“Contemptuous villains,” Edward cried aloud, “my ears are closed to their bootless cries for truce! Yet it angers me how our plans are at times known to them. It weighs on my mind. I cannot fail but ask myself how it can be the French have prior knowledge of what we lay to paper. ‘Tis though they have, hmm - forewarning of our intent. We laid waste to French forces at Romorantin. Their man, Jean le Maingre conspired with Lord de Craon. It was following his departure from Bergerac and our march through their kingdom that we dismissed with such ease the many French armies those two dogs sent into the fray.
“At Romorantin, de Craon and le Maingre lay holed up like the vermin they are, with no more than small numbers. For the eight days we besieged them I prayed to Our Lord for a rescue attempt by their king and his Count of Poitiers. Our Lord did not heed my prayers.”
The Black Prince drew a deep breath; spat a bad taste into the flames as de Vere passed another goblet of wine. Edward nodded appreciatively and raised the goblet. “If nothing else, my friend, France has given us this fine wine.”
De Vere lifted his goblet and toasted, “To John for giving us this poor man’s drop.”
The two drank in sullen silence for a few minutes, then Edward again spat into the flames with a look of distaste. “Aye, to John’s wine,” he grinned. When his goblet was dry, the Black Prince used a downhearted tone. “Your opinion, de Vere, tell me why you believe our trap went by the way? Under our onslaught the lords within Romorantin surrendered, yet this should not have been. Their brave king should have led forces to their rescue but he allowed them to fall. Why did he turn his back on their cries for mercy?”
The response was slow to come. “My Lord, I cannot say, your action in freeing those within Romorantin was in itself an insult to their king for his disinterest in coming to the aid of those within its walls. His actions, as usual, are not those of a worthy leader.”
“And news of le Maingre, did he escape our clutches, what news of him?”
“He lays low at Castelnau with less than sixty men at hand. Sir Nicholas and his bowmen will play him well.”
Edward laughed, “Eh? Think you so? With le Maingre’s armor ablaze I pray. ‘Tis good we torched his surrounds.”
“Aye, ‘tis true,” de Vere retorted with a grin, “Yet I feel our chevauchée of the town and castle did not gratify our men sufficiently for eight days of enduring the stench of French cooking that flowed each night across the ramparts.” He waved a hand in disgust and let out a chuckle. “My Lord, it appears the poor of France are not deprived of food,” and he made a belching gesture and rubbed his stomach. “I shall pray for those poor bastards, those French who must endure such cuisine.”
“By the grace of God and all that is sacred, de Vere - best you pray you do not encounter such men when hunger drives their anger. I hear the French relish broiled meat of fallen Englishmen. Hear me well; our England shall never lie at the feet of a conqueror.”
De Vere raised his goblet toward the flickering flames and in a half blurred gesture groaned, “Hear, hear, m’ Lord.”
Both hovered over the embers with hands outstretched to draw remnants of warmth. It was ten-fifteen on a bitterly cold September night.
The aroma of French cooking rode a chilled night breeze.
French Camp
September 18, 10.45 P: M Four figures, resplendent in their attire of purple velvet tinged with gold brocade, sat around a large table sumptuously covered with trays of fowl, fruit and nuts.
“My Lord,” Baron Clermont said to the man draped in deep purple, “it seems we are well set for Edward. Our men will be far grander and our arrows will fall upon them like a torrent from the heavens. Our arrows will block the sun from the English dogs.”
“You speak truth, yet I have heard these words from your lips on other occasions, Clermont. What say ye, Charles?”
Charles, a short man with a ginger tinged beard and a thick head of knotted hair nodded. “I fear the English arrows will find our knights to be large targets, my Liege. Far better we risk being a target of less mass. Perhaps dismounting, taking the fight to the English on foot. My footmen will advance and lead, followed by the Duke’s horsemen.”
The Duke of Orleans disguised an air of false confidence. “It is a plan worthy of victory, Charles. My men are best positioned at the rear from where I will lead them onward to finish the last of Edward’s villains. What say ye, Clermont?”
“The strategy is sound. I will lead my knights, followed by the Dauphine’s infantry. Sire, your eventual engagement will be the complete destruction of what remains of Edward’s men.”
John gave a judicious nod, reached for a pheasant carcass and ripped a leg off the bird. He bit heartily into its flesh as an attendant poured him wine then busied himself adding to the cups of those seated among the war council. John stood, walked from the tent, gazed at the near full moon as Baron Clermont sidled up to him.
“Sire, forgive me,” Clermont said, “You show concern.”
“Beneath the glow of such a moon, Clermont, our plan appears sound, it appears feasible. Best we consider on nights such as this with so fine a moon, that its beams give visage to the hopes of men and less to their realities.”
“Sire?”
“My old friend, there are those such as Edward whose deepest desire is to have his name chiseled into history. Such is his folly. His greatest fear is that he might pass unknown from this world.” John let out a hearty laugh, “As though such would be a great tragedy.” The hearty laugh intensified. “Better he concern himself with departing this world without his compatriots. With God by our side France shall give him fair accompaniment on his heavenly quest.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Libra Facility, Zurich
The Anti-Christ
April 1, 2015
“I can only speculate,” Beckman snorted as he reconfigured the coordinates, “Moreau’s attempt to return to our time has again resulted in failure. His coordinates are restricting his latitude to a range inside of a few hundred miles of the Dordogne.”
“What of the others?” Bosch asked. “Any sign of them?”
Beckman straddled a stool alongside the main console. He stared at a monitor displaying jagged horizontal lines of singular dimension, almost graph-like in appearance. After a few long moments he pointed to a spike at one end of the monitor, tapped on the screen and shrugged in a questionable way. He thought could I’ve miscalculated the confi gurations?
“He may have stored the ampoules for safekeeping,” Bosch said, and he tapped on the monitor. “You see here.”
Beckman took on a look of concern. “Campion has coordinate variables – he could be some distance from Moreau, a hundred miles – perhaps further.”
“Is that all?” Danzig asked. “That is not too far.”
“Not in our time,” Beckman replied. “But back then, back in the 14th century, even fifty miles was a full day’s ride.”
Danzig stared more intensely at the screen. “Do you have a more precise time frame on their date?”
Beckman thought for a moment, punched in a set of numbers, and waited a few agonizing seconds. “Oh, not good,” he groaned, “not good at all.”
Danzig’s eyes darted from the monitor to Beckman then on to Bosch and back to the console. “Not good? What is the problem?”
Beckman shook his head. “According to my latest calculation our friends are at the beginning of the biggest battle of the century, mid-September of 1356.”
Bosch sat back, sunk into his chair, froze for several seconds with his chin resting on top of his knuckles. He swiveled around several times like a child on a wild ride then pointed a jabbing finger at Beckman. “Tell me you are mistaken. Check your entry again.”
Beckman clicked away furiously at the keyboard, reconfigured his numbers, scratched nervously at his chin, leaned back and switched his focus to a second monitor. All four silently gazed as coordinates formed on the screen: September 19, 1356. Location: Poitiers, F
rance.
Beckman confirmed the readout. Stunned by the completeness of Beckman’s scenario, Danzig opened his mouth, groaned, and lowered his eyes. “We must implement the unthinkable – we must send Neuberg back to that precise time.”
François le Blanc shook his head, genuine in his concern. “I know we have him on standby, but surely we have alternate options? Dispatching Günter would be an unpleasant decision. We have planned this far too long to implement such an irrevocable action.”
Danzig threw a distrusting glare at le Blanc. “I agree it is a last resort. We knew this was always a consideration. And you, Le Blanc – you chose to go along with our plan when we eliminated the dissenters.”
Le Blanc looked away, hesitated as his eyes remained lowered to the monitor. “I am aware of my commitment.” He looked up and glared at Paul Danzig. “Reminders are unnecessary, Paul.”
Danzig tapped on the screen. “With a little luck, at eight o’clock in the evening, Günter Neuberg will arrive in Maupertuis on September 18, 1356.” He made a selfsatisfied gesture and referred to notations on an adjoining monitor. “Neuberg will arrive somewhere in the vicinity of forty-eight degrees twenty-seven feet north and twelve degrees twenty-one feet east.”
“So where is that exactly?” Francois le Blanc asked, putting on a brave face. “Not in the middle of the Dordogne River I trust?”
Danzig gave a contemptuous glare to le Blanc. “It is near the town of Maupertuis, far enough from Poitiers but near the original coordinates of Moreau and Campion. Günter is our last hope. God pray he is well prepared for what lay ahead.” He put on an unconvincing half-grin. “Blake and his two friends have been given no information on Neuberg’s existence.”
“What of Moreau and Campion,” Le Blanc inquired. “Are they aware of the reason for Günter Neuberg?”
“Moreau and Neuberg entered the program simultaneously,” Beckman said. “Dominic will recognize Günter on sight, but I believe he has no knowledge of Neuberg’s later training. His secondary training was conducted in the strictest confidentiality.”
Bosch turned away in dismay. “Gerhardt, we should not cry doom just yet, but at the same time we cannot dismiss Günter’s recognition by Moreau as a potential problem.”
**** Ninety minutes later, Günter Neuberg entered the central control room looking like a stunt double for a Terminator sequel - dressed in a tank top and body hugging black denim he resembled a human robot. He stood at attention, eyes focused directly ahead as a grim faced Gerhardt Beckman delivered a briefing.
With a sturdy marine-like posture standing an intimidating 6 feet 6 inches tall and with blond cropped hair and icy fluorescent blue eyes, Günter Franz Neuberg resembled actor, Dolf Lundgren, the Ivan Drago of Rocky fame. He was a silver medalist at Olympic pentathlon – and a man with seven recorded kills.
“We have always hoped this particular aspect of your training would never require implementation,” Beckman said. “But even the best laid plans can unfortunately go astray.”
Neuberg listened to words he’d hoped he’d never hear. “Günter, I realize there are those who think we at Libra play God, and to some extent, they are correct.” Beckman gloated for a few seconds. “The ultimate player has always been the last man standing. You, Günter, are the last man. For that I am truly sorry.”
Neuberg transcendental beliefs gave him boundless moral parameters and entrenched his belief in destiny; not as predetermined, but as he determined.
“Life is a movie and Libra writes the script,” Beckman said. “This script might have an alternate ending; you Gunter will determine which ending is played out. Dominic Moreau has turned on us; he has threatened to contaminate our time with the Lucifer pandemic.”
“Lucifer?” Neuberg queried, shaking his head. “Lucifer is still in developmental stages.”
“Quite so,” Beckman frowned, “in developmental stages, the very reason we cannot allow Dominic to set the virus free.” He gave a sigh of relief. “The consequences would be – well – you can only imagine.” He lowered his voice, took on a harsher commanding tone. “Töten Sie Moreau.”
Neuberg straightened up and intuitively clicked his heels. “Why would Dom do such a thing? We know he did not release Lucifer in 1356. If he had, we would not be here today. The Lucifer pandemic would have wiped out the population.”
Again, Beckman spoke with conviction. “You are absolutely correct, Günter. The reason that we are here today is simply because you went back and prevented him from releasing Lucifer.”
“So then, Herr Beckman, if Dom has Lucifer and we know he did not use it, what are his intentions?”
Beckman turned away to consider his reply, allowed seconds to pass as he stared at the console. “He plans to return with Lucifer and use it here, in our time. He has made two attempts to return. Each has failed.”
“Failed?”
“His disc malfunctioned.”
“So he is a prisoner back in time?”
“Well, yes. Dom is locked into a restricted radius. We are aware he traveled back to Venice in a failed attempt to meet with Denis Campion, however, efforts by him to pass beyond those coordinates would prove suicidal.”
“And he knows this?”
“He knows this, yes. Dom is aware it would result in horrendous misalignment of arteries, of organs.”
“I have heard of the three Americans Libra sent back. What of them - why was I not sent in their place? You bypassed me and chose them - what will become of them?”
“The Americans? Hmm, yes. They are a major disappointment, Günter. We believe they are also carrying malfunctioning discs. Perhaps their discs have been destroyed, or on the other hand – they could be experiencing transmission failure. We have, uh, come across a small batch with performance issues. We will give you three spare discs - to be on the safe side, understand?” “Yes, but my mission – it sounds terminal.”
Beckman avoided Neuberg’s piercing stare. He glanced around uneasily, his eyes eventually facing the monitor. “Terminal? It may very well be, yes - perhaps so.” He made a shrugging ‘what can we do’ gesture. His reply was cold, heartless, and delivered with an attitude devoid of concern. “We have no choice.” Neuberg nodded slowly, acknowledging the license given him by Beckman yet aware he was about to materialize in an unknown scenario.
Beckman strolled around the muscular man and tapped on his bulging bicep. “Gunter, you are to retrieve the Lucifer virus from Dom. We have thoroughly checked inventory. We are missing three ampoules, the result of a poorly premeditated theft.”
“Premeditated?”
“Yes, Dom apparently switched out Lucifer with three identical ampoules. The theft would have gone undetected except for the settling of the contents in the switched ampoules.”
“Settling?”
“He used water with red colorant added, when the agitator shut down the colorant settled in the bottom of each ampoule.”
Neuberg’s voice grated, “That was careless of Dom.”
“Extremely so, Günter, most careless. You are to make certain Moreau takes his final breath in 1356. You will return safely with the three ampoules. We received a brief transmission from all five discs; we thought it strange the signals were superimposed, as though activated simultaneously. The coordinates came from a region that we have pinpointed as Castelnau.”
“What of Denis?”
“Campion is an unknown quantity.”
“And if I should cross paths with this unknown quantity?”
“You are far superior to Campion - dispose of both him and Dom Moreau.”
“And the Americans?”
“Leave them to their own demise.”
Beckman played on Neuberg’s self-assuredness, on his master race aspirations, a subject the many Germans at Libra debated at length with Hans Bosch. Establishment of a master race was a subject dear to the heart of the Arian contingency.
**** Forty-five minutes later, Beckman emerged from the private room as La Bla
nc and Danzig hovered over one of many control panels. Bosch stood by a window and stared toward the ski slopes. He spoke without turning. “So dann, Günter. Sie werden Ihre Zuweisung ausführen, ja?”
“Ja. Ich werde sie finden und ich werde es beenden.”
“Gut.”
Bosch waved a hand at two assistants standing either side of a sealed metal door. “Kleiden Sie den Mann an. Get him suited up, quickly.”
Fifteen minutes later, Neuberg emerged dressed in a shining breastplate and gray chain-mail. “They will not leave France,” Neuberg said assuredly. “It will be done, Herr Bosch.”
Beckman wished him luck. “Viel Glück mein Freund.” He hesitated. “Take these two pistols along with you; each is a nine millimeter. It is always good to have a spare,” he chortled, “just in case.”
Neuberg tucked each weapon inside his surcoat.
“Oh, there is one more thing Günter,” Beckman said as he strode to a sealed cabinet, unlocked it and retrieved a small box and broadsword. He twisted the pommel from the handle and showed Neuberg a device resembling a pen. “Guard this well. It must remain inside your sword until your reentry.”
He slid a glance to le Blanc who avoided eye contact. “This device connects to an electrode, effectively boosting your transmission signal. Do not misplace it or the spare discs.”
Neuberg tilted his chain-mail clad head. “I do not understand – a transmitter to track me, this is something new, yes?”
Le Blanc stepped in ahead of Beckman. “Yes, it is a far stronger transmitter. We experienced issues with earlier models; there were uh, transmission malfunction issues.”
Le Blanc lied sufficiently well and Günter Neuberg questioned him no further. The armor-suited man watched as Beckman tightened the pommel of the sword - and passed it to him.
“Be glad you carry this newly designed tracking device,” Beckman said with a smile.
Neuberg nodded and slid the sword into its sheath as Beckman opened a small box and lifted an Iron Cross from the velvet container.
The Lucifer Sanction Page 13