Transmission #2-0-6-4 Addendum

38.9072° N, 77.0369° W

Graham Acker sat on the edge of his sleek kayak, the early morning sun glistening off the Potomac's surface. His old haunts before the accident were east of Roosevelt Island, along the Georgetown Waterfront, past the Lincoln memorial, and up towards the beautiful Key Bridge. He was a runner before, enjoyed it thoroughly, actually. But ever since the injury, running couldn't exactly be a part of the equation anymore.

He takes in a deep breath, inhaling the cool, refreshing air as he makes his way past the D.C. skyline. People said he was nuts going on the water this time of year, but they didn't know how good it was being back stateside. Many wouldn't know what it felt like being stuck in those balmy, sweating jungles; even if the water was probably around third-six degrees this morning, it was a far-cry better feeling than being drenched in your own stink at all waking hours.

With a determined grunt, he pulls the oars through the water, each stroke sending ripples cascading away from the boat. This rhythmic motion was a soothing cadence in his life, a way to channel his inert restlessness. When he wasn't here, he was somewhere over there; and while there, his mind ever took him somewhere else, still. Was D.C. home? No, it wasn't. Just another spot for him to settle down for a few years. He'll move on when the time is right, but for now he'd rather not let his time go to waste.

But unfortunately there was a lot in this town that got him distracted.

"I'm doing the best I can here." Karin exclaimed to him, her voice straining. "Do you realize how ridiculously old these tablets are? Not to mention this is a language which has't been uttered in, I don't know, twelve thousand years."

Graham stopped mid-pace, running a hand through his blonde curls; again he was promised answers, and again Karin disappoints him. This all just sounded like another excuse - another reason he should've pressed Barnaby, and not his grad-student TA. "Well, in the language we're speaking in right now: what the hell are we looking at?"

"We?" Karin glares beyond her red-rimmed glasses, the same vibrant color as her shocking hair; kids nowadays, Graham thinks. "You mean 'me'. Alone. With no one else. Because anyone with an iota of a brain cell would drop dead if they had to decipher this without any cypher."

"Focus, Karin."

"Fine."

Karin shifts in her seat, and moves the headlamp of the magnifying glass over the table. Thousands of years passed since this blackened slab saw the light of day; being under the salt-brine and ocean waves far longer than it ever was above the surface. Hieroglyphs and pockmarked chisel marks are all that remains of what Karin tells him was some ancient druidic prayer. Sure. That - from the scant few lines she understood - talked of summoning monsters or demons. Uh-huh. And how even though the markings have a proto-Sumerian aspect to them, conceivably that should've impossible.

Awesome.

"Don't you get it," She tells Graham, going over the lines with a pointer. "These pictograms are written at a point in time no human would've ever thought it necessary to do so. We're talking about people who's great-great grandparents probably were living in caves before this was written down."

"So, fairly intelligent cavemen is who we're dealing with?"

"Not just that!" Over the mess of papers and half-crazed notes more apt in a mental asylum, Karin throws a map covering a quarter of the table. She drags the pointer across a line of the slab, reciting what it says. "Ud ul ningdue pa eaba rea. Ud ul ningdue mi zid duggaaba - 'In those ancient days when all things were created, in ancient time when all things were given their place'. Do. you know what this is? Here, follow me. This is Uruk here!" Her finger taps the southerly border of Iraq. Graham follows it when she begins to drag it all the way across the other side of the world. "But this tablet was found here!"

Graham doesn't hold his breath past the thick rimmed Aviators. With a shrug, he looks to the young woman. "Yeah... So?"

"So how the hell does a stone slab dating to the Late Neolithic, when people were just figuring to use dug-out canoes and hide-boats - let alone anything that could across an entire ocean, recounting the Epic of Gilgamesh, get scrounged up from the bottom of the Bahamas, Mr. CIA man?"

He smirks seeing the puffed up determination in the Moldovian's face; she looks like how Prometheus did after telling Zeus he was giving fire to mankind, and there was nothing the he can do to stop him. Even if Barnaby's knees were be giving out, at least his eye for talent was still good.

"I don't know, kid," Graham goes, tapping his fingers against the desk. "Guess that's why Barnaby pays you the big bucks."

She scoffs, the tiniest bits of her thick Eastern European accent nearly breaking through. "Tch, pays me? He pays me shit. Not if I don't wear these miniskirts and turtlenecks."

'I already told you if you needed extra cash for anything, you can let me know."

"I don't need you to do my clothes shopping for me, mudak. Just listen..."

Shy of a full-on history seminar about the intricacies of cross-atlantic travel capabilities of ancient peoples, Karin demonstrated the sheer immensity of the find. The tablet, she emphasized, could change the scope of human history on this planet. Before 3100 BC, the majority of everyone believed the hovels and settlements humanity had begun to settle were simply farm-dwelling sites comprised of one or two family groups potentially. Anything more sophisticated simply wasn't in the cards. Least not while the Sumerians hadn't gotten around to developing the wheel yet.

"This has been a work of my dissertation for years, though I hadn't had any scope of the evidence until I came here. You're knowledgeable of the early 20th century psychic Edgar Cayce, yes? No, shut-up. Of course, you aren't. Allow me..."

Karin is alight with joy and excitement as she regales him about the life and times of a reputed crackpot. Cayce, as Graham knew him, was a man who'd claimed to be able to cure diseases in his sleep, commune with the dead when he was awake, and peddled illusory theories of the origins of man and his faiths. Back when people would pay a nickel for a geek show, and believe the fattest cow in the county fair was actually the son of the minotaur, the man certainly had his following. His reputation floundered as The Depression wore on, and sooner than later people didn't have any more nickels to throw at a man who wasted time screaming into the air.

But for Barnaby's assistant, she'd combed through ALL of Cayce's notes throughout the years till his death. Slavish almost in her devotion to prove the madman was onto something.

In the end, how could Graham to doubt anything considering his own origins in this world.

"Cayce stated a number of things which were bullshit - a complete fabrication of his own idiotic fancies later in life. Scrambling to make ends meet, he'd starve himself for days trying to induce whatever visions might come his way. For a week, he nearly killed himself with starvation. Until one night he was said to be rocked by a vision," Karin takes our a marker, circles a number of four points in the Caribbean Drawing a line between the southern coast of Florida and the western portion of the Caribbean. "Bimini factored prominently in what Edgar saw then. A long wall, a far-reaching road, a land swallowed by the ocean. In times long before any human can remember."

"Jesus...Your Atlantis-theory again?"

"You bring me this, and yet you doubt it's possibility?" Karin draws a line further still along the Atlantic floor, reaching out to comical lengths that connect the "Bimini Road", to the far-flung Canary Islands on the west coast of Africa. More lines are drawn, enveloping the mountain ranges and underwater caverns located off old sonar maps from Nazi submariners, and black-listed findings from the now defunct OSS. Graham didn't think much of them, until he passed them off to Barnaby, who then enlisted Karin to supervise.

He still didn't put much stock into it; not upon seeing the gargantuan outline of a massive continent in bright red ink smack dab in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

"There are too many coincidences between certain cultures that certain considerations HAVE to be taken seriously. Pyramid designs of the Olmecs compared to the Ziggurats of Ur, the root of languages, and the consistent use of hieroglyphics. Not to mention a flood myth being predominant in every religion on Earth. And now this, the story of Gilgamesh! Found eleven thousand kilometers away from his supposed origins? Knowledge is power; those whom we work for second this. To deny it when it's presented right in front you is the height of foolishness."

Graham bites his lower lip, mouth brimming with a scowl; talking business is one thing, but for her to be so cavalier almost causes him to rip his glasses off. "Would. You. Keep. Your. Voice. Down - Who knows who could be listening in on this."

"I speak freely when I know I can, Mr. Acker. I sense nothing."

An entire life predicated on secrecy, their sponsors were not ones for flippancy. If Karin wasn't going watch her mouth, it was certainly going to be their asses. "Our bosses are interested in the 'what', Karin. Not why, where, or whoever else. Tell me what I want to hear, so I can tell them why they should care to keep funneling money into this wild goose chase."

For a long while Graham lost the taste for such theories; whatever could be dug up from the past, should stay there. The kind of future he was building wouldn't be upon ruins, cracked vases, or in Karin's case, segues into the fantastical. Sometimes it made Graham's leg itch all the more thinking about all the times his sponsors funded Dr. Hanz Barnaby's escapades around the world; how much more could they've accomplished if only a quarter of those resources were put into bribery, assassinations, or bankrolling militias.

"They should care - and you, too - because of this!" Karin pulls a thick tome form under a pile, uncaring that the tower falls unceremoniously to the floor; thus fell the Tower of Babel, Graham mused. "It's not a 'what' we're after, but a 'who'."

Karin's finger traces along a picture of an old black-and-white taken only God cared when; a gaggle of finely dressed, mustachioed persons with twirling canes, posing with a group of billowing robed Pakis. They all stand beside a horned man twice their height, a snarling lion clutched to his breast, whilst in the other hand a large serpent coils. The stone relief is cut from a rock in Qamishli, Syria. The picture is not wholly clear, but past his shades Graham easily makes out the spiral-like eyes staring intently out from the page.

"The Master of Animals," Karin goes, her low, serious; her Kishinev upbringing coming through fully now as she speaks. "'The Great Lord who knows the names; who can bring them all together and tame the world'. This character has been shown all throughout history - from Iran, to Scandinavia, to the Orinoco River Valley in Venezuela. Never did we think they could've been a real, until now. Your little friend is proof of the existence to these 'beasts'. And so naturally, the power to control them must be real, too."

"So, what's written here...," Graham pinches the bottom of this chin, unsure if he wants to believe her. Clear Karin believes, but confidence and faith make a blinding combination if not tempered with reason. He presses his thumb against his lips, and sifts through the facts."The Villages? You're saying there could be a connection. If we find them all, maybe they can lead us to this...'power'?"

"Or one who wields it, yes." Karin smiles at him, one of lust and discovery as her own mind skips ahead to possibility. "You found one already in Ijdi-Iɣrem? In the village hidden in the sands. Makes you wonder what else you can find in the others, and why these villages are 'hidden' in the first place? What are they hiding? Or protecting?"

With one final push-off, Graham thrusts the kayak up the bank of the river to dock. The morning had only begun to kick in, and the rush of traffic had begun to clamor up as workers filed in to the city. Some of these people would be his coworkers trudging along toward the Pentagon, others the hired help or staffworkes toiling away tirelessly to make their patrons look good. Most drive little tin-boxes of VW Beetles or Microbuses, wide-berthed Continentals, and sleek, sharp Chevy's; for Graham it was an old Dodge Dart Station Wagon.

Boring, burly, a little bit on the pedestrian side; much like Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara.

As Graham strapped his boat onto the roof of his car, he recalled the conversation they'd had a few afternoons ago. The Lincoln Memorial was empty, silent, perfect for a quick rendezvous; Robert played it off like he was just strolling past the monument as he normally does, Graham that he'd decided on snagging a cappuccino from his usual cafe. Robert was jittery then, and spitting bitterness not usually attributed to his normally composed, business-like Harvard demeanor.

"Why is this taking so long?" McNamara demanded, his voice tight with urgency. "Congress is getting impatient! The assassination attempt on the president has galvanized everyone on the Capitol; the entire city is on the lookout for Commie agents. Public approval is sky-high, and we have a cassus belli. There's no better time to get the ball-rolling than now, but Clayton's twiddling his thumbs while North Vietnam amasses troops by the border."

Graham could feel his irritation climbing. "It's not George Clayton on this; Lt. Colonel Colton is the one leading the element," he corrects, but McNamara's expression showed he couldn't care less.

"A show of force is what I needed!" Robert snaps, his voice rising. "And instead we're sending over a house of toothpicks. This is all going to hell because you got cold feet in the end."

As they walk away from the memorial, Graham tries to shake of Robert's frantic energy to keep his cool. The man always struck him as someone who thought himself above it all, perched on some throne of power, gazing at the world with all the answers. But in reality, the man was a child in a high chair, kicking and screaming because things weren't going his way.

"Don't get greedy," Graham warned, fiddling with his car keys. "Two big birds can't be killed with one little stone. We need to be smart here, Robert, and not put all of our eggs in your basket."

"Vietnam is not the priority here; Japan is!" McNamara retorted, intensity radiating off him. "Do you realize the amount of capital that country can boast if it gets its act together. Red or not, do you know how much money WE can make once it does? Moscow and Beijing will be scrambling, and the entire balance of the Internationale will be thrown into total chaos."

Graham laugh, shaking his head incredulously. "Seems like you already figured this all out, Mr. Secretary."

"I'm planning for the eventual outcome of what WE'VE been tasked to bring about. You're the one who's flying off the cuff here." McNamara's hand shoots out, gripping Graham's arm tightly.

Graham did not appreciate that.

"Let me go, Robert, or I break your shit faster than you can say Bay of Pigs," he threatened, his tone low and menacing, making it clear that he meant every word.

For a moment, McNamara flinches, but he quickly regains his composure. "I had everything planned with Oswald until you went and messed it up. Why you tipped off Dallas PD I haven't a clue. But Johnson is pissed, and so is half the court."

"Not the other half, though." Graham reminded. He unlocks his car door and tossed in his briefcase, pulling his arm away from he Secretary's grasp. "You seem to have very skewed assumption it's you calling the shots here, and not the other way around. Johnson is your lame-duck, but Kennedy is the golden boy; your usefulness will go only so far as he's alive."

Graham lays the bait for McNamara to take. His fastidious eye shake beyond his glasses, the slicked hair almost standing on end; Graham could see Robert wasn't normally a man who liked to be on the back-end, so in this he had only few options. The man was a stat geek, a slave to the data and numbers; he'd only act if facts were in his favor, and was rigid to the point he'd break if he bends any which way.

Acker slides into the front seat of his car, turns on the ignition; even with he gloves on, his fingers were desperate for heat. Still, the cold numbness of being on the water felt more invigorating than anything he'd experienced these last five months. Nothing could take away these precious moments from him, not even the hectic way Robert scurries about the Capitol.

Pulling away and off to his small little abode near National Harbor, Graham slides on the knob for his radio and is lucky when Peggy March's "I Will Follow Him" comes on. Was a certified bop when he'd first heard it back in February, and was the last song he heard when leaving Dulles International for Europe. It'd been a long, arduous journey since then. One Graham knew he'd have to make against soon.

Already there were rumblings...

Barnaby was expecting soon again in China - how he'd have to finagle a flight there, well, it'd have to be on the government's dime. Fine enough, the Agency had plenty of field work there needs doing, and with half the court weeding its way into the pockets of half of Washington's pockets, Graham had no worries. Save, for Karin; she'd specifically requested to accompany him this time, and Barnaby relented.

Fine, Graham sighs.

Not the worst thing, for he had experience training moody young adults before. Karin was no different from all his other protege's taken under his wing, and she did provide a decent enough cover story: Professor on a dig, taking his TA with him - it was fool-proof. Plus, flying into Hong Kong wouldn't be a problem. Being stationed there prior to catching a boat to Vietnam, he'd made considerable contacts among the Triad families there.

The Hyuuga being at the forefront of them all.