Black Sun Reich: The Spear of Destiny: Part One of Three

by Trey Garrison

  “Yes, nasty things,” Lysander said. “And now, thanks to Dr. Kurt von Deitel and Commodore Canaris, we are aware of a new program that represents a threat far beyond any of these previous schemes. Its code name is Project Gefallener—literally, ‘Project Fallen.’ ”

  Lysander gave the committee his estimation of the accuracy of the Canaris report and his own assessment of the threat potential, based on the documents Canaris had provided on the SS research. He described separate, corroborating reports about the Ahnenerbe’s expeditions to Rome and Sardinia, and how the reports filled in some of the gaps in Canaris files.

  Then he showed the grainy, silent footage of the lab experiments Deitel had brought, taken somewhere in the darkest recesses of the German Reich,. The film had been smuggled out at the cost of more lives than even Deitel knew.

  Deitel and Lysander had seen it. It was the first viewing for Rucker and the committee.

  On the screen, a technician in a lab coat stood beside a hulking, slouching creature that was once a man but had now been changed. Its shoulders were hunched and enlarged. Its jaw jutted too far. Its eyes and expression were dead. The technician held up a sign with some numbers in a sequence—identifying the experiment—and stepped back. There was no sound. Two black-uniformed storm troopers stepped into the frame with machine pistols at the ready. The chains on the creature were released. The guards opened fire, emptying—by Rucker’s estimation—a good thirty rounds each into the thing at point-blank range. The creature barely reacted to the bullets.

  Then the creature lunged for the troopers, going out of frame. Moments later the scientist came back into frame facing the camera, his face a mask of terror and his screams silent. The creature appeared behind him and struck. For just a moment its face was visible—the eyes looked dead, the lower half of its face was covered in black gore, and what could only be flesh hung from its mouth.

  The diner was silent.

  Other reels showed the same kinds of creatures shrugging off grenade explosions and ignoring limbs being torn off. It showed the things being pushed from great heights, only to rise and hobble away on shattered legs.

  The worst, though, came when it was clear one of the creatures had been placed in a chamber with a family of four emaciated souls dressed in ragged clothing with six-sided stars stitched crudely on them.

  Two committee members had to go to the lavatory to vomit.

  “It’s easy for us to think of Herr Hitler as a master magician, an evil wizard spellbinding an unwitting German people to become his mindless servants,” Lysander Benjamin said, wrapping up his presentation. “How convenient it would be if this image were correct. National Socialism could be defeated with garlic. The truth, however, is that millions of ordinary German workers, farmers, and businessmen support the National Socialist program, and are in knowing denial of the darker side of its agenda.”

  The room was silent.

  “Men like Dr. Kurt von Deitel are a rarity. You see, the fact is, Hitler’s loyal followers consider themselves good citizens, which is far more terrifying to me than if they were all mind-controlled demons or sociopaths,” Lysander said. “And thus I continue to argue that the whole leadership poses a direct threat to the Freehold and should be dealt with.”

  The committee had heard this before and many scoffed at the argument. It was off topic, but important to frame the existing debate. No regent objected to giving Lysander the latitude.

  “The committee can debate that later,” he said. “I simply present evidence to you that Herr Hitler and the Black Sun are upping the ante. They are talking about creating real demons with an eye toward devouring the whole world—either intentionally or because they can’t control it. We’re the one thing that stands in their way, ladies and gentlemen.”

  His last sentence wasn’t a plea. It was a statement about the survival of the human race.

  “Project Gefallener must be stopped. We must stop it.”

  The deliberations were short but heated. The Freehold’s commitment to neutrality was constantly tested by threats that advocates of security said required preemptive action. But such action would undermine the very fiber of the Freehold, others argued.

  “Even acting independent of Austin, our every action contrary to neutrality taints the very core of our souls,” Fan said. “Everytime we make an exception, it becomes easier to make an exception.”

  “We aren’t the government,” Don Ricardo said. “Our bylaws, in fact, forbid members of the committee from ever holding office, and prevent those who have held office from becoming committee members. We do what we do precisely because we don’t want a government doing these things.”

  “Yes,” Manitou said, “but every time we act, I wonder if we don’t wear away at that wall of separation. It’s so easy to look into the abyss and become the monster we behold. To become what we hold in contempt. I will vote for action, but I do so with the gravest of reservations. It’s one thing when we act against external, individual threats. Acting against a sovereign nation is a dangerous precedent to set.”

  “Any step toward the path of war is a step in the wrong direction,” said von Mises, a Great War veteran who had served in the Austrian army before defecting. “But we can’t be so cautious that we invite the very aggression we want to deter.”

  The committee voted for action, with two votes in dissent.

  Libby Rae Melvin, who headed the committee—mein Gott, the fate of the world in the hands of a woman who served coffee and sausages? Deitel thought—said the committee was backing Lysander Benjamin’s move.

  “But what is your plan?” she asked, demanding detail.

  Lysander slid on his glasses and pulled out several of the napkins in his pockets to go over his notes.

  “Ah, yes. We’ve engaged the university’s Difference Engine to run the probabilities on the genetic architecture that Himmler’s scientists have been working from. The contamination in the Damned Lands, you know. We, er, already have some knowledge, including the sample of nachtmann tissue that our agent Alissa Rosenbaum brought back from Russia,” Lysander explained. “The catalyst, though—the unknown driver here—was what the Ahnenerbe team found in Rome and Sardinia and wherever else they’ve been of late. We, er, believe it’s connected to the Lance of Longinus. This has been confirmed by our man inside the Black Sun, Robin.”

  “The Lance of what?” Fan asked.

  “Also called the Spear of Destiny, the Holy Lance, or the Spear of Christ,” Lysander said. “It was, um, the spear used by a certain Roman soldier to pierce the heart of a rabbi who was crucified by Pontius Pilate. The legend holds that it was sanctified in the blood of the living Christ, and that whoever wields it will be invincible. Naturally, the legend doesn’t say how. Oh no, that would be too useful.”

  He pulled more notes from his pockets. Deitel noticed they were all written in some kind of cipher—meaningless scratches and scribbles to anyone but Lysander.

  “It has been referred to in old literature and even appeared at various points in history, but it was last rumored to have been taken under guard by a Jesuit sect following secret papal orders in 1634,” he said. “But there are other scholars who have more current research we’re looking into. There are conflicting records and, as is usual with these things, a frustrating number of forgeries involved.”

  Lysander paused.

  “We don’t know how exactly this piece of the puzzle fits in, but there’s a ninety percent certainty among our analysts, and likewise according to the Difference Engine, that it is the key. Somehow, the Spear of Destiny is involved in the genesis of these creatures. That’s what all the intercepted communiqués and the matrix of data indicate. So we must start with that. The Nazis don’t have it yet, even if they had a sample of it or whatever the spear does,” he said. “We have to find the Spear of Destiny and make sure the Nazis don’t get it. Meanwhile, I have Nikola already working on some ideas . . .”

  Over the next half hour, the committee members li
stened as Lysander outlined his plan. A team would seek out the foremost expert on the history of the Spear of Destiny, and try to beat the Nazis to it.

  When the old man was done, most of the committee filed out of the diner, one by one.

  Only Rucker, Deitel, and Lysander remained, along with the waitress who had to lock up. Lysander pulled Deitel aside.

  “Son, I have some bad news. What you’ve suspected since yesterday on Airstrip One is true—the Gestapo knows about you. But worse, they, er, know who you are. The only saving grace is they don’t know anything about Commodore Canaris’s involvement, otherwise the old spymaster would have disappeared by now. But you know what this means: you can’t go home again. Ever. I’m sorry,” Lysander said.

  Deitel had known. He just hadn’t accepted it.

  “It seems I am now a man without a country.”

  “But not a man without a purpose,” Lysander offered. “Do you have any immediate family who we can assist? The Gestapo has been known to—”

  “No. I am an only child. My parents are dead. I suspect that is another reason Commodore Canaris recruited me,” Deitel said.

  “Papers and other evidence we found on the body of the German agent Rucker shot indicate that, er, they came in by way of New York, which means they’ve been on your trail for a while,” Lysander said.

  “Papers?” Rucker asked. “Wait, that doesn’t sound like SD. They know better; they always come in clean. Sounds more like Union agents. One of Eliot Ness’s men.” He was referring to the head of the Union’s infamous Federal Security Bureau, counterpart to the Union’s Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  All the more reason Rucker was officially done with this job. Now it involved no less than two foreign powers. He couldn’t put Dr. Deitel in his rearview fast enough.

  “We thought that, too, at first, but the team were German,” Lysander said. “Which means, good news, they want us backtracking them to New York.”

  “A trap,” Rucker said.

  Lysander nodded. “Fox, we’re going to need you for this, too. New York will be first on your agenda.”

  “Whoa. This isn’t a society client having problems with a trade venture. This is all governmenty. You know I don’t cotton to that kind of deal.”

  “Double Far Ranger Air’s usual fee,” Lysander offered.

  Dammit, Rucker thought. Lysander knew he couldn’t refuse. Chuy wouldn’t let him. The company was just barely keeping their birds in the air. They had a lot more to lose than just his distaste for getting involved in national conflicts and state level espionage.

  He didn’t answer, though.

  Deitel raised his hand. “But you said New York is a trap.”

  “Oh my yes,” Lysander said. “The perfect opportunity to learn who is pulling the strings, and what they know.”

  Deitel’s face held zero expression. “From inside the trap?”

  “Yes,” Lysander said. “No. I mean, what?”

  Rucker shook his head. In for a penny . . .

  “Let me get my head around what you’re asking, and what’s the actual situation,” he said, and began ticking the points off on his fingers. “An army of darkness. The world in the balance. Mad Nazi scientists meddling in the occult. And monster men.”

  “Yes,” Lysander said.

  “And the odds are long and we’re outnumbered?”

  “Naturalisch,” Deitel said.

  Rucker pulled out a cigar and chewed it. Then he grinned. It was the grin of a predator.

  “Fine, but it will cost you triple.”

  “Two and a half,” Lysander countered.

  Rucker mulled it over.

  “Deal.”

  Rucker and the old man shook. It was more binding than any contract. “Payable to Far Ranger Air.”

  Lysander just smiled.

  Deitel whispered to Rucker, “I wish I could feel as confident as you. This is overwhelming; it’s all so new to me.”

  “Eh, we deal with this kind of thing all the time, Doc,” Rucker said. “No problem.”

  While Lysander gathered his files, Rucker poured another drink. Then he saw the old man’s expression.

  “ ‘Lysander? What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Lysander cleared his throat.

  “Um, there is one other small thing, Fox. The New York connection may be more than coincidence, but it’s fortuitous. We need you to, er, ex-filtrate our ‘man’ in New York to assist in this endeavor. Now, this is one of the top field agents in Prometheus, and an expert in European archeology and artifacts, particularly early Christian relics. This agent is on an undercover assignment right now at the Morgan Museum of Natural History in New York City. You’ll need this kind of expertise.”

  Rucker’s eyes widened. He was muttering, “Oh, no.”

  “You’ll have to get into the city, and get her out.”

  Her? Deitel thought.

  Rucker grew louder. “No.”

  “Yes, Fox, it’s her.”

  “No. No. No. No. No.”

  “Here’s your briefing packet. I need you two in the Big Apple by just after sunrise. But first you need to visit Nikola. He’s working up something that may be of use if you run into any of the Black Sun’s shambling monsters. I spoke to him about two hours ago. He’ll meet you at his lab on the campus.”

  Lysander turned to go.

  Rucker just shook his head as the waitress poured coffee.

  “You’re doing this on purpose,” he yelled at Lysander’s back.

  “If anyone can help us get the spear before the Germans, it’s her,” came the reply.

  Rucker started off in a huff.

  “Allons-y, Deitel. We have a plane to catch. Dammit.”

  Deitel, as usual, was lost.

  Rucker was muttering, “God I hate New York.”

  “What is the matter?”

  “Monster men and Nazis? Reasonable. Unstoppable cannibal creatures? Okay, I’m still on board. But now we’re up against something well and truly horrific.”

  Deitel waited. Finally he could wait no more.

  “What?” the doctor asked.

  “My ex.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Austin University

  Austin

  Texas Freehold

  In just eleven hours on the ground in Austin, Deitel had met a cast of odd characters, but none was as queer a duck as the scientist Lysander had insisted they visit before taking off to New York. The man’s name was Nikola Tesla.

  Ensconced in an open floor lab facility on the massive 350-acre campus of Austin University, the science hero referred to as Nikola—not Dr. Tesla—had a magnificent view from the third story of what Rucker called the “Bat Bridge.” It was so named, he told Deitel, because more than a million Mexican long-tailed bats roosted beneath it. The bats helped keep the summer mosquito population down. Nikola said he found their flying formations mesmerizing and meditative, and credited them with inspiring one of his theories of fluid dynamics.

  Nikola’s lab looked like it contained every machine ever built by man, and many never seen outside of some Republic matinee serial about Martian invaders. Deitel took Nikola’s accent to be Austrian, with a trace of Serbian dialect. The scientist was an elderly but spry man with a gaunt face, a full head of white hair, and a bushy white mustache. He wore goggles on his forehead and a bow tie. If Lysander had awoken the old man in this, the early hours of the morning, the scientist didn’t show it. He buzzed about like hummingbird.

  On the wall was a picture of Nikola from decades before, standing alongside the writer Mark Twain, who he once counted among his best friends. Nikola, Rucker had informed Deitel, had lived in Paris in his early twenties, finally immigrating to the Union States in the 1880s. After being manipulated and intellectually waylaid by his employer and then competitor, Thomas Edison, Nikola had retreated to Texas, where Edison couldn’t use paid-for legislators to crush competition.

  Now professor emeritus of electromechanical engineer
ing here at Austin University, the work Nikola did in this very room—Lab 333—had changed the course of science. He was also more than a bit mad, which Rucker said only made it fair—the Nazis had mad scientists, so they fight them with their own mad scientist.

  Nikola had to dig through several steamer trunks to find what he was looking for. It looked like a stylized pistol made of brushed steel with odd, finlike protrusions and a blue glass ball on the back. Under the watchful eye of his cat and with Vivaldi playing on a phonograph in the background, he explained the bizarre weapon he held proudly in his hand..

  “This is a teleforce weapon,” Nikola said. “It produces manifestations of energy in free air instead of a high vacuum, which generates a tremendous nondispersive electrical, or rather electrostatic, repelling and disruption force. It’s powered by a narrow stream of atomic clusters formed in a matrix of mercury and tungsten accelerated via a magnifying, reverse wave transformer.”

  He said this as casually as one might explain how to put petrol in a motorcar, and like it should be that obvious.

  “This is actually the initial test prototype,” he said. “I got the idea when thinking of ways to deal with the chupacabras in the Chihuahua Outback. The second prototype is in storage. It’s large enough that it takes two men to carry it. It has one hundred times the power. The final version I’m working on will be so large it will have to be mounted on a steel crawler—panzer, as they call it in Deitel’s country, or tank as they say in England. Of course, the final version is years away, but it will have enough firepower to disable a battleship at a range of fifty miles.”

  “Why would you want to make such devastating weapons?” Deitel asked, in equal measure with admiration for the genius and horror at the prospect of such power.

  “I want to make war obsolete,” Nikola said, as if the answer couldn’t be more obvious.