by Rick Jones
“What about Kristoffel?” Salt asked. “Has he checked in?”
Caspari nodded. “No. He’s either presumed dead or in the custody of the Consortium. But his status matters not since we’re fully prepared to take on the Consortium wetwork team. In the meantime, I need two, maybe three days at the most, to move our operations to a fortress island in the Pacific. Since the Consortium is inching closer by the minute, I need you to build us time, should they not be stopped by the obstacles thrown their way.”
“Understood.”
“Make sure that you do.”
Standing, Salt brushed his clothes which allowed dust to fall and settle on the plush carpet, an act that made Caspari wince. When finished, Salt left the office to summon his team.
A war was about to begin.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The lead technician was disturbed by the rushed techniques being used to remove the rod and the crucible. Members of his team had removed the staff and placed it inside a chest, with the particle casting a halo from its core until the lid closed over it. Still, a glowing radiance continued to shine from the seam between the lid and the trunk, the light too great to be contained completely.
Once the chest containing Aaron’s rod had been set upon a marble plinth as if it was being showcased, the lead technician went to the adjacent research lab where Nostradamus’ crucible was being examined by a separate investigative unit that specialized in cracking encryptions.
Beneath an odd spectrum of light, roving mechanical arms with pea-sized lenses attached to the ends circled about the interior plate of the crucible. The symbols within the inner side of the bowl were captured by the lenses and transmitted to a mainframe where it was studied, the symbols decoded, proper syntax determined, and then relayed the information as viable and readable data.
Of the thousands of quatrains written by Nostradamus over his lifetime, the secrets they contained had finally been spelled out by the hundreds. Details of hidden treasures, religious or not, were brought to light, as well as the enigmatic mysteries that had been maintained in the works by Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. Not only that, somewhere in the Middle East lay the bones of Jesus Christ. Whereas deep inside a cavern on Mount Sinai lay the Golden Calf. Treasures abounded across the globe as well, locations that marked the remnants of Noah’s Ark and the massive skull of Goliath. From the worlds of Galileo and Copernicus were the secrets of the universe, such as mathematical formulas and blueprints that would lead mankind towards greater universal discoveries.
Since the software had been able to determine in days what the human mind would take centuries to interpret, the quatrains were being thoroughly exposed. The crucible had become the perfect key to unlocking the mysteries from the greatest minds and overseers that the planet had ever seen.
How Elias Caspari planned to use these secrets remained unknown. But it wasn’t the lead technician’s job to question or challenge, either. As required, he systematically shut down the lab for breakdown. The data was saved, and the arms and lenses were to be summarily dismantled and then reassembled as soon as they reached their new stage of operations.
With the same care shown to Aaron’s rod, the lead technician made sure that the crucible was placed inside a small chest as if the key were not only priceless, but irreplaceable.
Now, with all the machines and hardware needing to be broken down, the Master Tech knew he needed weeks to be crunched into days, with his teams working around-the-clock to manage such a feat.
Though Elias Caspari simply barked his commands without explanation, the lead technician knew that there had to be a reason for the hastening. What he didn’t know, however, was that a team of Consortium operators were closing in on their position to regain the priceless tools that had been stolen from them.
The lead technician, as he stood and watched his team operate, had no idea of the complications that were about to come their way.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Plans had been made within the Consortium safehouse in Lucerne. They would breach the mountain compound by scaling the south face of the mountain, a climb of over one-thousand feet. Since Misters Donatello and Michelangelo shared expertise in scaling techniques, they would head the climbing expedition, reach topside, then aid the others for regrouping.
Under cover of darkness, Misters Donatello and Michelangelo would begin the climb using a piton gun, which was a device that operated by using gas cartridges that were strong and forceful enough to thrust pitons securely into the wall. This was a time-saving maneuver by way of a single injection from the gun, rather than to pound the piton into the given cracks with a hammer.
Secondly, and after securing the lines made of filament strands of titanium wire, those who would follow would do so by climbing with the use of mechanized rope ascenders. This device, after it was attached to the line and the lithium batteries engaged, would automatically power the climber along the wire with the use of motor-driven pulleys. And at a climb of twenty feet-per-minute, the ascent from base to cap would take close to an hour.
For this to happen, everything would begin and end with Misters Donatello and Michelangelo successfully making the initial climb and blazing a course for all to follow. Such a climb would take at least five to seven hours, even with the use of piton guns. A slippage of the foot or the hand, especially in cold-numbing weather, would spell disaster and catastrophe for the rest of the team. Without this backdoor advantage, the Consortium would quickly find themselves without an option outside of a direct attack, which was not even a consideration due to the volatility of the dark particle. If the assault disrupted the particle, the consequences could be great. No one knew if it had the ability to destroy the mountain or mountain range, the power of its destruction too great to chance. Delicacy and surprise were key to this operation. And it was something everyone counted on.
Once the plan had been discussed repeatedly until it became imbedded into memory, the Consortium team, along with Kimball Hayden, geared up in black. They wore dark attire with coordinating dragon-skin vests for body armor. They tucked away firearms, knives and ammo into duffel bags which would be hoisted to the topside level with the use of ascenders. They checked and reexamined their weaponry for malfunctions and found them in working order. And Kimball Hayden, who had been in close combat a number of times, felt oddly comfortable with his situation.
Up there on that mountainside was the Eye of Moses, which may have had its power granted to it by the Hand of Providence during the moment of the Big Bang. In the wrong hands it could be the beginning of the end. And this was what Kimball Hayden resolved to stop.
This was his sole priority: to find the Eye of Moses and keep it safe.
The others within the group had their own agenda: to find Elias Caspari.
But another thought hit Hayden, too. Let’s not forget about the one called Salt.
After gathering their wares, and as the sun finally descended to provide them with the necessary cover of darkness, the Consortium unit went on the hunt to reclaim what rightfully belonged to the Vatican.
They were going after the Eye of Moses.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
When the members of the Consortium reached the base of the mountain’s southside face, night had settled.
They had blended nicely with the darkness, black on black. On the ground were two duffel bags loaded with weaponry that included firearms, ammo, Kevlar helmets with NVG capabilities, blocks of Semtex and corresponding detonators, everything necessary to see the mission through.
After putting on the NVG headgear and powering up, their worlds became lime green.
What had been discussed in the pre-stages of the operation was that there would be four titanium lines; two for Misters Donatello and Michelangelo to use on the initial climb, and two to be staked to the mountaintop and tossed over the side without being tethered to the wall by pitons. These two wires would serve as the ascending lines without stopping alon
g every piton, meaning the journey upward would be direct and would last approximately an hour, and perhaps a few minutes longer.
With their NVG goggles fully enabled, Misters Donatello and Michelangelo, while wearing boots with crampons for traction and twenty-pound rucksacks, began to scale the wall. Gains were marginal, the men climbing at a rate of four feet per minute. At this pace they would crest the mountain in just under six hours, given that there would be little to no hitches along the way. It would be another hour or two for the rest of the team to follow by way of their ascenders.
While Misters Donatello and Michelangelo continued their climb, Mr. Spartan, along with Mr. Archimedes, Mr. Galileo and Mr. Plato and Kimball Hayden, began to take inventory of their stock. They were each handed an MP7 along with several magazines by Mr. Spartan, which were to be stored on their dragon-skin body armor for easy access and quick reseating as soon as the magazine inside the weapon ran dry.
Next were the lip mics and NVG headgear, all tested and true. And then the Semtex bricks, all clay moldings that held an acrid smell to them. As long as the detonators weren’t attached to the cords, the blocks were benign. When active, however, they had the explosive capability of bringing down levels of the mountaintop facility.
Then Mr. Spartan tested his lip mic by checking in with Misters Donatello and Michelangelo, with Mr. Michelangelo stating that everything was ‘copasetic’ on their end. The audio feed was crisp and clear as if Mr. Michelangelo was standing right beside him.
Copy that, was the due response.
So far, plans were working to specs.
And Mr. Spartan was pleased.
* * *
Misters Donatello and Michelangelo were approximately twenty feet apart along the wall, with Mr. Donatello having a slight lead in the scaling process. There were several cracks and fissures, enough to make the climb easy. And when they came upon an opening or seam within the rockface, they accessed their piton gun, checked the gas cartridge, placed the gun’s point against the wall, and pulled the trigger. There was a pop and then a stamping sound as the force of the air punched the piton deep into the stone wall and locking it firm. After attaching the titanium cord, they continued upward inch by inch, foot after foot.
There was additional usage of the guns to secure the pitons with one muffled pop sounding right after another with the sounds dying away as a buffeting wind picked up. Heavy breezes of Arctic-cold winds began to test their abilities of adhering to the mountains wall, at times pushing so forcefully that Mr. Michelangelo thought that he was going to be tossed to the valley below.
Mr. Donatello believed the same, the winds at this level strong and without contrition.
And then a gust came by and swept Mr. Michelangelo from the wall, the man losing his grip and falling ten feet before his line got caught up within a piton, which snagged him from a long fall.
Mister Donatello instinctively reached out a hand, even though the gap between them was great. “Michelangelo!”
Swinging back and forth in space like a pendulum, Mr. Michelangelo gave Mr. Donatello a thumbs up. “I’m fine,” he told him over the lip mic. And then he was able to clamber back onto the wall to resume the climb.
“Are you sure?” Mr. Donatello asked him.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Maybe a bruised ego, but that’s about it.”
Nodding, Mr. Donatello continued the climb.
“Team One, come in.” It was Mr. Spartan.
“Yeah, everything’s all right, Chief,” Mr. Michelangelo confirmed. “No damage done. Moving onward and upward.”
“Copy that.”
Soon, Mr. Michelangelo caught up with Mr. Donatello, the two side by side as they maneuvered toward the mountain’s crest. The winds continued to pound them, to challenge them, but the pitons held tough.
Below them was nothing but absolute darkness, even with the NVG headgear. Mr. Spartan and company were hundreds of feet beneath them, too far and out of NVG range. So, they pressed themselves even as their fingers were beginning to numb, and eventually found themselves struggling to pull the triggers to the piton guns.
. . . Phooom . . .
Another piton was embedded into the wall.
The climb continued.
The wind continued to buffet and rock them along the face.
Then they came to ice sheets, which they scaled with the aid of their crampons.
Foot after foot they continued to climb until they could see the peak of the mountain, their systems bursting with a newfound adrenaline rush that prompted them to push through the cold, through the elements, which were beginning to take their toll.
The winds became stronger and more aggressive, the continuous pushing and pounding slowing progress, but not forbidding it.
As soon as they reached topside, both men hoisted themselves over the ridge and laid upon a blanket of snow while looking skyward, and then placed their quasi-gloved hands under their armpits to warm them.
Then from Mr. Donatello, he said into his lip mic, “Team Two . . . touchdown.”
“Send down the lines,” was all Mr. Spartan said.
“Copy that.” Then he turned to face Mr. Michelangelo, who lay there with wispy commas of vapored breath leaving his mouth upon every exhale. “You heard the man. Drop the line.”
Mr. Michelangelo, exhausted, nodded and removed his rucksack. Inside was 1,200-feet of titanium cord, the wire strong enough to hold and lift 1,500 pounds. Attaching a nine-inch spike into the piton gun, Mr. Michelangelo pressed the point to the surface, put a little weight against the downward press, and pulled the trigger. The gas cartridge did its job by pushing the stake four inches into the stone surface. After testing the stake and making sure it was secured, he attached the line and tossed it over the edge, the line unspooling itself as it fell to the valley floor. Then, as he fell back, he said, “Your turn.”
Mr. Donatello continued to stare at the pinpricks of light overhead, then said, “I’m too damn cold.” But the complaint was short-lived as he rolled over, grabbed his rucksack, secured a stake, and released the line.
Stage one was completed.
And stage two was about to commence.
* * *
The lines had landed at the mountain’s base.
“All right,” Mr. Spartan stated. “Kimball, you’re first. Attach your ascender. Toggle the switch. And off you go.”
“It’s that simple, is it?” He slung his weapon over his shoulder.
“That’s all there is to it.”
Hayden looked at the wire, which was as thin as a high-grade fishing line, and said, “You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s titanium,” Mr. Spartan said to Hayden, as if it was a guaranteed to hold. “The hardest metal there is. That line that you have in your hand can hold fifteen-hundred pounds when stressed. A ton when it’s not. It’s been proven safe time and again.”
Hayden tugged at the line before he grabbed it and pulled himself up. Then he remained suspended for some time to test the line against his weight, which held true. Letting go, he nodded. Hayden was assured.
After threading the line through the pulleys of the ascender and securing it, he then gave a thumbs up to Mr. Spartan. “I’m good.”
“Then we’ll see you topside,” said Mr. Spartan, who reached over and toggled Hayden’s ascender switch. “Au revoir.”
The pulleys and gears started to whine, caught, and began to pull Kimball Hayden upward along the line. The climb was at a constant rate of twenty feet per minute. Within the hour he’d be topside along with Misters Donatello and Michelangelo. But with every foot gained the winds picked up, pushing, and tossing him about as if he was a rag doll.
Hayden reached out with his fingerless gloves to steady himself against the wall. Though he was used to the brutal chill of buffeting winds, it still affected him. His fingers were growing numb, which caused him to blow hot breath to warm them along the ascent. And when he reached topside an hou
r later, he was never so happy to see the faces of Misters Donatello and Michelangelo.
After he’d been disengaged from the line, word had been sent down to Mr. Spartan and the rest of the unit to ascend, along with the duffel bags and gear.
Within two hours the entire team had been assembled along the precipice that overlooked the south face of the mountain stronghold. The lines and ascenders had been left behind along with the piton guns—their valued use now obsolete.
After removing their crampons from their boots, the team reexamined their weapons, their ammo, the Semtex charges and detonators, then made their way along an icy incline toward the mountain fortress.
The path was slick, but the boots gripped the ice. And for all the marching, the facility was still not in sight, even after a few minutes had passed.
They continued to press on against a clime that was brutally cold and unforgiving, without a man wagering a single complaint.
Above them, through their NVG goggles, countless pinpricks of light twinkled as the constellations looked down on them, guided them. And as they crested a final rise, they saw the glorious sight of the mountainside fortress.
It was a construction of concrete, steel, and glass—a futuristic style of development.
On the rooftop were two soldiers who appeared to be manning a gun turret with a type of cannon or high-caliber weapon that was mounted on a fixed central emplacement that was capable of swinging in a wide horizontal arc to get a fix on its target. Its specific development was a means of protection from aerial weapons like choppers and planes.
They’re expecting us, Mr. Spartan thought. They just don’t know how.
Mr. Spartan, who gave a series of hand gestures to Mr. Galileo, told the operative that the stage now belonged to him. And Mr. Galileo, who offered a wink in acknowledgement, accepted the challenge. With the stealth and cunning of an elite soldier, Mr. Galileo quietly made his way toward the gun turret.
