The Lucifer Sanction (2 page)

The descent took a full thirty minutes. On arrival
at the tunnel’s end, Drummond readjusted his headgear,
turned to the camera and spoke directly at it. “A lot of
people will be fascinated by what we’ve discovered,” and
he gestured at surrounding wooden support-beams. “When
the mountains shifted, all of this stuff was buried under a
million tons of rubble. The rubble suffocated every living
thing in the valley of Andermatt.”

Fellini stood back, gazed at the exposed section of
the metallic object and gave a peripheral nod to Drummond
as though asking permission to shoot video. A minute later
he lowered the camera, reluctantly placed a hand on the
object’s surface and whispered in a quivering voice that
only the doctor could hear, “This - this object, do you think
it’s extraterrestrial?”

“No laddie. It’s more likely man-made. We’ve
taken days to clear away rubble around this section,” and
he waved a hand over the exposed area.

“In that case,” Drummond snorted, “we’ll have
a bloody good time asking many, many more questions,
won’t we laddie?”

Mateo moved away from the group and found
a quiet spot to ponder the situation. As he stretched he
inadvertently dislodged a piece of rubble. His eye caught
a glimpse of a metal rod that until now had been hidden
from view.

Silence slipped on by as Drummond inspected the
metal rod. “Could be a lever,” he whispered, “perhaps a
handle?”

He gave a slight tug as the group huddled about
anxiously hypothesizing. An opening appeared on the
metallic surface and the doctor clutched it, pulled, pulled,
and could feel it give a little. He gestured to Mateo who
quickly slid the handle of a pick into the narrow opening.

Fellini
positioned
the
camera
high
above
Drummond’s head, angling for the best shot. The Scot
threw a look of irritation at Fellini, causing the Blick man
to grin anxiously and plead his case. “Please, Doctor, for
posterity . . . after all, history is being made here.”

Drummond grumbled at the cameraman and applied
more leverage. “Just a little more, just a . . .”
The opening widened. He held a hand upward as
those around him scrambled back in a feverish effort to
move away. Mateo used a foot to push a large rock into the
crack to prevent it closing.
Drummond glanced back, reached for a pebble and
flipped it through the opening, listening as it rattled on the
metallic floor. It echoed for a while, then silence. He placed
a hand on the edge of the opening and guardedly peaked
inside, a one eyed observation; edgy, ready to pull back.
He half-stepped through with one leg, then his entire left
side while maintaining his balance in readiness for a quick
withdrawal. He held this position for six tense seconds,
seven, eight, and then, letting out an unsteady breath –
stepped on in.
Fellini held back, fearful Drummond would
evaporate in a flash of light. Nothing happened. Drummond
moved deeper inside the sphere followed by Fellini, his
three journalists and Mateo.
One of the journalists, Ansell Portman, an American
student attending the University of Zurich, stood alongside
Fellini and called aloud, “Hello!” His shout reverberated.
“Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello.”
Fellini lurched to one side as Drummond twirled
about and angrily jabbed a finger at Portman. “When
will you comprehend who’s in charge here? That kind of
foolishness can be dangerous, who knows what’s further
inside this...”
“I’m sorry, Doc,” Portman said. “My eagerness got
the better of me.”
“It’s getting late in the day,” Drummond said
squinting at his watch. “The surface light’s dwindling.”
“Wha’dya think?” Portman whispered to Mateo.
“Think it’s a UFO?”
Mateo made a nervous face and scanned about,
wide-eyed. “I think we should call it a day,” he said, “that’s
what I think.”
Portman: “Maybe we should come back tomorrow.”
“You’re joking of course,” Fellini mocked in a tone
of disbelief. He paced nearer the doctor. “Doctor, this is the
find of all time. We have to move onward.”
“Don’t lose sight of who’s in charge here,”
Drummond snapped.
The Blick man felt his pulse quicken as he addressed
the two tentative young men. “Aren’t you excited to
discover whatever might be deeper inside?”
Drummond smirked, turned and considered the
look on Fellini’s face. He placed a gentle hand on top of
the camera and lowered it. “Sounds like a journalist with
Pulitzer Prize aspirations,” the Scot said. “You prepared
to risk the lives of all of us to chase that prize? Are you
hopeful of bagging wee green men in this camera?”
The reporter returned the grin. “Maybe we’ll run
into Klingons,” and he looked about for backing from those
behind him. They remained silent.
Moments later they inched along the passageway
until they reached a large metal door. It had no visible
handle, no means of gaining access. Fellini reached forward,
placed a hand on the metal. “Ice-cold,” he muttered. “Feel
this, it’s chilled.”
The door made a slow grating sound as it fractionally
slid open, allowing chilled air to hiss through the narrow
gap. Drummond took a tentative step into an illuminated
frosty atmosphere. A half-minute later he turned and
beckoned the others to follow. They moved forward and
caught sight of two transparent chest-like objects spread a
few feet apart, each partially filled with a white mist.
Fellini’s voice was fearful. “What are they?”
“Don’t move,” Drummond barked, raising a hand.
“There could be some type of deterrent.”
“What?” Fellini quivered. “You think a rain of
arrows will shoot across from the walls.”
Craig Drummond glanced at the Blick man, “Oh,
we have a movie fan here, do we? You think protection like
that couldn’t be in effect here, Fellini?” There was no reply.
The doctor stretched a hand toward the darkness. “If you’re
so curious, go on ahead – be my guest.”

Drummond took a cautious step backward, nodded
at the three box-like objects and gesticulated for the reporter
to move on, but Fellini held his ground.

“They’re sarcophagi,” Drummond said.
“This will make you famous,” Mateo murmured.
Drummond hesitated, relished the word – famous.

Fellini’s camera recorded the setting as the three
sarcophagi became more visible through the settling mist.
Drummond made his way to the nearest container
bearing the name Robert Campion. The doctor hesitantly
worked a screwdriver around the perimeter of the casket,
eventually separating the lid from its base. He took a
nervous step back as a hissing vapor escaped.
The thought of arrows shooting from walls was
now farthest from Fellini’s mind. The Blick man cautiously
moved a little nearer as the doctor motioned to Mateo and
Portman to come and help.
“Doctor, you sure it’s safe?” Portman asked. “The
mist coming from the casket . . . could it be toxic, something
like King Tut’s tomb?”
Drummond waved a hand through the haze and
warily sniffed his fingers. “Hmm, good point, laddie. It
appears to be some kind of formaldehyde. Don’t be worried,
I’ve smelled similar during preservation research back in
Glasgow.” He nodded at the lid. “I need you strong lads to
lift this, lift it slowly, keep the opening as level as possible,
just a wee bit at a time.”
Drummond took in Portman’s fear, and passed him
an assuring shrug. “It’s only preservative, don’t be worried,
watch what you’re doing now lad. Lift gradually, a wee bit
at a time.”
Portman countered with a thin smile while Mateo
gave a look of resentment as he sheepishly stepped forward.
They raised the lid and eyeballed the mist as it hissed from
the chamber.
Mateo lost his balance, staggered back, allowing
the lid to slip from his grasp. It clattered to the floor and
came to a rest at their feet. Drummond flashed his beam
into the casket and caught his first glimpse of the remains
of a medieval clad occupant.
Fellini recorded the surroundings with the mania
of a Cecil B. De Mille. Drummond, somewhat amazed by
Fellini’s over enthusiasm, gave the reporter a peripheral
glance.
But then, there was that carrot, Mr. Pulitzer,
dangling mere inches from the Blick man’s lens.
A trickle of fear ran through Drummond’s veins.
He put on a brave face while trying to believe his own
formaldehyde theory. He moved nearer, focused his
flashlight on the near skeletal remains of the medieval
figure. He took a pencil, moved it to the edge of a front
tooth. “Look at this,” and he tapped on the tooth with the
tip of the pencil. “It’s a crown.”
“This eh . . .” and he took a closer look at the
nameplate, “. . . this Robert Campion, he had better teeth
than me,” Fellini said, as he tightened the shot. “I thought
medieval teeth were decay ridden.
This guy has great
teeth.”
And Fellini could taste his Pulitzer.
Drummond moved to the second container, set the
screwdriver down and stretched a hand to Fellini. “Pass me
your flashlight. I see a skeletal hand in here; looks like it’s
clutching a sword.”
“Mother of God, who are they?” Mateo asked.
Drummond removed his glasses, wiped them on
the edge of his neck cravat, leaned forward and studied
the nameplate on the casket. “Hmm, Dominic Moreau, a
Frenchman, but his attire appears to be English, maybe 14
^th
century.”
“Do you think there are more of these people
further inside of this thing?” the Blick man asked as he
unenthusiastically peered into the distance. “Maybe there’s
some clue as to what this all means.”
Drummond considered the comment.
He’s right
, he
thought.
We should move ahead, search further, come back
to this later. Maybe there are answers farther inside.
The Scot allowed a half-minute to pass while
continuing to study the costumed man inside the cylinder.
“Aye, laddie, we can come back to this room later,” and he
evaded Fellini’s nod. “So eh - let’s move farther along the
passageway.”
Craig Drummond gave an approving half-smile
to Fellini. He admired his bravado, a quality he himself
had once possessed. But that Indiana Jones persona was
long gone. The Scot had developed a conservative manner,
arriving at decisions with much trepidation unlike his
young prodigies - unlike Fellini. There was a large dose of
envy inside Craig Drummond and he wondered how far he
would venture if he were alone in this environment.
He stared into the near blackness of the passageway,
his mind chewing on itself. Fellini gave a look, and the
doctor, feeling his querying eyes returned the expression.
They stopped as the beam of Drummond’s flashlight
illuminated another large door seemingly designed to
accommodate wider objects, a wider opening similar to
those found in medical facilities.
“Go ahead, open it,” Fellini said, as he raised the
viewfinder to his eye.
Drummond paused momentarily then gingerly
turned the handle. A moment of hesitation was followed by
a barely audible click.
“It’s a stairwell,” Portman whispered.
“It looks, eh - sinister,” the Blick man said, “as
though it’s separate to what we’ve seen so far.”
Drummond descended, his eyes tracking the flashlight beam as it snaked along the edge of each step, his
mind hovering someplace between euphoria and terror. He
pressed his body to the wall, uneasy as he took the final
steps. The beam crept along a section of wall and finally
came to rest on what appeared to be the door of a freezer.
“I’m feeling bad about this,” Mateo muttered, a
few paces behind Drummond. “Maybe we should leave it
until tomorrow. Who knows, it might be safer to have some
military or . . .” and he paused for several long seconds,
hoping another of the group would finish the sentence.
Silence.
“Maybe we should have some cops with us,” Mateo
concluded. “What if there . . .”
They were hit hard by a blast of rank, icy air that
carried the now familiar odor of preservative. Drummond
jumped back, almost tumbling over Ansell Portman. They
regrouped and Drummond pointed the flashlight into the
blackness, directing the beam at two additional cylindrical
containers.
“This one here . . .” and he lightly touched the
nearest cylinder, “. . . is much smaller than the others.”
“It appears to be empty,” the Blick man exclaimed.
“Turn the camera off for God’s sake, laddie,”
Drummond snapped. “Give a man some space here.”
Aggravated by the Blick man’s insensitivity, the
Scot impatiently moved around the casket, lost his footing
on the damp floor, slipped, fell, and winced as his helmetlight flickered on impact and died.
A shiny object caught his eye. His voice gained a
tone of excitement. “Shine the light there . . . right there
in the corner of the casing, on that red thing,” Drummond
whispered. “My God, it looks like a dog’s collar. I can see
the tags,” and the doctor reached for the collar and read the
faded engraving.
“What’s it say?” Portman asked.
“Hmm, it says Bruno.”
Portman: “But why’s it empty?”
Fellini: “Where’s the dog that wore the collar?”
“Dunno. But one thing’s for sure,” Drummond
replied, “it didn’t disintegrate like those two poor bastards
upstairs.”
“Like Campion and Moreau,” Fellini mumbled,
glancing at his notes.
“Looks like the dog was a wee bit more fortunate
than his compatriots,” Drummond hypothesized.
“Maybe they were participants in some kind of
weird experiment,” Fellini said, waving a hand at the empty
chamber, “one that went dreadfully wrong.”
Excitement made an abrupt shift to melancholy.
Portman: “Maybe we’ll never know.”
Drummond moved nearer Bruno’s chamber. In a
whisper he alone could hear he sighed, “Might be better if
we never know.”