Death's Head Legion: The Spear of Destiny: Part Two of Three

by Trey Garrison

  Around the table there were murmurs of assent.

  “The creation of true draugrkommandos, and our next step in the even more advanced draugr nár-fölr form for Project Friedrich, requires access to the GR-68 source compound—the Spear of Destiny—not the postcatalyzation compound we have now that we got from the infected agent.”

  Uhrwerk nodded as the doctor spoke. The rest needed to be pushed across the line. .

  “Dr. Übel is referring to the six axis process of controlled transmission and infection he described initially,” Uhrwerk said. “If you gave an engineer the individual parts for a machine gun, he could fashion a primitive musket; one cannot build a Maxim machine gun from a mere musket.”

  Himmler understood. He did well with analogy and metaphor.

  “However,” Dr. Übel said, “we have completed the first five phases of our lab tests and Difference Engine models for Project Gefallener, and we are ready to proceed with the final phase as soon as we have the Spear of Destiny—in our hands. All of our plans come together when we have it. For years we have tried to harness the powers unleashed in the war in weapons and mechanical men and my transgenics. Now we will have the power we have sought. Our armies will be invincible.”

  As the lights were raised to their usual grim level and the projector turned off, Heydrich took the floor.

  “Our last communication from Der Schädel and Lieutenant Skorzeny came just before they departed from Rome on a Lufthansa airship. They indicated that once they landed in Volos, they were en route to recover the spear from a Gypsy tribe near the Argeş River at the Transfagarasan Road in Romania, near Piteşti,” he said. “Skorzeny was confident he would recover the spear within the next seventy-two hours.”

  “Das es vunderbar!” Dr. Übel said. When he saw the expression of those around the table, he explained. “I know this region well because of the extensive research we have done on the Romanian and Wallachian manifestations.”

  Heydrich whispered to an aide, and moments later a map of Romania was projected onto the screen across the table.

  The doctor pushed up next to the screen, studying the map in an attempt to orient himself.

  “No . . . no . . . yes!” he said. “There it is. So very apt. Such a marvelous coincidence. And so very isolated. It is perfect. Perfect!”

  Himmler was getting impatient with the meeting going off track. He indicated as much to Heydrich with an expression.

  “Ah, yes. Herr Reichsführer,” Dr. Übel said, “the location to which Mister . . . um . . . Lieutenant Skorzeny referred, it is within just a few kilometers of Poenari Citadel—the very Wallachian castle of Vlad Tepes himself. It has been abandoned for centuries, and there are no nearby settlements. The structure is still sound, and of course it is located in Romania, not the Reich. It would make a perfect testing ground for the final stage of Project Gefallener. After all, if my research is correct, Vlad Tepes’s power and immortality was the direct result of his exposure to the Spear of Destiny. And though he has not been heard from beyond legend for more than half a century, we may find additional artifacts that help us unlock the source of his power and mastery.”

  Heydrich pointed out that the flight path to Poenari Citadel from Reich territory by way of cargo plane or airship would offer minimal detection. Ground extraction, likewise, was well within risk parameters for any size expedition up to thirteen hundred men plus materials.

  Himmler liked this idea. He especially liked the idea of testing it on soil far from Wewelsburg.

  “What would you need for your tests?” he asked the doctor.

  Dr. Übel pursed his lips. “The equipment needs would be minimal. We would need the one thousand volunteers.”

  Himmler eyed Heydrich.

  “The thousand volunteers for Death’s Head Legion,” Heydrich said. “They are ready to move on a moment’s notice.”

  “Zehr gut,” Himmler said.

  At the Reichsführer’s order, Deitrich laid out the improvised action plan.

  “Two Condor class airships can deliver Dr. Übel, his staff, and equipment, the Death’s Head Legion, an additional contingent of SS commandos, and the necessary material and logistical support needed to establish a clandestine operation in Poenari Citadel. The airships can be loaded and airborne within twenty-four hours; they can make delivery under cover of darkness less than six hours later,” the head of the Waffen-SS said. “We can have the whole operation running within the citadel, and a secure perimeter established shortly after.”

  Hoffstetter added, “There are no known villages within ten miles of the castle, but there is the possibility of isolated travelers and even small Gypsy camps. We can task small, discreet patrols to eliminate any such contacts.”

  Himmler was pleased at the efficiency of his commanders. Deitrich was talking about establishing a secret, fully operational base in a castle on a mountain in foreign territory—a garrison with more than fifteen hundred soldiers and scientists and a working high-tech laboratory.

  “Once Lieutenant Skorzeny and Der Schädel have the spear in their possession,” Heydrich explained, “they will break radio silence, at which time we can instruct them to make contact with the SS garrison at Poenari Citadel. They can deliver the Spear of Destiny directly to Dr. Übel.”

  The short doctor could barely contain himself.

  “And then I can immediately proceed with Project Gefallener,” he said, clapping his hands. “Es vunderbar!”

  All eyes to turned to Himmler. He nodded. “I see no reason not to proceed. There is no cause for further delay. If successful, Project Gefallener will fundamentally redirect our efforts in the expansion of the Reich. Are there any objections?”

  Colonel Uhrwerk rose.

  “Reichsführer, I accept that there is great anticipation among the leadership to engage Project Gefallener and that it will alter our long-term strategies, but I urge that we proceed more deliberately. Prudence dictates we await the recovery of the spear and experimentation in Dr. Übel’s labs in Deep Hold 13,” he said, his words as measured in tone as tempo.

  Himmler considered the colonel’s words, shook his head and rose. The master of the Black Sun—the second most powerful man in Germany—addressed his dark acolytes.

  “Nein, Uhrwerk,” he said. “Gentlemen of this knightly order, we stand on the precipice of history. The spear will soon be in our hands. We have all longed for those who could fundamentally transform Germany and bring about the New Order, and we see now that we are the ones for whom we have longed. It is we, alone, who can usher in this new Camelot, this New Order for the Aryan race. We alone carry on our backs the hopes and dreams and the very spirit of National Socialism—our tomorrow—and these are dreams and hopes in which we can believe.”

  Himmler walked the perimeter of the round table.

  “It is a New Order where the good of the people and the good of the state are aligned and in perfect harmony. An order of collective action, collective good, and collective iron will. We must make the hard choices to prepare Germany for a new age,” he said. “Colonel Uhrwerk, you and Major Hoffstetter are to take charge of this mission to Poenari Citadel. I want your airships ready to take off tomorrow at dusk.”

  Uhrwerk and Hoffstetter nodded in acknowledgment. Untersturmführer Hans Bonhoeffer was already making mental notes for reference by Deitrich and Hoffstetter.

  Himmler paused, and turned his gaze toward the two paintings at the center of the eastern wall—Freidrich II of Prussia who first united Germany, and Adolf Hitler, the man who would unite the world under German rule.

  “Gentlemen of the Black Sun, Project Gefallener and its next phase, Project Freidrich, are the answers for a German people told for so long by so many to be cynical, fearful, and doubtful about what we can achieve,” Himmler said. “With this, we can put our hands to the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.”

  Every man and aide around the table in the SS General’s Hall rose, clicked his heels, and
raised his right hand in salute.

  “Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!”

  An hour later Untersturmführer Hans Bonhoeffer was running the operations in the busy Waffen-SS headquarters building at Wewelsburg Castle, organizing and communicating to field offices all of the orders from Deitrich and Hoffstetter that would be necessary to comply with Himmler’s ambitious plan. It was an amazing logistical undertaking—transporting over thirteen hundred volunteers, commandos, engineers, and scientists, plus twenty metric tons of lab equipment, power generators, provisions, weapons, and communications gear over nine hundred miles into Romania under cover of night.

  From the window in the commandant’s office where he was working, Bonhoeffer could see the North Tower, where once again his general officer, Sepp Deitrich, was reporting to Heydrich the progress of operations. There wouldn’t be a better time, he thought, brushing back the little commas of dark hair from his forehead. From the pocket of his black service tunic he removed two devices about the size of a pack of cigarettes. The Waffen-SS headquarters building had four dedicated communications rooms alone, and Wewelsburg Castle itself had a huge communications complex on the west end of the Wewelsburg grounds occupying almost 50,000 square feet of space spread over three stories. But still, the head of the Waffen-SS had three fully independent wireless devices in his office for personal use.

  His sharp blue eyes squinting as he worked, Bonhoeffer attached the devices at two hard points on one of the sets. It would effectively mask and scramble the transmission. Then he tuned the transmitter to a low-frequency setting used only by the Deuxième Bureau—the French intelligence service—and began a short coded message. The contents would be relayed from a listening station in Luxembourg and on to Paris. From there it would be sent securely to the Austin office of a certain napkin note-taking coordinator of information and director of collections for the Prometheus Society.

  Bonhoeffer began his transmission.

  “Chevalier, this is Robin. Priority message for the Clockman. Finally have the grocery list for that special dinner Uncle Henry has been planning. Recipe as follows . . .”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Aboard the luxury airship Graf von Götzen

  Somewhere over central Greece

  It started easy enough. It should have been a milk run. The biggest obstacle to freeing Professor Renault was Skorzeny, and he was trussed up like a Christmas goose and snoring like a fat man. Taking out the plainclothes Gestapo men guarding the valuable cargo bay went smoothly. Terah approached the two while pulling a small steamer trunk on wheels. She pouted a little, showed more than a little cleavage, batted her eyes, asked for help, and then pulled her pistol. An application of ether solved the problem of what to do with the goons. Once they were tied up and secured on the dolly alongside Skorzeny’s sleeping form, Rucker kicked in the bay door.

  That’s when everything went to hell.

  Rucker, Terah, and Deitel charged through the door, all three aiming pistols at the figure with his back to the door wearing a white SS uniform with a red-lined cape. In his talonlike right hand he held the leather mask he always wore in public. His skull was sickly white, hairless and scarred.

  He was Hitler’s personal interrogator and punisher.

  Der Schädel.

  The Skull.

  In front of Schädel, Professor Renault was tied to a chair. Deitel assessed the poor victim from a distance—he didn’t dare move closer until Der Schädel was rendered harmless—but he saw no obvious wounds or signs of injury. Yet the man was moaning in agony.

  “Hands up, chalky,” Rucker said.

  Der Schädel cocked his head slightly, seeming only then to acknowledge their arrival. His head swiveled slightly to his right. Rucker almost saw Der Schädel’s profile. More scars on his milky face, and it looked like most of his nose and upper lip were missing, as were his earlobes. The scars didn’t look like the result of an injury or accident. They looked self-inflicted. Regular. Surgical?

  Der Schädel made as if he was going to replace his mask—who could blame him? Rucker thought—but then like a flash he wheeled to his left and waved the outstretched claw of his left hand. Deitel and Terah found themselves slammed against the cargo bay bulkhead by an invisible force. They both sank to the ground, unconscious.

  Rucker found he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even squeeze the triggers of his pistols. He looked Der Schädel full in the face. The German’s dark, sunken eye sockets, his lipless grin, and his gaunt, alabaster skin stretched so taunt and thin over his bony face that it looked translucent—certainly his code name fit.

  Watching as if from outside his body, Rucker saw Schädel put his bony hands behind his back and take a casual stroll around the area.

  “Well, then,” Der Schädel said. “You are the latest enemies of the Reich who would stand in the way of our Führer’s New Order. You probably think you know who I am. But you do not. I am far worse than your darkest nightmares.”

  Sweat broke out across Rucker’s body.

  “Now, who are you? Ah, I see you served in the war. Very interesting. A Texan, no less. Descended from Huguenot, Scottish, and Nordic stock. A crusader and a mercenary. Oh yes, this is fertile ground. Captain Rucker, I presume.”

  Rucker assumed he must have had some movement in his face, because Der Schädel seemed to notice his confounded expression.

  “They call me the Skull for more than the obvious reasons,” Der Schädel said. “I, too, served in the Great War. It was where this”—he indicated his face –“all got started. But before that, I was a doctor of psychiatry in Vienna. Let me show you.”

  Rucker felt a piercing heat in his mind, as if a hot knife had plunged into his forehead. Light exploded behind his eyes. He was no longer alone in his own conscience. Like a rapist would a woman’s body, Der Schädel had entered his mind. He saw Der Schädel’s life unfold as though it were his own.

  Rucker now knew himself to be a brilliant young Austrian student, fascinated by how the mind works. The conscious and the subconscious, the ego, superego, and the id—all of it a puzzle he was under a compulsion to understand. But what he saw was colored through a lens not in any of the books he studied or the lectures he audited in the psychiatric schools of Vienna. As Der Schädel, he saw how minds differed according to race and destiny. He knew that Dr. Freud only tapped the surface of explaining this remarkable Difference Engine we call the human brain. He knew he would map the whole of the human mind and its capabilities.

  In medical school, he saw himself pushing his initial research beyond the boundaries of conventional, mediocre psychiatry. He didn’t experiment on dogs or apes—he had no interest in dog or ape minds. Rucker—Der Schädel—wanted to see what really drove man’s mind. That is where he experimented.

  Rucker saw himself welcoming troubled patients of all social levels to his home clinic on the quiet cobblestone avenue in Vienna. He pushed the patients mentally to vast extremes in their emotions, and he felt the rush of power and understanding that each push brought. That feeling became something he craved.

  At first he pushed because of how good it felt. Then he pushed because it felt bad when he didn’t. Each time, he had to push further for that same explosion of pleasure.

  Rucker watched himself talk a woman into taking a brass letter opener and plunge it into her bosom, the blood flowering on her dress in a most erotic manner. He saw a boy brought to him because of his emotional highs and lows. Through gentle therapy and loving advice, he talked the boy into laughing at everything. All the time. To the point where the boy could not sleep or eat. He saw the boy committed to an insane asylum, where he died within a fortnight still laughing, rigor freezing a grinning rictus on his angelic face. He felt the surge of power and lust from convincing a man the only way to end his constant anger was to beat his wife and child to death with a candlestick. Rucker felt the sublime pleasure, like a mild opium rush, from the patient he talked into an apathy so severe the man simply stopped eating, drinki
ng, and moving.

  He saw that for Der Schädel, it was delightful. He watched as if it were his own life as Schädel unleashed all manner of emotions and motives locked in patients’ minds. He learned he could cultivate their fears, manipulate their hostilities, and flood their sense of guilt and regret. The patients he valued most served his purposes as loyal servants. Then he took this unique gift beyond the reality of personal pleasure. He began to bend the ears of more and more powerful people in Vienna, working his way into the avenues of power. Very quickly, though, he realized how small were his young man’s ambitions. Too simple. Base avarice and greed. Distasteful. So small.

  Rucker saw himself arrested in 1913 on orders of the Vienna medical society. Escaping the dank iron cell of prison was easy enough—the trek through the wilderness to Germany far less so, as he was alone with few minds on which to feed. The cold nights in the woods were all the more awful for the hunger and loneliness he felt. He was a people person, after all.

  In Germany, he saw himself change his identity easily enough—just a wave and a word with a clerk in a spartan office building—and enlisting in the Great War. Rucker/Der Schädel relished the crowds and the chaos of war. He excelled as a rifleman and then a sniper. He was happy for the first time after the disgrace of Vienna, but yearned to touch minds with his own. Before, it would take hours of intimate contact and interaction with patients. Now, as with his rifle, he knew he must try to touch minds at a distance.

  Once at the front, he watched a target for hours, reading every move and interpreting emotions, motives, and character. He slowly felt the tendrils of his mind entwining with the target’s. It got to where he could predict exactly where and when a man would move. Rucker saw himself wagering with his spotter, Helmut. He would take aim near his target and bet on exactly when the soldier would enter his crosshairs. It was a delightful game. It made trench life bearable, even if the other soldiers—small-minded fools just like the mendicants in Vienna—were uncomfortable with him. They kept their distance and spoke in whispers when he was around. As if he couldn’t read every one of them and know the disgust they felt.