stares at Charlie and Derek stupidly. His face does not lack a certain native intelligence, but he has no idea who these men are or what they want and he cannot help but look confused; he is not a very adaptable human being; he cannot control his reactions. He is the most unwittingly honest man in this room.

“Sure, okay,” Darryl says. The three men find a conveniently empty table and sit down. None of them realize, unfortunately, that Belial had the table’s previous occupants shooed away a minute ago in anticipation of their need.

“Who do you work for, Darryl?” Charlie asks. “We know what you’ve been up to.”

Darryl looks sheepish. “I work for the City of New York.”

“Bullshit,” Derek says. He splays out photographs showing Darryl at the scene of the three incidents that drew the NSC’s attention. “Some people think you work for the mob. We know better. We think you work for Bobby Hubert–a.k.a. Belial. That’s fine. Lots of folks do. What we want to know is, what did Bobby Hubert have to do with these three deaths?”

Darryl looks at the photographs. “I don’t know nothing about these things. I was writing down prices.”

Derek and Charlie look at each other in practiced fashion. “Prices? What do you mean, Darryl?”

Darryl points generally at the photographs. “Prices. I was writing down prices, see?”

Derek and Charlie look at the photographs. Darryl is in different places in each one, coming and going. But in each, barely glimpsed at the fringes of the photo, there is always a different glass-front store with big price banners in the window: “$1.99!” “HALF PRICE: $2.75” “PICKLES 98¢”. Derek and Charlie look at each other, exasperated. Derek seems to do a better job than Charlie.

“Okay, Darryl. You were writing down prices. I can accept that. Who were you writing down prices for?”

“Mister Hubert.”

Derek and Charlie both perk up. “Mister Hubert?” Derek says. “You were writing down prices for Mister Hubert? What for?”

Darryl looks back and gives away nothing. “‘Cuz he asked me to.”

Derek lights a cigarette and looks at Charlie. “Ask a stupid fucking question.”

***

I’m thirty-four. I’m standing in an alleyway in Atlantic City, New Jersey, a few blocks from my hotel. This place makes me fucking sick. The casinos are full of decrepit old wasters. There’s no life, no vitality, in these people. There’s some pathetic drunken fuck leaning against the wall of the alley, panhandling for slot-machine quarters, trying to take even my vitality. By morning I’d be just another wrinkled loser in a cripple-walker, betting my social security check against a full house. What a piece of shit town this is. I can’t stand it anymore–the shit, the degradation, the deception, the lies, it’s too fucking much. I take three steps towards this old drunk, clasp my hands on his shoulders with a big shit-eating grin on my face like I’m about to do him the biggest favor in the fucking world, and then I live up to my promise. I do him the biggest fucking favor in the world. I do him–I do him in. I knee him in the crotch, he wheezes out a hot breath of malt liquor and puke, I throw my hands around his throat and smash the back of his head into the brick wall, he goes down like the sack of pathetic shit that he is. He’s wheezing. He’s lost his breath. I flex my wrist. The combat knife pops into my hand. I shove it into his neck, jerk it roughly to one side. Blood pours down onto his filthy shirt. The swift kill comes courtesy of my DEA training. We weren’t trained to shiv bums in particular, but that’s what’s good about civil-service training: it has uses in such a variety of situations. The corpse falls forward into the trash of the alley. I kick him in the head with a $140 leather wingtip just for spite. I turn around and look out at this loathsome excuse for a city and the hatred I feel for the human race is absolute. “Fuck you all.”

I’m fourteen. Amy is thirteen. We’re in our special hiding place where the grown-ups never find us. We’re the closest of friends. We keep it a secret from everyone. We don’t have sex–our friendship and love is too pure for that. We’re soul-mates. Years later, my love for Lisa will stand as only a dim shadow of what I had with Amy. On this special afternoon in April, I take a rock and beat Amy’s head in. Her brains finally spill out, disgorging all of their bloody secrets into the spring air for me to inhale. I keep smashing the rock down, again and again and again, sucking in the thick and meaty stink of her brains for my own enjoyment. She’s long since dead. When I finish, I cum in my pubescent jeans. From the bushes, one of the Greek chorus steps forth. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll clean it up. Go home and play.”

I’m thirty. I’ve learned to live a lie. I’m undetectable. I pass among the rest of the bleating herd unseen, unknown. I’m ready. I’m prepared. The rest of my life spreads out before me like the legs of a dead whore. I’m going to fuck this world into the graveyard and keep going until it begs for more. Humans have only one real god: Thanatos. I’m death and I walk among them. They’ll fuck me until they bleed to terminal, then wonder what went wrong. I’m le grand mal made flesh. “Derek Johnson, DEA. Glad to meet ya, Charlie.”

I’m thirty-six. I waxed Amy and Lisa and the pepper-and-salt-haired guy and Tim and the troops in Colombia and so many others. I’ve escaped detection all this time, even–for three decades–by myself. The Greek chorus sings for me, belting out stanzas of rubber stamps and official denials and altered reports. Even Dr. Camp and his lame excuse for mind control can’t stop me. I’m hardcore. I’m unstoppable. I’m your end. I am my father’s son. “Who is your parent?”

“You know. Mister State Department. Andy Woodrew.”

“He’s your father, Derek, but he’s not your parent.”

“That’s right.”

“So who is your parent?”

“These drugs you’ve got me on, all these questions–you’re just trying to confuse me, to get the truth out of me.”

“That’s right. And when I’m done, you won’t remember a word of this conversation.”

“Good fucking luck, Dr. Camp. Good fucking luck. I didn’t think Delta Green did this to its agents.”

“We don’t.”

***

Darryl looked around the club nervously. “It’s not safe to talk here,” he says. In silent agreement, we begin to track away from the threesome at the table, drifting silently across the crowded nightclub. Darryl and the two DEA/DG agents get up and head for an unmarked door at the back of the club. Darryl, for once in his life, leads the way.

The door leads the men onto a landing, from which an ancient and decrepit spiral staircase leads down into the gloom. Darryl starts down without a second thought.

“Hold up,” Derek says. Charlie looks at him anxiously. His look is not feigned, for the first time since Derek met him, but Derek doesn’t notice.

“Yeah?” says Darryl.

“What’s down here?”

“Just a meeting room. We can talk privately. Mister Hubert, he’s got people all over the club up there.”

“All right,” Derek says. “But if we aren’t alone, I kill whomever we meet.”

Darryl nods anxiously, eager to please. He resumes his descent of the stairs, followed by the two agents. As they descend, a strange smell wafts over them: a musty, decrepit smell, like that of an overburdened crypt, motes of skeleton-dust drifting lazily in the draft. They arrive at a landing, and Darryl gestures toward the door. “We can talk in here.”

“Oh we can, can we?” Derek responds. “I’ll just see about that.”

Derek sidles quietly over to the door. With his gun drawn, he uses his free hand to shove the door open and then jumps inside, crouched very low to duck panic fire from any occupants, his MP-5 surveying the room, an extension of his eyes and arms. No sound greets him from the gloom.

“Come on,” he whispers.

Charlie steps next to him and presses the muzzle of his .44 Desert Eagle to Derek’s temple.

“I’m here,” Charlie responds grimly. Outside, Darryl scurries up the stairs.

“What the fuck?” Derek says, twitching slightly until Charlie presses the gun tight against his skin once more.

“Just sit tight, motherfucker,” Charlie says.

The lights come on.

Stephen Alzis stands in the middle of an empty room.

He regards the two agents for a second, and then approaches them, holding a seemingly ancient bound volume. He walks over slowly, taking in the scene greedily.

“Excellent work, agent. This is the sperm I’ve been looking for.”

The Greek chorus coalesces from nothing. They no longer appear as three individuals; they are interconnected in strange, unwholesome ways that defy terrestrial biology.

Derek flushes. “What the fuck is this?”

“You know what this is, Derek,” Alzis says. “It’s a homecoming.”

“The book!” Charlie blares, with a strength and surety that Derek has not heard in the seven years they’ve been colleagues. It is suddenly evident to Derek that things have not been what they have seemed for a very long time.

Alzis steps forward and hands the book to Charlie. “A fair swap, I should think. This seed of mine has been wreaking altogether too much havoc in the world of men.”

Charlie takes the book and steps back beyond the threshold. “Whatever. The fucker is yours now.”

“He always was,” Alzis says. “He always was.”

Charlie’s face pretends to lighten for a moment, the way it has pretended so many things in the last seven years. “Hey–I know this is an irregular request, but this is a pretty irregular fucking situation. Do you mind if I put a bullet in his head?” Behind the cynical, jocular violence of his request lies a coiled snake.

Alzis shakes his head in a bemused fashion. “Do whatever you like, agent. It is irrelevant.”

Charlie stares down at Derek with burning eyes, the gun reaching out into Derek’s reality like an extension of Charlie’s arm. “My real name is Mark. Amy was my sister, you piece of shit.” He pulls the trigger.

Derek’s brains blow out through his temple. His face hits the wooden floor like a mallet on meat. Charlie/Mark speaks.

“All these years you weren’t a DG agent, motherfucker. You were a DG op.“

Mark stands stock still for a moment, holding the smoking gun in mid-air with one hand and the weird book with the other. He extends his tongue and licks the blood on his face for a brief moment.

“Glad we could do business, Alzis.”

“My pleasure, Agent Darrin. I’m sorry it took so long to make this arrangement.”

“Quite all right. Quite all right.”

Mark steps backwards slowly, holding his gun out just in case. Alzis stands there in the darkened room as his wayward son’s life-blood soaks into the floor and runs down the metal drain put here for occasions like this. The Greek chorus fades into insubstantiality, their reality-buoyancy provided solely by Derek’s unconscious guilt-complex and ungrasped magickal potential, and now erased, in death.

Mark follows Darryl Montgomery’s recent path up the staircase, incredulous and silent. Arriving at the top floor, Mark sees Darryl get a drink and doesn’t care what happens to the man. Mark leaves Club Apocalypse and meets with Deputy Director Matthew Carpenter in an undisclosed location. We are not privy to the contents of their conversation.

***

Dr. Camp is hard at work. He is preparing an electronic file on DEA Agent Derek Anderson, who could not escape his heritage nor fully assimilate his station in life. “It is of the same small bricks that the greatest and the worst men are made,” writes Dr. Camp. He clips this short note to a crumpled piece of writing in Agent Derek Anderson’s script, written when he was sixteen but recovered by an FBI forensics team from his mother and father’s home when he was thirty-four:

“I AM SORRY AMY. I LOVE YOU. I DID NOT WANT TO HURT YOU. BUT MY FATHER TOLD ME WHAT TO DO.”

Dr. Camp puts the note in with the rest of the documents assembled in the speckled-green cardstock folder prepared by Delta Green and prefixed by the chalky white piece of cardstock with an inch-and-a-half wide orange border. Repeated at the top and bottom, in large orange sans serif letters, are the words TOP SECRET. In the middle, also printed in orange but much smaller, are the words:

ALL INDIVIDUALS HANDLING THIS INFORMATION ARE REQUIRED TO PROTECT IT FROM UNAUTHORIZED DISCLOSURE IN THE INTEREST OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY OF THE UNITED STATES.

HANDLING, STORAGE, REPRODUCTION AND DISPOSITION OF THE ATTACHED DOCUMENT WILL BE IN ACCORDANCE WITH APPLICABLE EXECUTIVE ORDER(S), STATUTE(S) AND AGENCY IMPLEMENTING REGULATIONS.

(This cover sheet is unclassified.)

Cigarette ash dots the cover sheet, until Dr. Camp blows it away.

Dr. Camp files the folder in with the rest of his private files at the Library of Congress. DEA Agent Mark Darrin goes on to his next assignment. DEA agent, human being, and being of something simultaneously greater and lesser than human Derek Anderson ceases to exist. Dr. Camp lights a candle over Derek’s file. “In the fires of passion are cold realities cast,” Dr. Camp says. He wishes Derek’s spirit the best and the worst of luck, and privately wonders which came out on top in the end.

Fantasy Delta Green Lore and Case Histories.

The Faceless King

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The Faceless King

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The Faceless King

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The Faceless King

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