by Tony Roberts
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA: #39 The Crusader
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TONY ROBERTS
My mother was my unlikely route into becoming a Casca fan. On one shopping trip she bought me a copy of Casca 3: The Warlord. 3 was not a great place to start but I devoured it anyway, loved the character and the sense of history made real. Then followed 13 years while I collected the original series; without the help of the internet. Then what to do, the series was over. I started to write my own Casca novels, and set up my website www.casca.net, building a worldwide base for Casca fans and contacts.
My first Casca novel, Halls of Montezuma, was published in 2006. The Crusader is my thirteenth novel in the series.
I live in Bristol, with my partner Jane and a mad cat called Nero, who does his best to help my writing by walking on my keyboard.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 40 Blitzkrieg
THE CASCA SERIES IN EBOOKS
PROLOGUE
The insane shrieking of the storm hammered at Casca’s ears, assaulting his senses. Bent double, eyes screwed shut against the sand that blew into his face, the Eternal Mercenary staggered on, blindly fumbling his way forward.
Omar Khayyam and his nephew were somewhere out there, but where? They’d been beside him one minute, then gone the next. Casca had turned and shouted into the wind but he may as well have been deaf and dumb. Nobody could have heard anything in that wind even if someone was standing next to the talker. Sand and grit had seared his eyes and face and, eyes watering, he’d spent a useless half hour searching for the two others and their pack animals.
Nothing.
Reluctantly Casca had staggered on alone, discarding the useless and hot armor that he’d been given by old Faisal. Symbolically, he supposed, at the same time he was discarding the disguise and persona of Sir Cayce Noire of Ruthmir and was once again plain old Casca Rufio Longinus, ex-Roman legionary and the man who’d speared Jesus on the cross on Golgotha ten centuries ago.
Plain?
Despite his predicament and the fact he was utterly lost and alone, he snorted in amusement. Plain? A man who was cursed to immortality? A man with a distinctive scar down the side of his face? A man with the strength of two or three? No, not plain, that was certain.
What was also certain though was that he was lost again. Somewhere either in western Persia or the eastern reaches of Mesopotamia. He’d been around Persia too long and dearly wished to leave the damned place far behind him.
If he carried on moving west eventually he’d come to a river or hill or mountain or something, so he grimly put one foot in front of the other and forced himself on through the battering of sand and grit that tried to knock him down.
Eventually he blundered into a rock wall and sank gratefully onto his ass, thankful that the wind was being deflected around the outcrop of whatever rock it was – probably granite, Casca mused idly – and not being hammered into his face and body. He lay with his back against the smooth light grey colored stone with his legs stretched out before him, and stared into the opaque world of swirling wind and sand, his mind going back over the last few years.
He’d left the empire of the Eastern Romans six years or so ago and gone east. For what reasons he now forgot, but he must have been crazy. Going into Persia had always been a pain in the ass and so it had proved yet again. Taken prisoner by slavers, he’d been ultimately taken to the castle of Alamut and the realm of the Old Man of the Mountain – the leader of the Hashishin – Hassan al-Sabah. Casca still vividly recalled his induction into the assassins through drugs and hashish, and had found it too addictive to resist. What had finally broken his ties to the sect had been his fall off the cliff into an underground river where he’d been trapped for a few years until fate had brought him to a place where the river had welled up at an oasis and his escape had brought him into contact with Omar Khayyam and his nephew.
His adventures in Persia had ended up with a few duels being decided in his favor and an escape from the harem of the Sultan thanks to Faisal who had given him his fictitious Frankish title and armor. Where he’d gotten the armor from was anyone’s guess, but it had served its purpose. Now, here in the borderlands of the realms of Persia and Mesopotamia, wearing such an outfit was dangerous and unnecessary.
The Seljuks ran this part of the world and Casca desperately wanted to get away from them. His light colored eyes would identify him as a Circassian to these people, even though it were not true, and therefore one to be taken as a slave. Casca had had enough of being a slave, so he wanted out. That meant returning west to the Greek world of the emperors of Constantinople, those who called themselves Romans. Last time he’d been there his former general and friend Alexius Comnenus had been on the throne. He wondered if Alexius was still running the empire, or even if the empire was still a going concern.
Alexius had worked wonders with Casca by his side turning things round there when all had seemed lost, and the civil wars, rebellions, betrayals and outside invasions had all been dealt with in time. It seemed the empire had been saved, at least for a while. Casca knew he’d have to go back to see how things were and maybe ask Alexius for a job. Casca chuckled to himself; of course he’d get a job – Alexius owed him too much to say no – but Casca didn’t want one that tied him to the place for too long. He would have to move on after a short while.
He checked his pouches and pockets for food. Nothing. He checked again. Still nothing. Ah shit. His luck never seemed to change that much, did it? No water either; the pack animals had it all and they were who knows where in this god-forsaken hell-hole. Even if they were but a mile away they could be a mile in any direction and he’d probably never see them. He had to admit to himself he’d probably seen the last of Omar, his nephew and their animals.
So that chapter of his life was closed, a new one was about to open. He wondered what it would bring.
CHAPTER ONE
Somewhere in Colorado, 2011
The twin headlights of the box-like vehicle climbing painfully up the steep incline of the narrow road cut through the stygian dar
k of the moonless night. Two people sat in the cab of the freshly painted white ambulance, the red crosses a stark contrast to the cleanliness of the white. The male, a stocky, thickset man with a scar running down the right hand side of his face, concentrated on the road ahead as it twisted this way and that, dancing in the pools of illumination cast by the lights. The driver ensured that while traversing a path a goat would find treacherous, he kept the vehicle as close as possible to the cliff on the right; the terrain past the left edge of the road dropped off a thousand feet
The passenger, a slim, silent female, gripped the door handle tightly. She was terrified, but she refused to allow the scarred man next to her to see it. One miscalculation and the ambulance would plunge to destruction, killing her and the man in the rear. Although she didn’t know it, it wouldn’t kill the driver, the man born two thousand years before as Casca Rufio Longinus in what was now known as Tuscany.
Casca had no intention of putting his immortality to the test yet again. He got fed up with dying and being ‘reborn’. He felt pain just like any other, and to be honest, he thought at times, he probably felt more than anyone else. The girl was tall, red-haired, green eyed and athletic. Someone Casca admired and trusted. An able lieutenant to his unit, she’d until recently been part of the Black Ops secret outfit located at the Castle, dedicated to anti-terrorist activities. That was until four days ago when suddenly the mission she’d been on had turned bad.
How could everything have gone so wrong so quickly? Orders from someone high up enough to make things happen at a moment’s notice, that’s how.
Casca fortunately had been on the same mission. Orders from the Castle to take him out. There had been two others on the same job to Mexico, trying to stem the deluge of drug-gang related murders crippling the country. They’d been doing a fine job when suddenly the Castle changed the orders. Casca was a rogue agent and had to be terminated with extreme prejudice.
Casca had heard the orders with shock, crackling through his earpiece. He had turned his eyes to his nearest colleague, Ricardo Perez. Perez had asked for clarification. The orders had come through again. Perez had paused, and then with a shrug figured; oh well, whether I like it or not, orders were orders.
“Sorry, Casey,” Perez had said apologetically, turning his gun on Casca. “Orders.”
That had been the last thing he’d said as Casca’s razor-edged knife had plunged into Perez’s throat. With the carotid artery severed Perez’s death was nearly instantaneous. Casca hadn’t wasted time in wondering what the hell had happened. Perez had signaled his intentions as sure as he’d painted it on a billboard.
That had left the other two on the same operation, and Casca had swiftly made his way to where the others had been waiting for the drug cartel’s convoy alongside the main road. Corporal Jez Richards had been arguing with Hayley Richter in furious whispers. Richards had been insisting they follow orders while Richter had been objecting, demanding to know why they would suddenly have to shoot their leader, the man they’d come to know as ‘Immortal Dragon’.
Casca’s arrival next to Richards had stopped the conversation, but Richter had then whispered into the mike that she wasn’t going to carry out a murder unless she got a damn good reason why they should. That had only provoked new orders; Richards was to terminate Richter. A haunted look had come across Richards’ face as he mentally wrestled with what had just come through his earpiece. He had hesitated, almost as if he had been about to protest against the orders, then had raised his gun with a jerk towards Richter but Casca had been waiting for such a move, knowing Richards’ policy of obeying orders to the letter.
The knife, still wet with Perez’s blood, now sank into Richards’ neck, severing the spinal cord. Richards had been dead before he hit the ground.
“So, Richter,” Casca had said calmly, cleaning the knife on the back of Richards’ fatigues. “What’s your next move?”
“Get back to the Castle and find out what the hell’s going on!”
Casca had nodded. “Very sound thinking; points to you for thinking through this shit storm, which as it turns out happens to be my intentions too. Although I got a good idea what’s going on.”
So they had returned to their transport and driven hard to the airstrip in northern Mexico where a helicopter had been waiting. Richter was a pilot – the pilot of their unit – and she’d flown into the States, using the military clearance protocols, maintaining a constant North-Easterly heading until Casca directed her to change course and head to the West. They’d landed in Arizona and Casca had sent an urgent call to Danny Landries in New York.
Landries had dropped everything immediately and came to New Mexico somewhere North-West of Santa Fe where the three had got together and thrashed out a plan. Casca had spelt out his worries to the other two. “My concern is that the change of plan from the Castle has come from the Brotherhood. There’s no other reason.”
Danny had groaned while Hayley had looked puzzled. Casca had explained to her it was the same organization they’d fought during the Kali Mission. Hayley had understood then; although not involved in that one, she’d known all about it. “But weren’t they destroyed when you took out the chopper in California?”
“No,” Casca had shaken his head. “They’ve got many tentacles. We just destroyed one. My guess is that another has gotten at our command structure and is even now moving in on the Castle. Partly to get even for what we did three years ago and partly to get at me. They have a particular dislike for me. They’ll try to get at Doctor Goldman.”
“Oh no,” Danny had breathed out in dismay. “We’ve gotta get him out first!”
And so they had quickly come up with a desperate snatch plan. An ambulance was bought from an auto yard where it sat decommissioned awaiting a new owner. Casca and Hayley Richter took care of the quick paint job the ambulance needed while Danny worked in the back, first ensuring he got a couple of the power outlets working that all ambulances had. Then, while they drove out of town with Casca and Hayley in front, Danny furiously worked setting up the equipment he’d brought with him. He unpacked and wired up a couple of laptops, then improvised an aerial on a magnetic mount. Finally he put a router in to link everything together. To the side he placed a printer, laminator and other assorted equipment. Now it was hell for leather and hope the Brotherhood hadn’t gotten to Goldman first.
Casca had done a great deal of thinking during the journey to the mountains where the Castle stood. It only took one corruptible man in high circles to ruin everything. He hadn’t seen any newspaper report of any sudden death in political circles but he was willing to bet some senator or congressman somewhere had suddenly ceased to be. The Brotherhood wouldn’t leave anyone alive who had been bought by them. Pay him off, get the information and then terminate. Nothing shuts a door as efficiently as a dead man.
Once they had the information they could gain access to the command structure and issue their devastating orders, whatever they may be. Of course, it would only last a short time before someone asked the right questions and the infiltration would be detected, but by then it would be too late. The unit had been compromised and was a bust. Congress would now learn all about it in the inquest to come and that was that.
Time to quit and be gone.
Danny in the rear was furiously hacking at the military software. If the Brotherhood could do it, then he could. Danny was one of those rare kinds who could make computers sit and dance for him. Identities were made and wiped with the touch of a button. There was nothing as lethal these days as the ‘send’ button.
It was only when they got close to the Castle and were climbing up that long, winding road that Danny finally leaned back, rolled his head to ease the aches and declared he’d done it. They had clearance to visit the Castle. They had bogus I.D.s. Danny printed them off and used his portable laminator to make them look good. If anyone in the security services – the FBI or CIA – saw these devices, then Danny would spend the rest of his life somewhere d
ark and quiet and nobody would ever know he existed.
Ever since he’d agreed to work with Casca – or Casey – or now as he wished to be known, Carlos, he’d set up a labyrinth of I.D.s and false passports to get him through any customs. But he was only as good as the latest versions. Every time something new came out he had to learn its complexities and master it, then find a way of defeating it.
“We’re military medics called out to handle an emergency situation with Doctor Goldman. Tests have shown a heart condition that may turn fatal at any time. A pulmonary embolism. It’ll hold for a few hours until someone at the top questions where this order came from. No-one will find the origin so they’ll pull the plug, especially when they can’t find Lieutenant Wright and Sergeant Lambert.”
Casca allowed himself a momentary grin, then it was gone. The checkpoint was around the next corner. The guards would know Casca’s and Hayley’s faces. He stopped the ambulance. “Time for you to take over, Danny,” he said, slipping out of the driver’s seat.
They swapped positions. Casca left the computer well alone; such things were beyond him. There were two weapons lying next to him. One was a tranquilizer pistol, one of a pair they had; Hayley had the other. He slipped that one into his holster. He then picked up the oiled and evil looking silenced sub-machine gun that was resting on the bunk set against the side of the vehicle. The shot selector was set to single shot. Spraying bullets indiscriminately was not his intent; there were too many innocent and unsuspecting men and women here. They would only be following orders. In three days’ time, probably, they’d be following official orders once more. The Brotherhood was also under a time gun; they had to get Goldman out from under the noses of the garrison before anyone realized they were bogus.
The problem Casca had was that nobody in there could be trusted; soldiers would believe their superiors. They probably had been told Casca and Hayley had ‘gone rogue’, and would be ordered to kill both, similar to the late Perez and Richards. So it was down to the old adage; kill or be killed. Or in Casca’s case incapacitated. Then the Brotherhood would have him.
