Legacy: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “I have ordered the excavation stopped, and for the site to be destroyed immediately, the remains of the artifacts buried,” Speer said, as defiantly and calmly as he could. He watched the practiced reaction of Himmler as the impish little man looked at him with a trace of a smile. “At least until we can negotiate our finds with the Allies. After all, I would rather think the Führer would prefer not to have the artifacts fall into the hands of the Bolsheviks, wouldn’t you?”

  “So I have read in your report, Herr Reich Minister,” Himmler said, ignoring his statement about the Red Army. “I wonder if such an action is warranted at this time.”

  Speer noticed the comment wasn’t phrased in the form of a question.

  “The discovery of the bodies and of the technology came at too late a date. The properties of the ancient weaponry have yet to be unlocked, and coupled with the fact that we were unable to ascertain the age of the bodies I felt it necessary to destroy the site and bury all until we can turn the information we have over to the Americans or the British.”

  “I believe that to be a hasty conclusion to the excavation. After all, it has shown very much promise, yes?”

  “If we are not careful the Russians will discover what we have failed to properly evaluate, and if that happens the West will be in serious trouble.” Speer saw the twitching of Himmler’s left eye under his wire-rimmed glasses but continued saying his piece. “We have no choice in the matter. In case you are one of the ones holding on to your glorious dreams of a Thousand Year Reich, Herr Himmler, I hate to be the bearer of bad news—the war is lost. It was lost the moment our beloved Führer declared war on Russia while still entangled with the Allies. The problem, as you know, was exacerbated when the United States came to the aid of the Allied cause. I have buried the mine because the technology and the truth of the world’s past will not save our country now.”

  “A history lesson?” asked Himmler. “Political ideologies and our current military situation are not subjects I need to be briefed on, Herr Minister.”

  “Still, it seems a point worth reminding you of.”

  Himmler smiled, trying to bring Speer back into his rightful demeanor of fear and subservience, if only because he needed the reich minister now more than ever. Himmler knew if it hadn’t been for this brilliant architect, Operation Columbus would never have been launched. A partnership had been formed in the early days before the war with the Allies between Speer and himself when the discovery in Ecuador had been made. It was the brilliance of this man that kept Operation Columbus viable right under the Allied noses. Himmler grudgingly respected the man, but like most intellectuals, Speer was weak when the hard truths had to be faced.

  “Let’s not quibble. I believe you need to be brought up to date on a few developments that have cropped up here at home since your clandestine trip to South America.” Himmler folded his hands in front of him, trying to speak as clearly as he could. “The Führer has decided to personally conduct the operations concerning the defense of Germany from that monstrosity you designed and built for him below the Reich Chancellery.”

  Speer was taken back but tried not to show it. He closed his eyes momentarily and wished he had been sitting, as that would have made hiding his surprise much easier.

  “He is going into the bunker?” was all he could say.

  “Yes. It seems the Russian army will not allow us to conduct business aboveground these days. Very inconsiderate of them, wouldn’t you say, my dear Albert?”

  “Your point, please.”

  “My point is that we should not be so hasty in destroying the one element of our research that could be very beneficial to certain members of the Führer’s inner circle. Columbus would be something that either the Americans, British, or in the most dire of circumstance, the Bolsheviks, would trade our lives for, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “That could be a possibility. However I see very many problems.”

  “Really? I see no such obstacles to our dealing away the one thing that will change all of history as we know it—possibly even the future.”

  “One such problem is that during my recent evaluation in South America, I barely escaped with my life. The man that you said should not be a concern to me almost caught me and my men on the beach in Argentina. He was informed of my being in country by that Harvard boy you said wasn’t a threat to our operations in Ecuador. Thus far, Herr Himmler, you have been wrong on every count. And also may I remind you that the country of Ecuador is not one of Germany’s allies. They are fully in the hands of the Americans, and the country is tightly controlled by this American colonel, this Lee—a man chosen personally by William Donovan of the OSS to head operations there.”

  “This Colonel Lee will cease to be a problem before we bring out the artifacts. His man in Ecuador, this Hamilton chap—well, we are arranging for that young man to cease being an annoyance. I suspect neither Colonel Lee nor this Hamilton fellow will interfere in the removal of Columbus.” Himmler opened the folder and looked at the last page of Speer’s report. “And I have ordered the last cave formation to be excavated.”

  “Why not trade Columbus for our purposes with the artifacts in place? Why take a chance on allowing this very formidable man in South America to have even the slightest chance of discovering just what it is we have? I also believe opening the final cave formation to be a mistake. It will take too much time, and that is a commodity we have very little of.”

  “Because if we offer the trade before Columbus is on German soil, the Americans will just take it and then hang us all anyway. This way they have to strike a deal. And the last cave may hold the secret to this trove of technology, wouldn’t you think? Now, perhaps you will step back from the project and let my capable offices handle the final phases.”

  Speer placed his cap back onto his black hair and stared at Himmler. The reich minister for armaments saw the small man’s smile twitch once more as he calmly placed the carefully prepared report on Operation Columbus into the wastebasket.

  “As I said, you will reap the benefits, as will I, after we trade our fantastic finds for our lives. When the time is right, perhaps when the inevitable becomes a reality, and after the American agent Lee and his apprentice are eliminated, our plans to bring both the technology and other artifacts out of Ecuador will be achieved. The delay will also offer the time we need to break into this last chamber inside the dig.” Himmler looked up in a dismissive way as he slowly and deliberately reached for another report. Then he extended his right hand into the air with his palm facing out. “Heil Hitler! And please, Albert, give the Führer my regards, and tell him that I have been delayed by Party business. Frankly, that bunker smells rather bad to me.”

  RÍO LUJÁN, ARGENTINA APRIL 30, 1945

  The large man was stationed at the mouth of the Luján River just to the north of Buenos Aires. The night was warm and the sea calm as he watched the small breakers. Earlier he had seen not one, but two British destroyers as they passed on their run up the coast. His bosses in Washington had figured out the schedule for the patrols and discovered that the British pattern never varied. Unfortunately, the German navy had also figured out the same pattern and was using it to their advantage. They could have warned the British about the flaw in their patrol patterns, but the Americans liked being able to figure out when the U-boats would attempt dropping off a landing party just off the mouth of the Luján. The large man had already captured several couriers attempting to make it ashore with messages vital to the German war effort. On this night, and thanks to one of his most trusted informants in Buenos Aires, he would catch another.

  The American adjusted his binoculars and scanned the area in front of him. As he turned left he frowned and cursed under his breath. The conning tower of a U-boat was just disappearing into the sea. He had missed the blackened silhouette in the distance, and since the boat was submerging it meant that its human cargo had already been delivered.

  “Damn it!” the man said as he swung the binoculars
to his right, watching for any telltale sign of the boat’s cargo. There was nothing. He replaced the field glasses in their case and then reached into his leather jacket and brought out his Colt .45 automatic. He chambered a round as quietly as he could. Reaching behind himself he removed the safety on another Colt in his waistband, and then, as was his habit, he finally adjusted the dirty brown fedora on his head. After looking around with caution he started walking along the tree line that fronted the river and the sea beyond.

  The OSS had had numerous successes gathering the information they needed on what the German high command and its inner circle planned on scurrying out of Germany after they surrendered. The plans included escape to Argentina, Venezuela, and Brazil. The large American figured this courier was delivering the same cargo as the last three: new identity papers forged through the offices of the SS and Gestapo. If not that, then it was probably the hard currency of the Allies, so the escaping war criminals could live the life of luxury and power they had grown accustomed to since 1933. He suspected the latter, thanks again to his female informant, who had overheard the plans from one of the SS operatives in the city.

  The American stood six foot four inches and had the brown-colored skin of a man who had served long days in the extreme Southern Hemisphere. Since he had been transferred out of Germany two years before, he had successfully conducted operations for the OSS—the Office of Strategic Services—in six different countries with the assistance of his staff of ten men.

  The large man suddenly stopped and knelt low to the sandy ground. The natural cover was something he wasn’t comfortable with as he watched the barren area to his front. His backup had not arrived as scheduled and that made him apprehensive.

  He heard a noise behind him as a small bush hit the trunk of a tree. There was no wind to make it do so. He immediately turned and pointed both Colt .45s at the dark silhouette in front of him.

  “Don’t shoot me, Garrison,” said the female voice from the darkness.

  “Damn it, Isabel! What are you doing? Get the hell out of here!” Lee hissed.

  The woman he had known for two years, Isabel Perione, the very best OSS informant they had in the region, came forward cautiously. To Colonel Garrison Lee, she looked out of place in pants and shirt. Her usual attire was evening wear smuggled out of Paris by the OSS and used as payment to the Argentine spy.

  “I am sorry, Garrison. I had to come. Two of your men were taken right from the Club Dubois in the city.”

  “What do you mean by taken?” Lee asked as he watched Isabel’s eyes in the soft moonlight.

  “All I know is that your men were removed from the club and taken away. I know they were supposed to meet you here.”

  “Haney and Rafferty are too damn good to get snatched from a public place,” Lee said. His eyes never left the woman, nor did the guns he held waver.

  “Nonetheless, Colonel, your men will not be here for you.”

  Lee was about to respond when he heard voices. He realized whoever they were, they were speaking a heavily accented form of the castellano Spanish of the Argentine region.

  He risked moving two small branches of the bush they were hidden behind, using the barrel of one of his Colts, all the while keeping the other automatic pointed in the general direction of his informant. He knew beyond a doubt that the best thing to do would be to back away right then, call the operation a bust, and return to Buenos Aires to learn about the situation from his only two-man team in the region. However, he needed to see who he was dealing with.

  Lee counted six men. They were only ten yards away. Four of them were Argentines; the other two men were dressed in dark clothing and woolen hats, the sort used by men just coming in from the sea. The smaller of the two was holding a satchel and the taller, a very lethal-looking submachine gun. Automatic weapons weren’t the norm for anyone sneaking into Argentina. Lee looked at his .45 and shook his head, then half turned toward Isabel.

  “We have to let this one go, doll face. I’d say the better part of valor tonight is—”

  He heard the click of a hammer being drawn back and felt a gun being placed to his head.

  “I would hate to put a bullet hole into what I know is your favorite hat, Mr. Lee. So if you would, please release the hammers of both of your Colts as gently as possible. I am not the only one with a weapon on you.”

  “I must say,” Lee said, as he did what was ordered, “you were good, Isabel.” He finally turned and saw the Argentine woman with the pretty face and perfect body holding the gun, now pointed at his nose. The more menacing view came from another man he hadn’t counted in the small circle of men to his front. He was also carrying a submachine gun. Garrison added his and Isabel’s number value to the equation—nine altogether. “Have you been accepting dresses from another man?” Lee asked as he slowly stood to his full height.

  The woman smiled, showing her perfect white teeth as she backed away from the most dangerous man she had ever known.

  “Yes, many dresses, and a small monetary amount to tide me over after the war.”

  The man with the submachine gun gestured for Lee to raise his hands.

  The American did as he was told, feeling sick at being caught so easily. As he stood, the .45s were taken from him by Isabel, who watched for any sudden movement. The man with the heavy artillery called out in horrible Spanish and the six men stopped and turned as he was pushed out of the small grove of trees with his hands in the air.

  “We have caught the Oso of an American who has been preying on your agents,” Isabel said from behind him. He had to smile when he heard the nickname the Argentines had bestowed on him—Oso, Bear. He figured that compared to the short sons of bitches around him, he was a bear-sized American. Well, there was one German that was as big as he was, the one next to the small man with the satchel.

  The Satchel Kraut, as Lee now thought of him, approached and looked him over. He turned to his colleague and muttered in German, “The OSS is getting more brazen every day. And attempting to take us right from the beach? Such treatment by a colleague.” He laughed.

  “Kill him and be done with it. We have to be in Quito for the second part of the operation in two days time. We have no time for this.”

  Their final destination: Quito, the capital of Ecuador.

  The smaller German turned to face the American and tilted his head. His glasses and black leather jacket shone in the moonlight. He smiled as he removed the wool hat.

  “Before you are disposed of, may I say that you have quite an admirer in Herr Himmler, Colonel Lee?”

  The American reached up and tilted back his brown fedora, making the other six men, along with Isabel, flinch. The smaller Argentines brought up their only weapons—four large machetes. All of their uneasiness at his supposed killing prowess brought a smile to the American’s lips.

  “Anyway, I wanted to inform you of that fact, Mr. Garrison Lee,” the small German said with a grin. “Before you are shot.”

  “That’s Colonel Lee to you, Fritz.”

  “You fools, stop your playing. This man is a killer,” Isabel said. “I know. I’ve watched him do it.”

  The American’s smile was infuriating to the large German who stood behind the man he was there to protect, the smaller Kraut with the satchel. “According to our reports in Berlin, you were quite a thorn in our operations here in South America, Colonel Lee. It will be a feather in our caps, so to speak, to have been the ones to eliminate such a man who has caused our organization such hardship.”

  “Organization? You’re being far too kind to yourselves. You must mean the SS, or what we in the states call Murder Incorporated.”

  “Witty, Colonel Lee—I hope that wit will be available to you in the moment of your death,” the small man said. He turned away and whispered something to the larger German and then turned to face the woman. “As for you my dear, we are not in the habit of rewarding spies who assist in the killing of our agents.”

  The large SS man finally smile
d. He brought up his submachine gun and shot three rounds into Isabel’s head and chest. She fell backward and Lee caught her before she hit the ground. As he did so, his plan was formed.

  Without a second’s hesitation, Lee spun Isabel’s lifeless body and tossed her into the third German. He dove for the sandy ground, grabbing for the small .32 caliber pistol that Isabel had dropped at the moment of her death. He shot before striking the ground, hitting the German in the chest. He twisted to his backside and fired another shot, hitting the nearest of the Argentine guides, dropping him and the machete he was holding.

  The small German grabbed two of the Argentine guides by the arms and started running. The larger man knew his orders, but they were shouted out anyway as the man with the satchel made his way through the beach scrub.

  “Kill him!”

  Lee rolled as the submachine gun opened up. One bullet struck his calf as his own bullets hit another of the Argentine men. Lee grabbed the man’s body and used it as a shield, bullets stitching the dead man’s back. Lee was momentarily stunned when the corpse reared its head as one of the heavy caliber rounds struck its face. The head hit Lee’s nose painfully, bringing a flood of tears across his vision. He fired blindly with the dead man still against his chest. One of the small bullets hit the last Argentine in the right eye, flinging him backward. Lee rolled again, knowing the last man standing, the German with the machine gun, was aiming right at him. Just as he expected several bullets to slam into him, he heard the loud click. The SS man’s weapon had jammed on him. Lee suddenly found the strength to stand. Then he realized that somewhere along the roller-coaster ride of his derring-do he had lost the small .32. He looked at the German, who was trying desperately to clear his machine gun.