In the Spotlight: The Atlantis Deception by Mark H. Jackson

THE ATLANTIS DECEPTION by Mark H. Jackson, Adventure/Thriller, 288 pp., $18.22 (paperback) $3.99 (kindle)

Title: THE ATLANTIS DECEPTION
Author: Mark H. Jackson
Publisher: Unbound Digital
Pages: 288
Genre: Adventure/Thriller

A German property developer, Hans Hoffmann, revels in the belief he has discovered the key to unleashing the weapon responsible for sinking Atlantis. Hoffmann requests the help of Cambridge archaeologist, Dr John Hunter to validate his mysterious find. Hunter’s acceptance leads the maverick academic on a journey from the headquarters of a clandestine organisation in England, to a lost city in the heart of the Brazilian Rainforest, and climaxes inside a chamber hidden deep beneath Egyptian Heliopolis. Pioneering theory is spliced by epic battles, daring escapes, and elaborate schemes aimed at unravelling a secret history hidden from humanity for the past twelve thousand years.

Atlantis is a very visual word. A word evoking mystery, forgotten realms, underwater palaces… the list goes on. I find this Plato inspired concept of Atlantis fascinating and read anything and everything I can lay my hands on. The theories are diverse and range from the feasible to the outlandish, but certain concepts keep reoccurring. The Atlantis Deception takes the ideas of accepted and alternative theory, weaving them together to create a believable universe where our past still dictates our future.

The novel follows the trials and tribulations of a fictional Cambridge academic, Dr John Hunter. The focus is not on Atlantis itself, but rather on what happened to its people it the wake of the loss of their homeland. The Atlantis Deception is a classic action adventure tale with heroes, villains, shadowy organisations and self-serving plots, each underpinned by progressive archaeological theory. The novel is written with the aim of both exciting and making readers think in equal measure. Although imagined, many of the conclusions the characters reach are cutting edge and described in such a way so as to blur the line between fact and fiction.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine

Mato Grosso, Brazil, 1939

Himmler paused, bending to examine a black, broken piece of rock

discarded on the forest floor. He turned it in his hand, frowning as

he swept a finger over its impeccable, marble-like finish. It must have

been chipped from a statue or pillar. It was impressive workmanship

and Himmler doubted even the largest construction companies

in Germany would have done any better, even with their modern

machinery and tooling techniques. He slipped the fragment into his

pocket, a tingle of childlike excitement building in his stomach.

After years of ploughing Nazi resources into the Ahnenerbe, he was

at last on the verge of completing his quest. If the papers found in

Tibet by the short-sighted idiot, Ernst Schafer, were to be believed,

then it wouldn’t be long before he possessed the evidence he craved:

solid, indisputable proof linking Aryan Germany to prehistory’s

greatest lost empire, the kingdom of Atlantis. Armed with this knowledge,

Himmler was convinced the Aryans of Europe would rally

under the Nazi banner, joining forces with the Fuhrer to form an

unstoppable alliance tasked with reclaiming the lands and legendary

technologies of their ancestors.

Tibirica barked a command in Himmler’s direction, snapping him

out of the daydream. There were still several steps he needed to tread

along this path and he needed to focus on the present. Proving his

doubters wrong would have to wait. A month earlier, Hitler himself

had dismissed the Ahnenerbe as mere folly and the criticism still

smarted his ego. Luckily for him, his reputation ensured the majority

of Party members were still happy to indulge the quest. Himmler

wasn’t a man anyone wanted as an enemy, and the Party viewed their

support as an easy way to appease his infamous temper.

Up ahead, Tibirica swept aside a dense section of foliage and signalled

for Himmler to follow. He disappeared through the gap with

his son and the vines dropped back in place. Himmler looked down at

the diminutive translator. His hate for the man welled inside his gut.

He despised the reliance his current predicament demanded he place

on such an insignificant being. Back in occupied Europe he would

have ordered the creature’s execution without even batting an eyelid.

But out here… He shook his head. Out here this dirt-encrusted man

was irreplaceable.

‘You go first and tell me if it’s safe,’ said Himmler.

‘W-w-what if it t-t-trap?’ stuttered the petrified translator.

‘That is why you are going first.’ Himmler shoved him in the small

of his back and propelled him through the foliage, sending him crashing

into whatever lay beyond. With a bone-crunching thud the translator

hit something solid and yelped in pain. He staggered backwards

and lost his footing, returning through the greenery and landing at

the feet of his employer. He whimpered and pulled a mucky rag from

his pocket, pressing it against his broken and bloodied nose.

‘Well?’ asked Himmler, suppressing laughter. ‘How did you get

on?’

‘Wall… Wall on other side.’

Himmler frowned and slipped a hand through the thick, leafy

foliage. His hand barely cleared the flora when it met something solid,

something sharing the same smooth surface as the strange flake of

rock in his pocket. Himmler’s eyes widened in anticipation. Could he

really be touching the walls of the lost city? It was an incredible feat

of engineering. He couldn’t have been closer, and yet, if it weren’t for

Tibirica, he and his men would have walked on by, never knowing

how close he’d come to his goal. Not for the first time, he offered up

a quick word of thanks to Lady Luck. This information alone more

than made up for the loss of life inflicted on his Gruppe.

Himmler forced the rest of his body through the tight opening.

The greenery dropped in place behind him and his world plunged

into darkness. Surprised and a little disorientated, he stumbled forwards,

both hands slapping hard against the rock wall. An eerie echo

bounced back and forth through the oppressive, airless atmosphere.

Torrents of perspiration snaked his body, drenching his already moist

uniform. He battled to keep it from his eyes and cursed his decision

to wear the black SS uniform. One of his men had advised otherwise

but Himmler had refused to heed the advice, stubborn in his belief the

officer concerned was testing his authority.

Himmler took a moment and regained his composure. He groped

for the torch strapped to his belt and flicked it on. The thin beam

penetrated the gloom, casting ghostly shadows and exaggerating the

size of the obstacles littering the overgrown path ahead. With a sense

of foreboding and familiar feelings of claustrophobia creeping up on

him, Himmler waved the torch to his left, illuminating the black wall

of rock holding his weight. It seemed to stretch on forever. He stroked

its surface and moved forward a few steps. There weren’t any breaks

or cracks anywhere, the wall’s surface seamless in its construction. No

joins, no cement holding it together, in fact no discernible clues as

to its construction at all. He smiled, marvelling at the thought of his

ancestors possessing such advanced skills in engineering. The Reich

had so much to learn from this ancient people.

Himmler froze as the torch registered movement up ahead, the

beam picking out the shadow of something hidden in the undergrowth.

He cocked his handgun and held his breath, poised and ready

to react to the merest hint of hostility. A male voice split the tension.

Tibirica’s son called out to his father. The two tribesmen must have

realised he was no longer following and retraced their steps. Himmler

lowered his gun and reached for his translator, grabbing his hair and

forcing him to take point. He wanted to trust Tibirica but his instincts

advised him otherwise. Trust was a luxury a man in his position could

little often afford to give freely. He prodded the translator in the back

with his gun and shoved him towards the two tribesmen.

‘Tell them to stay where they are,’ he said. ‘If they disappear again,

we’ll never find them.’ The translator repeated the order, his speech

muffled by the cloth still pressed to his nose. A minute later, after slipping

and sliding their way down the rocky passage, Himmler arrived

alongside his two guides. They flanked him and prodded the torch,

both fascinated by the magical shaft of light it emitted. Himmler

kept them at arm’s length, making a mental note of the greed in the

younger man’s eyes.

‘Ask them where we are headed,’ he ordered, trying to distract

them.

The translator obliged, and Tibirica’s response sounded curt.

‘Well?’ said Himmler.

The translator frowned. ‘He say we walk through wall. I ask where

door. He only repeat same words and point at wall.’

‘I don’t pay you to question what he says, just do your job and

translate.’ Himmler shoved him aside and raked the torch beam across

the wall, searching for evidence of an entrance.

The proximity of the magical light source suddenly became too

much for Tibirica’s son. In a mix of lust, greed and perhaps revenge

for his broken nose, he lunged at Himmler. Catching him unawares,

he shoved Himmler’s gun arm behind his back and punched him in

the kidneys. Himmler tensed his muscles and flung the elbow of his

free arm into the Brazilian’s gut. The blow connected, but found little

purchase on the boy’s greasy stomach. A thick forearm snuck around

his neck, while the other made a grab for the torch. The attempt failed

but the force of the attack was enough to knock it from his grasp and

send it crashing to the ground. Himmler grimaced, grinding his teeth

as the bulb shattered on impact, engulfing the passage in darkness.

The sudden disappearance of the light took the young warrior by

surprise and his grip slackened. Himmler whirled on the ball of his

foot, simultaneously smashing the palm of his hand into his attacker’s

already broken nose. The Brazilian didn’t even have time to scream,

dying where he stood as numerous splinters of bone penetrated his

brain. Himmler shoved the corpse aside and smoothed the creases

from his uniform.

‘Translator, please inform Chief Tibirica to proceed. His son has

met with a little “accident” and I wouldn’t want a similar one to befall

him.’ The translator didn’t respond. Himmler clenched his fist. The

little bastard must have made a bolt for it. He stared into the darkness,

his index finger hovering above the Luger’s trigger as he searched for

a target. The silence was deafening – even the birds appeared to have

abandoned this long-forgotten piece of forest. The Nazi shuddered,

straining his ears for the merest hint of sound. His life was in danger,

and he knew it. A faint clicking sound, two or three metres to his left,

disturbed the silence. He turned to greet it, gun levelled and ready to

open fire.

‘Translator? Is that you?’ Himmler whispered. ‘Answer me or I’ll

shoot.’ A bead of blue light flickered in response, illuminating a small

clearing up ahead. Himmler tensed as a large shape loomed into view.

It was Tibirica. He stepped forward, only to see Tibirica raise an arm

and halt his progress. The chief extended a long finger and pointed at

Himmler’s feet.

Himmler crouched and scanned the ground ahead. There was

something blocking the path. His arm snaked towards it, tentative but

determined to confirm his suspicions. He scowled as his fingers met

the soft, warm flesh of his stricken translator. How would he understand

the bloody chief now? He pulled the old man onto his back and

recoiled at the brutal efficiency of the kill; the head ripped clear of the

neck. It was a sight that left Himmler in no doubt of the suppressed

rage Tibirica must be harbouring. To break a man’s neck was easy,

but to rip it clean from the spine took a strength and skill rare in a

world where the gun ruled the battlefield. He looked up at the chief.

Did this mean they were even again? An eye for an eye and all that?

The stoical Brazilian nodded and jabbed a finger at the glowing

light in the wall. The result was as immediate as it was spectacular.

A semi-circular shaft of light shot from the rock and illuminated the

clearing brighter than the midday sun. Himmler raised an arm to

shield his eyes and staggered backwards. What black magic was this?

Tibirica sniffed and wiped a smattering of blood from his face. He

turned away from Himmler and ducked his head, sliding his ample

frame through the newly formed gap in the wall. Himmler scrambled

up the slope to join him and darted through before the thing closed.

He didn’t have a choice; his life was now in the hands of the chief and

he knew it. He stepped from the makeshift doorway, buoyed to find

natural light on the other side. His elation was tempered as Tibirica’s

massive hand clamped around his shoulder, hauling him through the

gap as it closed behind him. He yelped in pain, feeling a rib crack as he

landed on something solid. He pressed his chest. No harm done, just

another bruise to add to his ever-growing collection. He pushed himself

upright. Where was he? It almost looked like a gutter of a paved

road. The corners of his mouth twisted upward into a tight smile and

he glanced at Tibirica.

‘If this place is what I think it is, Untermensch scum,’ he whispered,

‘then you have assured my place in history.’

If Tibirica understood the German language, he’d have killed

Himmler then and there. Instead he managed only a look of puzzlement.

For the sake of his son, the chief could do little more than pray

Himmler was the messiah his tribe were expecting. Himmler’s smile

widened. Luck was indeed on his side.

Mark H. Jackson is a qualified solicitor who splits his time between protecting the rights of academics, writing thriller fiction and raising five mostly lovely children. He studied Archaeology and Ancient History at the University of Birmingham with a nod towards alternative theory, focusing on the relationship of Giza complex to the stars; portolan maps; and the origins of civilisation and religion. It was within this flame the plots for his future novels were born.

Mark’s writing career extends back over a decade and his diverse portfolio includes three novels, a number of short stories and even a six-part sitcom. Long listed for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, he is currently a featured author on the popular writing website, Wattpad, with over 6,000 followers from all around the world and well over one million reads of his first novel. Aside from Wattpad, Mark is an active member on a number of other writing websites, spending his spare time offering editorial and structural advice to fellow authors. Up to now Mark has considered writing as a creative outlet for the myriad of characters and ideas roaming about his head. The time has come to tease them out of hiding and breathe a little life into their lungs.

His latest book is the adventure/thriller The Atlantis Deception.

Website Link: https://markhjackson.com/
Twitter Link: https://twitter.com/MarkJackson873
Facebook Link: https://www.facebook.com/AtlantisDeception/