PROLOGUE

At 4:15 P.M., Monday, April 26, 1937 in the Spanish Nationalist Headquarters of Oberstleutnant Wolfram von Richthofen, cousin of the infamous Manfred Von Richthofen and Commander of the Condor Legion, the radio crackled, “We are approaching the target, Sir. The Guernica Square is filled with civilians. Should we continue?”

“Yes dammit’. Follow orders.” There are no innocents in war. They are all combatants. Lay down the ‘blanket.’ Destroy them completely.”

“Yes, Sir. We are going in with the first wave.” An instant later, “Bombs away” and a whistling sound, followed by explosions were heard on the radio. The Spanish Civil War was now the scene of the very first aerial bombardment of a city. The Nazi airmen, in support of Francisco Franco’s Nationalists were about to devastate Guernica with unheard of atrocities against innocent civilians.

The Dornier DO 17 bomber had dropped its twelve 50 kilogram bombs and pulled up steeply. Three Italian SM 79s followed, dropping 36 explosive bombs. The three more devastating waves of fighters and bombers bombed and strafed the running men, women and children.

“That should make believers of those ‘Baskies,’” the ruthless commander exclaimed to Feldwebel Shultz, his sergeant in charge of records.

“Is this our new policy, Sir—to bomb civilians?” Shultz said, sarcastically.

“You know what General Ludendorf said; ‘we must crush the enemy’s morale.’”

“I’m not questioning the General’s order, Commander, but wasn’t our target the Mundaca River bridge.”

“Ostensibly it was, to prevent Franco’s enemies from fleeing, and to secure the Port of Bilboa. However, the Fuehrer has other objectives in mind.”

“Yes, I know. The strange new aircraft reported above the Pyrenees.”

“This of course is confidential, sergeant. We must not emphasize these sightings in your report. Your press report tomorrow will stress the importance of protecting the port. “Do not, I emphasize, do not, even mention the round planes.” The general thinks they may be some new technological developments of the French government.”

“But don’t they have a non-intervention pact denying assistance to the republic?”

“Yes, but you know how unreliable French pacts can be.” The Oberstleutnant leaned back smugly. “We can handle anything they’ve got, and our Intelligence will discover what these so-called flying discs are.”

The sergeant ran his fingers through his short-cropped blond hair and turned back to his paper work, looking somewhat worried at the overconfidence of his boss. He was a young man in his twenties, a well-built and ambitious soldier, anxious to please his superiors, so he deferred to the older man’s judgment for the time being.

Almost forty years would go by; the war would be long over; Hitler dead by suicide; Guernica (the cultural center of Eskual Herria) immortalized by Picasso’s famous painting; and the mysterious aircraft would remain an unknown quantity.

But in February of 1976, a young couple in Indiana would soon discover the origin and nature of the unidentified aircraft, and become engaged in an adventure that will change their lives forever.

.
FROM THE HEIGHTS OF ESKUAL HERRIA- CHAPTER ONE

Gazing out the window of the American DC 9 as it began its initial descent to New York’s LaGuardia Field, Mark Holbrook was awed by his first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. The plane descended so steeply it seemed the nose was pointed at the tops of the tall buildings on Manhattan Island. Another turn to the right, still descending, gave Mark the opportunity for some good shots with his 35 millimeter. Now they were coming across a multi-lane highway. The plane banked left, circling Shea Stadium, and lined up for its final approach. The runway could now be seen in the distance.

Mark checked his seat belt and leaned back in his seat, braced for the landing. Vera’s hand slipped into his, and he turned to give her a reassuring smile. She wasn’t at all crazy about flying, but Mark hadn’t been able to take off any more than a week from his construction job for their second honeymoon in New York, so she had reluctantly agreed that flying was the best—indeed the only, way to go.

“Don’t worry, hon,” Mark murmured to his wife of twenty years. “We’re as good as landed now. The fun’s about to begin.”

As the wheels of the Holbrooks’ plane bumped terra firma, twenty miles south, flying in a northerly direction, undetected by military radar or the scopes of the Air Traffic Control Center, was a formation of three aircraft having a vastly different configuration than those landing and taking off at LaGuardia.

They were about sixty feet in diameter, the undersides had a bluish-silver hue, and they had no markings except a series of circular red depressions at the outer edges. The depressions could have housed landing lights. The bulging curvatures from below gave no evidence of being held together by rivets or welds, but looked as if a giant die had shaped one solid piece of metal. The craft did not roar; they hummed. The sound was strange, but not at all unpleasant. The three ships glided along at about thirty knots, obviously not depending upon their aerodynamic surfaces for lift, but utilizing some form of power unknown to people on earth.

From the top, they looked slightly concave from the outer edges in about fifteen feet where the circular curvature melded smoothly into an octagon-shaped cabin approximately thirty feet across the top. There were eight separate viewing windows or slots, one for each side of the cabin on top of each ship. The lead ship had some kind of black marking and a flashing red light right in the middle of the top. This indicated that the leader of the expedition was aboard this ship.