The Templar Key, By Number One Author (Peter Sparke Book 3)

by Scott Chapman

  “This situation requires immediate action.”

  “Lemon Fizz!” Bastian would exclaim, immediately recognizing the cue.

  “Immediate Lemon Fizz,” agreed his father and the two would sweep through the house to the kitchen where the cook would stop whatever she was doing to perform the elaborate ritual of turning water, gas, lemons, and ice into the magic that was Lemon Fizz.

  As the winter gave way to spring, Bastian’s father told his son that he was going into the hills to look at rocks. It would be cold and they would be camping and cooking their own food on a little stove outside. Did Bastian want to come?

  If his father had wanted to paint a picture of heaven on earth, all he would have to have done was add Lemon Fizz.

  The two set off one morning before the sun rose, Bastian wearing a Macintosh cape cut down to size from one of his father’s. He was mounted on his own pony, his father on his horse, and leading another loaded with supplies. His mother and the housekeeper were awake to see them off and as they made their way out through the grounds of the house, the women stood watching, silently.

  By noon, they were already high in the hills. The area was dangerous at times as brigands occasionally seized rich foreigners for ransom. The rifle his father carried was not for decoration.

  That night, as they camped, Bastian was beyond excitement, helping to tend the fire and stirring the cooking pot over the tiny stove.

  “Are we looking for stones tomorrow?” he said.

  “Not yet,” said his father. “Before we look for stones, we will look for some people. People who might help us.”

  “What people, Papa?”

  “People who have lived here for a very long time, so long that no one really remembers when they came here. If you want to find something, it is a good idea to find the people who might know where it is, don’t you think?”

  Bastian thought for a moment. When he wanted to find anything, he always asked Nuran, the housekeeper, who knew everything.

  “Like Nuran?”

  “Yes, Bastian, exactly. Just like Nuran.”

  The next day, the two climbed higher into the hills until they came to a narrow pass. At its tightest point stood a strange stone building with high smooth walls and only one entrance. There were no windows.

  “Is that a castle?” said Bastian.

  “No one knows. People never go near it. The people who live here say it is full of bad spirits, ghosts.”

  “Is it full of spirits?”

  “No,” said his father, “there is no such thing as a ghost or a spirit, but the people who live here are silly about things like that. Watch.”

  His father stopped his horse and turned to face the strange building.

  “If there are any ghosts or monsters in that building, come out here now and we will punch you on the nose.”

  Bastian watched the entrance to the building intently, but nothing happened.

  “No ghosts, Papa.”

  “No ghosts, Bastian,” said his father.

  The hooves of the horses clattered against the stones of the rough pathway as they passed the building, and then headed downhill into a long valley.

  Late in the afternoon, his father stopped.

  “Is it time to eat?” said Bastian.

  “No, not yet. We are going in here to talk to some people.”

  Bastian looked closely at the hillside, and then suddenly noticed that what he was looking at was not the side of a hill, but a building. It so matched the surrounding stone that it was almost invisible.

  His father dismounted and lifted Bastian down, then walked over to the wall. Cut into the wall was an alcove and hanging down inside it was a length of rope. His father reached in and pulled the rope several times.

  For a few moments nothing happened, then a soft creaking noise came from high above their heads and a faint voice floated down to them.

  “What is your business?”

  His father removed his cap and stepped back to see the tiny window where the voice came from.

  “We are travelers. We need shelter and water.”

  There was no answer from the voice, just the creaking noise again as the tiny shutter closed high above them. Bastian’s father tethered the three horses to a rock and untied a bag of oats from the pack animal. He filled the feeding bags that fitted over the horses’ noses.

  There was a clatter from above and a rattling sound as old wood bounced against stone. A rickety rope ladder was dropped down to them.

  Bastian’s father picked him up and hoisted him onto his shoulders, then grabbed the nearest rung and began to pull them both upwards. Bastian tried not to be afraid as they climbed higher and higher. Eventually, he could see that they were level with a small stone ledge, at the back of which was a low stone doorway. Standing in the doorway was a man, stooped over as though his long grey beard was pulling his head forward. He was wearing an old robe and rough sandals.

  As Bastian and his father clambered carefully onto the narrow ledge, the old man finally spoke.

  “You are welcome, guest.”

  Then, without a word, he disappeared into the darkness.

  Tiny Bastian clung to the hem of his father’s jacket as they followed the man into the cave.

  Tough decision

  With the task of cutting a way through to the trapped damage crew estimated to take over twenty-four hours, it was a near certainty that the people would be lost and the ship would go under. The ship’s spine would snap.

  When it happened, it would happen with incredible suddenness, from the start of the hull breach to total catastrophe lasting less than one hundred seconds. Sparke switched screen on the retina projector, so that his left eye was now filled with the image of the blank image of the sleeping screen of his own computer in the Munich head office.

  “Screen,” said Sparke into the tiny microphone. The screen responded to the command and glowed softly.

  “Screen, access the Hull Integrity Model.”

  “Access complete,” said the Screen.

  Much of Sparke’s working life was funneled through his office computer. Its voice recognition was tuned so that it not only knew it was him talking, it could recognize stress patterns in his voice. When he was casually browsing the internet, it called him Peter. During normal working time, it called him Mr. Sparke. Under pressure, when his voice became deeper and slower, it did not waste time with any name.

  “Screen, define the rules of the Hull Integrity Model.”

  Like many modern computer prediction systems, the Hull Integrity Model was built using the same approach as computer games: rules were set and an operator could play within them with relative freedom. Sparke’s computer had been built with an analysis tool that allowed it to read other programs and, at Sparke’s instruction, it began to find out what rules the system was using.

  Sparke had no idea what he was looking for, but he knew that the lives of those trapped on board the ship were entirely dependent on a tiny number of people staring at computer screens around the world. Deep within the ship, a cutting crew was desperately burning its way through a solid steel door, knowing that there was virtually no chance that they would succeed. Around the stricken ship, a fleet of support and rescue ships was growing, the crews of each looking at the wreck, trying not to imagine what the trapped team was going through.

  “The Primary Rules of the model are…” said the Screen, “Number one: preserve the watertight integrity of the hull…”

  Sparke’s vision became tunneled; his heartbeat slowed further and his breathing became deeper. He began to live inside his own head as he read the rules of the model. “Number two: preserve the upright position of the vessel. Number three: preserve the ability of the vessel to travel under its own power...”

  The list continued until the top ten rules of the model were displayed. Sparke read the list again. If there was a solution, it was in this list of seemingly obvious statements. Since the image was not on a screen, but being proj
ected directly into his eye, it made no difference what he looked at or where he sat, but he found himself stranding rigidly in the middle of the room, apparently staring at a blank wall.

  “Screen, change the rules. Make the Primary Rule: ‘Preserve the hull integrity of the forward two compartments only’. All other rules are cancelled.”

  For the ten seconds that the Screen reprocessed the instruction, Sparke stopped breathing.

  “Flood the vessel,” responded the Screen into Sparke’s earpiece.

  Before he could speak, the Screen projected a new image showing the ship pinned to the rocks. It then ran a sequence which showed the ship tilt downwards at the stern until the keel rested on the steeply sloping seabed hoisting the prow high into the air.

  Next to the image, Sparke could see a list of bullet points appear, describing the new model and how it could keep the front compartments of the ship watertight. The rear of the ship had to be flooded, not only quickly, but in a carefully controlled sequence so that weight was balanced at all times. Too much water in the wrong place could snap the hull like a pencil. If the flooding was done fast enough, the pressure on the ship’s structure would be minimized, and if the ship rested on the seabed in the way the model predicted, the prow of the vessel would be clear of the surface.

  As adrenaline flushed through his system, Sparke’s body went through its normal response to the intense pressure that he so frequently found himself under. His breathing slowed and he became aware of the air pumping in and out of his lungs, his heartbeat slowed and seemed to resonate through his body like a deep drumbeat, his mind cleared and his senses became much more acute. Recently, Sparke had been experiencing another feeling during these events. He was becoming increasingly worried that this feeling was the only source of real satisfaction in his life. Adrenaline was becoming an addiction for him.

  He pushed the thought aside and focused on the computer model. The system predicted that the bow section would be partly supported by the rest of the hull underwater and should not break off.

  “Projected probability of success,” said Sparke, his voice barely a whisper. The number leapt on to the screen.

  “89%”

  “Can the ship be flooded using its own sea valves?”

  “No,” said the Screen. “Water flow would be too slow and the chance of malfunction is significant.”

  “Options for flooding?”

  “Engineering demolition,” said the Screen, instantly.

  “Expand.”

  The Screen displayed a detailed view of the hull shown from the side and above. Six points appeared in the hull, showing dimensions and water flow. Sparke realized that his Screen had looked at the ship like any other engineering structure and had used a program normally used to plan the demolition of buildings using explosives.

  “Screen, connect me to the crisis center and send this model to the incident manager.”

  His earpiece clicked gently and he found himself talking to Markus in the Munich office who was leading the response team.

  “Markus, you should be receiving a model now, showing how we might manage to raise the bow to a point of safety.”

  “I’m looking at it,” said Markus. “Outstanding. But we would need to breach the hull in exactly the right places and in the right time sequence. That’s not something we have the capability to do in such a short time period.”

  “I know, but I might know someone who can. Let me make a call and get back to you.”

  Sparke dropped off the call and spoke to the Screen.

  “Screen, call private number, Chief Secretary.”

  In a small sparse office on the top floor of a London building which housed a department of the British Government, Sparke’s phone number appeared as an incoming call.

  “Mr. Sparke,” said the Chief Secretary, “always interesting to hear from you.”

  “Good morning, I hope you are well,” said Sparke. “Sorry for calling you out of the blue like this, but I need to sink a large ship. Quickly.”

  “And you thought of us,” said the Chief Secretary. “How flattering.”

  Monastery Jacobi

  As Bastian and his father reached a room inside the Monastery the light became brighter, but it was not the light of a lamp or candle. Although they were now several meters inside the rock face, the room was bathed in late evening sunlight from an unglazed window cut into the wall. Bastian walked over to the wall, leaned over the window sill and saw a sight that would never leave him.

  Rather than walking deeper into a cave, they had, in fact, walked through a narrow rock wall and were now looking out into a natural stone amphitheater, a deep, bucket-shaped well twenty meters across, cut into the mountain by millennia of erosion. At the base of the well there was a dark blue pool of water.

  Looking up and down, Bastian could see rows of windows and galleries cut into the stone. He turned to his father.

  “The outside is on the inside, Papa.”

  His father looked through the window and nodded, but before he could reply, the monk reappeared carrying a wooden plate with flat bread, a dish of chickpeas, and a jug of the coldest water either of them had ever tasted. Father and son ate in silence as the monk stood watching them, wordlessly.

  Once the food was gone, the monk picked up the plates.

  “Where are you travelling to?” he said.

  Bastian’s father looked up at the monk.

  “We thank you for the food and water,” he said. “We are travelling in search of stones. Special types of stone. Perhaps you have seen some like it?”

  “Stones?” said the monk. “I have seen no stones except the stones of this House for thirty years. I do not leave this building.”

  “Do any of your Order leave the building?”

  The monk stood for a long minute, then spoke.

  “Mikel. Mikel walks with the people outside. He is the one who brings the food from outside.”

  “Can we speak with Mikel?” said Bastian’s father. The monk did not answer for several minutes, and then quietly left the room. Thirty minutes later, he returned with another figure. Like the monk, he wore a long robe, but he wore thick boots on his feet.

  “This is Mikel,” said the monk.

  The four people stood in silence for a time, and then Bastian’s father reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather pouch. He pulled out some rock samples and handed them to Mikel, who took them and moved towards the light. He peered closely at them, then poured a little water from one of the cups into his hand and wetted the samples. He looked towards the monk and Bastian’s father.

  “What grows near these rocks?” Mikel said, quietly. Now, Bastian’s father realized how Bastian must have felt when he quizzed him on various rock samples. His mind tumbled with memories of the hundreds of pages he had read in his text books.

  “Nothing probably grows where these rocks are, but if there is water it might be full of green moss.”

  Mikel nodded silently. His life was spent trudging through the countryside, sometimes acting as a priest to the hill farmers, sometimes making sure the Monastery’s flocks of goats were being looked after.

  Mikel handed the rock samples back to Bastian’s father and left the room without further comment.

  “If I can find rocks like these on your land, it could mean a lot of money to your Order.”

  The monk nodded.

  “Money has its value, but for us, not so much.”

  “What do you need?” said Bastian’s father.

  “We need nothing from the outside world, very much. We need peace.”

  The monk seemed to drift away into another thought, and then he pointed towards the rifle which Bastian’s father had left propped against a wall.

  “Why do you carry this?” he said.

  “Protection. These hills can be dangerous. There are bad people, and they also have guns.”

  This made the monk nod.

  “There are bad people, and they have weapons,” he a
greed, turning and looking out of the window into the open space which made up the center of the Monastery. Since the monk appeared to be happy with silence, Bastian’s father chose not to rush.

  Eventually, he spoke.

  “If you help me find this type of rock, you would be able to make sure that you and your Monastery were safe from troubles,” he said.

  “You have soft hands, I think,” said the monk. “Soft hands and you carry a weapon. Are you a solider?”

  “A merchant,” said Bastian’s father.

  The monk thought carefully about this answer.

  “A merchant with weapons,” said the monk. “In other times, we have had help, protection provided by men with soft hands and weapons. It can be good to have such friends. Mikel tells us that there are many dangerous things happening on the outside.”

  “If you help me find places with rocks like this, I will find you help, and protection.”

  At this, the monk nodded and walked from the room, disappearing into the gloomy interior of the building.

  Over an hour passed before he returned.

  “Mikel tell us that he knows where there are many rocks like the ones you have. He can show you where. If he does this, you will provide our House with help and protection.”

  This statement was neither a question, nor a proposal.

  Bastian’s father thought briefly.

  “If we find enough stones like this, we will help and protect you and your House.”