The Lance (The PROJECT: Book Two)

The Lance

By

Alex Lukeman

http://www.alexlukeman.com

Copyright 2011 by Alex Lukeman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means except by prior permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used as an element of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

“
The best political weapon is the weapon of terror. Cruelty commands respect.

Men may hate us. But, we don't ask for their love; only for their fear.”

             
                                                                      Heinrich Himmler, Reichsfuhrer, SS

Prologue: Antarctica

February 19, 1945

The Fenris Mountains reared stark and black against the dazzling white of the Antarctic plain. SS General Dieter Reinhardt watched two crewmen from U-886 clear ice and snow from steel doors set into the side of one of the nameless peaks. A motorized sled waited nearby. Reinhardt was tall and thin, his face almost a mirror of the death’s head emblem on his high, peaked hat. In his long greatcoat and dark, round snow goggles he looked like a malevolent insect.

The doors swung open. The crewmen picked up a wooden crate from the sled and followed Reinhardt down a dark corridor into the heart of the mountain. The corridor ended at a steel vault. Reinhardt worked a numbered combination dial, turned a large, spoked wheel and pulled open the heavy door.

Metal boxes lined one side of the vault. On the opposite wall, gold bars stamped with the eagle and swastika shone in the bright light of Reinhardt’s electric torch.

“Put it there, against the back.”
His breath formed clouds in the frigid air as he spoke.

The crewmen
set the box down. Reinhardt drew his pistol and stepped up behind one of the men, placed the muzzle at the base of his skull and fired. The report was deafening in the enclosed, metal space. His mate turned, eyes wide in shock. Reinhardt fired again. Blood sprayed across the stacks of gold.

Reinhardt
holstered the pistol, stepped around the bodies and went back into the corridor.

He closed the vault
door and locked it in place, retraced his steps and came out into the polar glare. Taking his time, he placed charges around the entrance to the bunker. The explosion brought down an avalanche of ice and snow over the doors. No one would ever find the entrance again, unless they knew exactly where it was.

Reinhardt got on the sled and headed back toward the distant edge of the ice shelf and the submarine. He thought of the night he'd been summoned from Berlin.

20MM twin anti-aircraft guns at the front and rear of Himmler’s
private train pointed at the moonless sky. Not far away, on the other side of the Rhine, flashes of light and the distant rumble of artillery signaled the advance of the Allied armies. A faint glow hinted at fires banked in the boilers of two huge locomotives. The quiet hiss of escaping steam gave notice the train was ready to move.

Frosted
globes lit the interior of the command car, the light held prisoner by blackout curtains drawn tight over the windows. SS Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler sat halfway down the car behind a desk. He looked up as Reinhardt entered.

The yellow lamplight reflected
from Himmler’s round, flat glasses. In civilian clothes, with his receding, thin hair and sandy mustache, he could have been mistaken for a mild mannered grocery clerk. In his SS uniform with the silver wreath and oak leaves on his collar, he looked like what he was; the most dangerous man in Nazi Germany. Only Hitler had more power.

Reinhardt raised his arm and snapped his heels together.

"Come with me, General." Himmler stood. Reinhardt followed him to the baggage car.
Four hard-looking SS guards armed with Schmeisser sub machine guns sprang to attention.

“Leave us
.”

Himmler waved them away.
On a table at the side of the car was an open crate. Inside the crate was a polished box of black walnut. The lid of the box bore a swastika and victory wreath of solid gold, set with diamonds. The stones glittered in the lamplight.

Himmler
lifted the cover. The Holy Lance lay within on lay on a bed of blood red silk, the spear that had pierced Christ's side. Reinhardt laid his hand on the ancient blade. It felt warm, even in the chill of the unheated railroad car.

It was said that whoever possessed the Lance control
led the destiny of the world. The legend had been written by centuries of blood and conquest. All the great conquerors of Europe had carried the Lance before their armies. Only Napoleon had failed to secure it.

Some thought the power of the Lance came from the Antichrist
. Reinhardt and Himmler didn't care where the power came from. They knew it was real. That was the only thing that mattered. Only the Knights of the Grand Council knew Himmler had the Lance. Only Himmler and the Council knew it was the Lance that had brought victory in the early years of the war.

Himmler handed Dieter a thick packet
.

“Your orders. T
ake the Lance to Antarctica and conceal it, then proceed to Argentina."

“Base 211?”

Himmler nodded. Few people who knew of the hidden research complex in the Antarctic wastes were still alive. No one had been there since '42.

"We
will regroup in Argentina. In time we will retrieve the Lance and continue.”

Himmler laid his hand on
Reinhardt's shoulder, a rare gesture of comradeship.

“
Dieter. It is possible I will not survive this war.”

He held up his hand to silence Reinhardt’s protest.
The light glinted from Himmler's glasses and the death’s head ring on his finger.

"If I fall, there will be a new Grand Master. Aid him in every way you can."

"As you command, Riechsfuhrer."

That Grand Master will be me, Reinhardt thought.

Both men looked down at the Holy Lance. It seemed to glow with faint blood light.

"
We have lost for now," Himmler said. "But as long as the Lance is ours, we will never be defeated.”

A patch of rough ice under the sled jolted Reinhardt out of his memories and back to the present. He could see the submarine waiting in the distance, dark as Jonah's whale in the open water past the edge of the gleaming ice.

He would tell the Captain of U-886 his crewmen had been buried by a fall of ice. It was of no importance. When they reached Argentina, the Captain and the others would soon join their dead comrades. It was all arranged.

Three days later, British depth charges found U-886 as she approached the Argentine coast. She breached the surface long enough for the officer of the watch to record her badge and type before she vanished beneath the waves.

In the lightless vault under the mountain, the Lance waited beneath the diamond swastika. One day, someone would come. It was only a matter of time.

CHAPTER ONE

The sweet scent of Jasmine vines climbing the wall
of the crumbling tenement in the Old City of Damascus wafted through an open window. A man bent over a wooden table with a soldering iron. He wiped sweat away from his forehead with the frayed sleeve of his shirt and concentrated on his task.

Another man watched from a sagging couch pushed against one of the stained yellow walls. He wore a dark suit of European cut. His crisp, white shirt was open at the collar.

The man on the couch had a face that was blank, forgettable. His features were smooth and calm, as if life had never quite reached the surface. It was hot in the apartment, but the man was not sweating. His eyebrows were unnoticeable above his colorless eyes. His nose seemed to disappear into the vagueness of his features. His lips were a thin, invisible line.

The man at the table was called Ibrahim. The man on the couch was called the Visitor, but Ibrahim didn't know that. It was better that way.

The bomb was almost finished. It was a very fine bomb, perhaps the best Ibrahim had ever made, and he had made many. He was well known throughout the terrorist network. If you wanted something unusual, reliable and easily concealed, with the most destructive result, you sought out the Syrian.

Anyone with a simple knowledge of electronics could build a suicide vest or a roadside device, but few could do what Ibrahim did. The truth of his skill was easy to see. He still owned almost all of his fingers and both eyes, no mean feat for an old bomb maker.

He soldered the final connection. He set the iron down and allowed himself to relax.

"It is ready?"

The man in the suit spoke in Arabic, his voice quiet, pleasant. He got off the couch, looked over the bomb maker's shoulder. Ibrahim tried to place the accent. German, perhaps.

Ibrahim took an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled yellow pack, held it in nicotine stained fingers and lit it. The harsh tobacco smoke formed a blue cloud as he exhaled. The man in the suit concealed his disapproval.

"Yes, ready. When you place the charge, set and activate the timer. There is a twenty-four hour window."

Ibrahim showed his guest the arming device, small like a woman's wrist watch. A red arrow was etched on the bezel surrounding the dial. The face was marked for twenty four hours. A second, smaller ring within the first was divided into twelve five minute increments.

"Set the hour by rotating the outer ring clockwise. Then, set the inner ring counter clockwise for fine adjustment. You can reset until you press this button. After that, no. The timer will run until your mark is reached. The bomb is safe until the time chosen. Then, boom."

The Visitor nodded.

"Give me the pack."

The Visitor handed Ibrahim a backpack. Bright yellow letters over a yellow and green ram's head imprint spelled out Colorado State University on the flap. Inside were socks, two tee shirts, a teaspoon or two of beach sand, a pair of hiking shorts, postcards, dirty underwear, a pair of Dockers, a package of condoms, sandals and a water bottle.

There were also two books. One was a popular paperback listing hostels and restaurants in Israel. The other was a hardbound travel guide to the holy sites of Jerusalem.

Ibrahim opened the guide to a hollowed out space where the bomb would be concealed. The new compound his guest had provided was a marvel of technology, fifty times more powerful than conventional Semtex or C-4. It had a color like sand or old, yellowed limestone and could be molded and shaped as needed. It seemed small, but the explosive force it yielded was devastating. It was also undetectable by current methods. Even the dogs would never sense it.

The book was well thumbed, innocent in appearance. The pages concealed shielding that blocked detection by the most sophisticated electronic equipment. Of course there was always a chance of discovery. The Jews and the Americans were good at counter terrorism. Ibrahim assumed the bomb was meant for one or the other.

Success was not Ibrahim's concern, nor was he concerned about where or how the bomb would be used. He knew it was good. His work was done. He placed the bomb in the book. He locked the pages in place that would keep a casual observer from noticing anything. He closed the cover and put the book back in the pack.

The haunting sound of the call to prayer echoed through the ancient city from speakers atop the Umayyad Mosque. Ibrahim would go to the mosque and refresh his relationship with God. The other could do as he pleased.

"You have done well, my brother." His client's voice was quiet, toneless. "Allah will reward you in the afterlife."

"There is still this life, no? You have brought payment?"

"Of course. I have it here."

The Visitor reached under his jacket and took out a silenced .22 Ruger automatic pistol and shot Ibrahim in the forehead. The bomb maker's mouth formed a soft oh. His eyes opened wide and rolled upward. The Visitor fired another round into the Syrian's left ear, a whisper soft as a baby's breath. The body toppled sideways from the chair to the floor. A trickle of blood ran out onto the worn, scarred linoleum.

The Visitor bent down
and wiped a few spatters of blood from the end of one of his shiny black shoes. He took the backpack and placed it in a cloth shopping bag. He turned on a small radio set on the table. The rhythmic notes of an oud and drums filled the room with sounds of life. Ibrahim's neighbors would not notice anything amiss for some time.

The Syrian had been a good asset, but all possible trails to what was going to happen, any loose ends, must be eliminated.
Ibrahim had been a loose end.

The
so-called nation of Israel would soon cease to exist. All it would take to start the process was this one, small bomb. The Visitor closed the apartment door behind him and walked down the stairs to the cobbled alley below, whistling to himself.