The Lucifer Sanction (13 page)

Five English riders cantered into the camp-sight.
They wore visored helms, chain-mail, burgundy leggings
and gray jerkins identical to those Moreau had seen days
earlier during a chevauchée. He recognized the broadswords
hanging menacingly from their waists, recalled how
easily one had removed a man’s arm, his severed hand
still clutching his own weapon. Campion limped forward,
stumbled over a soldier’s leg as the man knelt with his head
bowed before the new arrivals. The foremost knight wore
black armor and there were calls of, “My Lord, my Lord,”
spreading throughout the camp.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Abbey of Nouaille, western France
September 18, 1356
7.20 P: M

It was a bitterly cold September evening at the abbey
of Nouaillé in western France. The aroma of food drifted
across the ramparts of the English camp as Edward, the
Black Prince ordered his army to take rest for the night. At
seven-twenty, Edward sat by an open fire and prodded the
flames with his broadsword, quietly reaffirming his strategy
for Poitiers with John de Vere, the only son of Thomas de
Vere, a descendant of King Henry III. He’d accompanied
Edward on several successful campaigns, including the
great raid in Languedoc.

“We are well suited for our engagement,” Edward
said, gazing into the hypnotic flames. “French blood will
give birth to rivulets and they shall swell to streams and the
streams will become rivers. Their women, their children,
they will all drink their own blood for survival. Tell me,
what strength do you have in readiness for our victory?”

“The archers are at full strength, my Lord,” replied
John de Vere, “and our numbers are greater than one
hundred score of England’s finest bowmen. If by reason of
strength their numbers are short...”

The Prince chuckled as he continued prodding the
burning logs. “O Hell, what strengths have we here, a carrion death? Within each bowman’s eyes I behold destiny
written. I shall further read such writing as our bolts rain
down upon their mounts, for they shall feel the sting of
England’s arrows. I doubt not the strength of our numbers,
de Vere. You have stood me well and shall once more. It
would be fair justice should our Savior grant a swift and
merciful death to the French mounts, for ‘tis they that are
steered into such carnage that their blood cuts deep into the
soil and flows to their beloved Dordogne.”

“Aye, my Lord,” de Vere sighed, “their mounts are
their strength and yet I feel sorrow for their legs will soon
be cut from beneath them when our arrows rain down.”

“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.

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, France.
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 Blanc 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.
“This is my most prized possession, awarded to my
grandfather by the Führer. I am giving it to you to wear for
us - for the fatherland. Wear it for ein neues Deutschland.
Bring it safely home, verstehen sie, Günter?”
Beckman placed the Iron Cross over Neuberg’s
hood and lowered the silver helm over his chain-mail. The
knight made his way toward the Particle Transfer Chamber
as Bosch, Le Blanc and Danzig took up positions by the
control panel.
“Come along, Günter,” Beckman said. “Take one
more look at the others.”
When Neuberg reached the farthest chamber, he
placed a hand on top, turned and raised his visor. He gave
the suspended Dominic Moreau a long gaze. “I recall
our initiation into Libra,” he said. “Whoever would have
thought it would be me who would play the Anti-Christ. I
will see you shortly, my friend.”
“Please, Günter, no sentimentality,” Beckman
snapped. “You must not think of your role as such. You are
going to be...” Beckman hesitated, leaned heavily on his
words. “You are going to be a savior.”
Neuberg turned away from Moreau, glanced at
Campion, shook his head and moved to the chamber. With
apprehension, he ascended the final rung, paused and then
reluctantly stepped into the unit. He removed one gauntlet,
laid it on his chest, closed the visor and with his ungloved
hand took a firm grip on the broadsword.
Bosch, Danzig and Beckman stood at the control
panel as a mist seeped into the chamber. Beckman pressed
a sequence of buttons. Neuberg’s helm vibrated with the
occupant’s silent scream. His pain was a millisecond long,
his jerking body falling into immediate rest.
Danzig spoke to Beckman through the side of
his mouth, keeping his eyes on the mist as it engulfed
Neuberg. “You think Moreau and Campion will be alive
when Neuberg locates them, if in fact he ever does?”
“Moreau and Campion left here wearing English
attire,” Beckman said. “The three American agents also
wore English uniforms. If they are with Edward’s forces
they are indeed with the victors. But one thing for certain,
all five will quickly learn who their friends are.”
“Did Neuberg question the device?” Danzig asked.
“Minimally,” he exhaled. “And may God have
mercy on us all.”