The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter SEVENTEEN

The Device

Libra Facility, Zurich



A middle-aged man dressed in a nondescript gray suit flicked his eyes from one passenger to another. In his hands was a sign with the words SoCal Exports.

Hunter retrieved both pieces of luggage and moved toward a line of sign bearers. Sam raised a hand, called out, “Here – SoCal!”

The man gazed beyond them. Hunter said to Sam, “You think anyone else arriving is SoCal?” He tried for eye contact, missed and chuckled, “That guy ain’t playin’ with a full deck.”

Sam walked to within a few paces, placed his bag by the man’s feet and turned to Hunter who’d stopped a few paces short.

Gardner Hunter had caught the eye of a Lufthansa stewardess and seized upon the opportunity to utilize his only memorized German phrase. “Hallo, wo ist das Mannbadezimmer?” He liked the way it rolled off his tongue; made him feel well traveled, made him feel - continental.

She blushed as she pointed off to her right. Duly impressed that Hunter had gotten some type of message through, Sam asked the sign bearer, “What’d he say?”

“He asked where he can locate the bathroom for men.”

Sam chuckled. “That’s it?”

“Yes sir, that is quite close to what he said.”

When Hunter was through blushing, he turned to Sam, his face showing embarrassment. “Something got lost in the translation. I asked her...”

Sam waved him off as the girl gave an amused grin and moved toward the interior of the terminal. She paused at a blue door, turned, and slyly looked around knowing full well Hunter was still watching. She tapped on the door as a man exited the lavatory.

Hunter gave an appreciative smile, waved and mumbled, “F*ckin’ Rosetta Stone.”

When the girl was out of view, he passed Sam a self-deprecating glance, avoiding the sniggering sign bearer who’d found it all highly amusing. Sam gave the man an acknowledging smile and turned to Hunter. “You’ve been hanging around Dal too long.”

The man in the gray suit squeezed an agonizing amount of mileage from Hunter’s ‘German 101’ experience.

“Welcome gentlemen. Please come along. You’re taking a flight to Andermatt. Oh - and there’s another bathroom for men just ahead.” He gave a flippant smile to Hunter as he tugged at the luggage cart. When he passed the door he nodded. “Right here sir, behind this blue door.”

“Andermatt, how far is that?” Sam asked.

“It is two hundred miles. The facility is in the mountain valley of Andermatt.”

“Who are we meetin’ there?” Hunter asked. Sam gave him a not too subtle elbow jab.

The man gave a quizzical look as Hunter raised his voice a notch. “What I mean to say is what’s your employer’s name?”

The man smiled broadly. “All that I am at liberty to say is that we are going to Andermatt. My involvement is to collect and deliver guests. All of your questions will be answered on arrival at the facility.”

*****

The Limousine reached a private hangar where an MD520 NOTAR chopper stood by.

“This is our shopping cart. It flies to the city to collect supplies. We held it back for your incognito arrival.”

Hunter walked around admiring the chopper; it was unlike any he’d ever seen. The pilot appreciated his interest and flicked a thumb at his pride and joy.

“Impressive, is she not?” the Swiss accented pilot said. “She has the speed of a cheetah, the agility of a hummingbird and the presence of an eagle. She’s an MD520 NOTAR - queen of the skies. Our guests are among the very few people privileged to travel the Zurich skies in her, she’s the Ferrari of helicopters.”

Within minutes they were gazing from its windows, waving to their driver as the pilot made a whirring motion with one hand. A shouting match between the pilot and Hunter consumed the journey from Zurich to Andermatt

– taking turns shouting about snow, skiing, snowmobiles, and resorts. Unable to bear it any longer, Sam broke his silence by adding a shout of his own. “One more word about f*ckin’ skiing and I’ll...”

*****

The pilot made a hand signal indicating Sam and Hunter should remain well seated as the MD520 descended near a fog-shrouded ski run.

There was no sign of a building, nothing visible through the snow whipped up by the NOTAR’s rotor as it slowed to a whop, whop, whop rhythm.

A lonely figure riding a red snow-cat emerged from the fog, the 2005 Scot-Trac 3000R was a heavy-duty workhorse with four lights glaring from above the cabin. It came through the mist with a wiper blade flipping powder either side of the large windshield, its turbo diesel making a familiar clatter, clatter, clatter.

The powerful engine was coupled to fully hydrostatic controls allowing the unit, fitted with steel tracks, to push and pull large payloads, to make light work of the steepest snow packed Andermatt terrain. It also had great carrying capacity, accommodating three passengers in front and four in the rear cabin.

The heavily built driver was as rugged as the vehicle. He stepped from the cabin, placed a foot on the tracks and reached a hand to Sam.

“Good day. Climb on board,” and the chopper pilot passed the two pieces of luggage to the snow-cat driver.

Hunter did an instant analysis, assessing the weathered, tanned man as a retired ski instructor, or perhaps a personal trainer.

Aware of Hunter’s earlier romantic history with Patrice Bellinger, Sam had a feeling of uncertainty, perhaps a fear of danger. Throughout the flight he internally questioned the ease in which Hunter had accepted the assignment. He thought, has to be Bell, if she wasn’t with the guys, would Hunter have been so forthright in accepting the assignment? He considered asking, but each time he’d muster the courage a warning light inside him flashed and the subject was stymied.

An enormous white snow cloud swallowed the NOPAR. Within moments there was no evidence of its existence.

Sam crouched as he squinted into the settling mist and said, “I don’t see a building.”

The snow cat driver made a nodding gestured and pointed ahead. “We need to go beyond that slope.”

Eight minutes later and beyond that slope, Sam stared into the deep white misted terrain, couldn’t see a building, no discernible shape and no architectural profile to indicate habitation, all he could see was a cave-like hole in the side of a mountain. As the driver pulled the snow-cat to within feet of a camouflaged entry, a man emerged to greet them. He took the two bags from the cabin and placed them in the entry.

“My friends, welcome to Andermatt. Please come along, we have much to do and such little time in which to accomplish it.” He waved a hand at the landscape. “We have had much snow during the past week – far too much.” He chuckled in a yodeling sound, and Hunter gave Sam a sardonic smile. “With the heavy snowfall the facility is more veiled than ever. Did you have a pleasant journey?” He allowed no time for a reply. “You realize of course that your visit here is not taking place.”

Hunter inhaled deeply and let out a slow sigh as they were ushered inside the mountain. He leaned closer to Sam. “Are we inside of a mountain or what? Look at this place.” He could feel claustrophobia setting in. He struggled a little trying to moderate his breathing.

The corners of the man’s mouth formed a smile. “This was our original entry; it has been replaced by a western entry.”

“Why’s this entrance no longer used?” Sam asked with a curious expression.

The man appeared at the point of answering but turned about and said, “Forward, gentlemen, come along now, this way.”

Hunter and Sam exchanged brief glances as they moved out of the entry area and followed the man along a passageway. He raised a hand and turned an ear in the direction of barking dogs. His mood changed as he nodded his head to the left. “Quickly, this way.”

They moved through a nearby door and the man placed a nervous finger across his lips.

Hunter felt his frustration rising and passed Sam a ‘what the f*ck’ look - Sam bounced the look back at him, a little confused at their guide’s reaction. Ascuffling sound put Hunter at ease as a large German Shepherd romped by in pursuit of a yapping Jack Russell.

Sam said, “We need to know what’s going on here.”

“Test animals,” the man said apologetically but lacking conviction.

“Those dogs,” Hunter said, “they’re for experimentation?”

The answer came with an obvious amount of apprehension as the man stepped back into the passageway. “I’m afraid so, better the dogs than transients.”

Hunter smiled but didn’t like it. His abrupt stop as they moved into the darkened hallway caused Sam to step on his heels. The look of fear that spread on the man’s face came with startling abruptness. He pushed the two into a recessed opening and quickly shut the steel door behind them. A cacophony of noise erupted in the hallway, grew to a crescendo, and after several long seconds moved on by.

Before the adrenalin reached his extremities, Hunter asked, “What in the name of sweet Jesus was all that about?”

Their escort didn’t answer. He cracked the door and placed an ear to the opening, allowed a minute to pass and cautiously moved along the hallway.

“Why the hide and seek stuff?” Sam asked. “What’s going on here?”

“We must avoid making your presence known to those in the main facility. We are going to the lower level. No one has been there in a long while. It is where they have been working with prototypes. I’ve not been there since . . .” He paused, turned to Sam, and gestured for them to follow.

Sam looked at Hunter and back to their guide. He picked up his bag, gazed once more at Hunter and said, “Must be that section they told us about - the prototypes.” It was said it in a reassuring manner but the reassuring manner did little to remove the dubious expression from Hunter’s face. Sam added, “Hope this gets a lot better real soon.”

Hunter whispered, “You think?” and squirmed as he tiptoed along on Sam’s heels.

The man raised a finger as they reached an elevator. “This is how we traveled to the lower level last year.”

He heard approaching voices and stopped.

“What?” Hunter whispered.

Silence.

“What’s up?” Hunter reiterated.

“Quickly, we need to take the stairs. The elevator no longer operates and no one has been to the lower level in a long time.”

Hunter leaned into Sam and whispered, “Didn’t he tell us that a few times already - what the f*ck?”

The man was now sweating profusely as he led them to a steep stairwell and down wet and treacherous stone steps in near darkness. He took a flashlight from his pocket and shined it down the stairwell. At the end of a fifty foot descent he said, “I must announce your arrival.” He looked to his left and half smiled at Hunter and Sam. “Please, wait here.”

“Here?” Hunter frowned, beginning to sound a little paranoid. “Where in the f*ck is here?”

The man wiped his mouth on his sleeve and peered into the darkness. “This is where prototypes are installed. Please wait, I will return shortly.”

“Dammit, Sam! I wasted the last year of my life in f*ckin’ therapy gettin’ over the last mission, after this one I might end up as Doc Parson’s numero uno patiento.”

“We both might,” Sam added.

Hunter shrugged. “Tell me you won’t do it.”

Sam snorted, leaned against the wall and slid down until he came to rest on his sagging luggage. Hunter assumed the same position. The wait seemed an eternity. Hunter heard movement. He tipped his head to one side.

“Ya hear that?”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Listen.”

“I don’t...”

“Sam!” Hunter’s voice elevated. “I tell you I hear barkin’ again.”

“Barking? Calm down. The dogs are gone.”

“Why couldn’t it be snakes, Sam, or even f*ckin’ spiders? Nah – had to be dogs.”

Sam cleared his throat. Hunter was beginning to sound a little paranoid, leaving Sam wondering if his recovery had been cut short.

Hunter: “None of this seems right. Sittin’ here in darkness with German Shepherds runnin’ about wasn’t part of my positive reinforcement; you know I’ve got a thing about dogs.”

“Yeah okay, I hear it. It’s just a dog barking, don’t worry about it.”

The door opened and the man gestured for them to enter. Sam hit him with a questioning glare, the glare went unnoticed.

“You must accompany me,” the man said. “This way please.”

They tucked in behind him as Sam squinted into the darkness, his head filled with a conglomeration of thoughts. Hunter, nearly stepping on Sam’s heels, reached a hand past him and tapped on the man’s shoulder.

“We were kind of hoping you’d uh, you know – like, turn the lights on.” Sam inhaled in exasperation, held the breath an unusual amount of time, exhaled and leaned into the man. “I’m being far more patient than normal. This whole scenario...”

Hunter cut in and finished the objection, “...is f*ckin’ obscene!”

Sam lowered his eyes and spoke to Hunter in a muffled tone. “Sorry I dragged you into this, Gard.”

Hunter considered the apology and allowed a few moments to slip by. “Forget it. Beats that loony bin you shoved me into.”

The light improved and the idle chitchat stopped as a bald man materialized before them.

“Forgive me if I startled you, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Doctor Frober. I trust you have acquainted yourself with the file for which you paid so dearly. We appreciate your assistance with the dilemma facing us; you will be more than handsomely compensated for your trouble.”

Sam gave the man a look of disbelief. “Doctor Frober, I’m not accustomed to acting as a middleman for espionage. The Interpol Division is cooperating in an ongoing effort to retrieve our people already involved in this uh . . .” He paused, not knowing exactly how to describe their involvement. “I manage to maintain my position on the food chain quite adequately,” Sam said. “My intent is to get our people home safely.”

Frober gave an apologetic bow of the head. “We must do what we must do, Mr. Didkin.”

“That’s Ridkin, with an ‘R.’”

He made an apologetic nod. “Of course it is.”

Hunter: “So brief us, Doctor.”

“Please take a seat.” He pointed at two sofas. A fresh pot of coffee sat on a tray. Coffee mugs, cream and sugar sat neatly by the carafe.

“We are aware that our directors, those up top in our main laboratory, are preparing to send uh, well he is sometimes referred to as the Anti-Christ, they are about to send him back to eliminate the rogue operative you have been made aware of, the man known as Dominic Moreau.” He nodded at the coffee with a question on his face. “Libra cannot allow Moreau any possibility of returning with three ampoules containing an experimental virus.”

As Frober spoke, he poured three mugs of coffee. Sam added sugar and crème to his cup, took a slow sip, rubbed his scruffy beard growth refraining from further questioning. He glanced at Hunter who had his arms folded in defensive body language, leaving his coffee untouched.

“Mr. Ridkin, I must admit I was surprised at how easily your American Interpol Division accepted Danzig’s sell. The few of us who operate as a vigilante fringe actually considered interceding, but the speed at which you involved your people was to say in the least, rather surprising.”

“So uh, my guys are being used? The whole story about retrieving Moreau and Campion was...”

“Not really. Your people were definitely sent to retrieve them. Beckman and his physicists up top underestimated Moreau. Dominic outsmarted them. His plan stumbled when Doctor Beckman intentionally provided Campion and Dom with faulty conversion discs preventing either man from returning to the coordinates from which they had departed.”

Hunter: “You mean to say they ain’t comin’ home?”

“Correct. They cannot. They are limited to a restricted radius. Disc malfunction is a problem we believed our physicists had solved. In early development we had issues with misalignment of organs and arterial bleeding. In an effort to create the worse possible scenario, we transported test animals, rabbits, and mice. We fitted them with faulty return discs. The result indicated that movement within certain coordinates was acceptable.”

Sam asked, “And if you sent them to coordinates outside of that?”

They stared at Frober who smiled and shook his head. “We pushed the envelope, as you say. Reentry utilizing a malfunctioning disc results in a most painful death, far preferable to surviving with misaligned tissues and mismatched organs. It is similar to a facsimile with sentences scrambled about the page – it is a most horrible thing to witness.”

“How sure are you the disc problem has been resolved?” Sam asked, avoiding Hunter’s tight-lipped stare.

“There are four Libra associates above us,” and Frober pointed at the ceiling. “Three of them . . . Beckman, Danzig and Bosch . . . made quite certain that once Campion and Moreau served their purpose – the spreading of the pandemic – neither man would return to speak of it. Their discs are most certainly faulty.”

“What about our guys?” Hunter asked impatiently. “Are their discs faulty?”

“I suspect they are restrictive,” Frober replied avoiding eye contact.

“Restrictive? How far have the other two guys traveled with their faulty discs?” Sam asked.

“We estimate they have a few hundred miles radius from Maupertuis. We picked up a brief two-minute transmission from Venice, evidence of their limited movement. The coordinates for Venice are forty-eight degrees fifty-seven feet north. Moreau is a mouse in a maze, he can move to the west coast of Portugal or south to Algeria. Neither of which serve his purpose.”

“And you perceive his purpose as being what exactly?” Sam asked.

“Our concern is Neuberg. Our former associates in the main control room have lost touch with reality. They are preparing Günter Neuberg to intercept Moreau and Campion.”

“And bring all of the guys back, right?” Hunter asked.

“Bring them back?” Frober pouted his lips and blew out long and hard. “You must be jesting?”

“You mean jokin’ and no, I’m not f*ckin’ jokin’. Why’s this Neuberg character goin’ back if it isn’t to get our guys out?”

“Günter Neuberg has a sole purpose, to terminate Moreau and Campion.”

Hunter physically rallied himself and snapped out an objecting hand. “And he’s gonna take out Blake and our guys – take out Bellinger?”

“I am afraid I have some unfortunate news,” Frober said looking befuddled. “It appears they too are in a most unfavorable situation regarding their ability to return.”

Frober shook his head and raised both hands in a consolatory gesture, paused for a few seconds, visibly mustered some self-control and flopped into the nearest chair. He let out a Shakespearean like sigh as he mulled over his words.

“Mr. Ridkin, it is a master plan. Just like all business, a plan that has been years in the making. And as they say, failing to plan is planning to fail.”

“Clear that up a little,” Sam said. “How far does their plan go?”

Frober appeared to be lost in thought. He hung his head and patted both knees several times. Sam studied him during his silence, and when he eventually spoke, Frober’s voice took on an ominous tone. “Libra is stealth in their scheming. They set about reducing the population, which of course freed up vast areas of land and cities otherwise overpopulated.”

“Okay, I’m up on how they did that, and then . . .”

He tapered off.

Frober shrugged. “And then Libra will put plan B into effect.” He fell silent for a long few moments after which his eyes lifted to meet Sam’s. “They will destroy the competition.”

“CERNA?” Hunter asked.

“CERNA is a mere bauble with whom Libra spars about the ring – entertainment as such. Libra has - how do you say it in your country, oh yes, Libra has their number.”

Hunter studied Frober carefully. After a protracted silence he shrugged and asked, “So what’s plan B, who’s the competition?”

Frober groaned at the question as he filled his coffee cup. He switched to a look of contentment that bordered on gloating. Being a man who reveled in control, he savored the anticipation on the faces of the two guests.

“I know this probably does not make a great deal of sense to you. It is not a matter of who the competition is – it is a matter of what the competition is. Libra will implement plutonium contamination that will render all of the fresh water on the planet undrinkable.”

Silence.

Sam and Hunter stared and waited for Frober to continue. He didn’t elaborate. He sat and sipped, then slowly lifted his eyes above the rim of the mug and savored the anxiety.

“Let me get this straight,” Sam groaned. “Your friends upstairs, they’re gonna kill off the excess people and then kill off the water supply?”

Frober flicked a glance at Sam and replied with a benign expression. “Primitively put – but a reasonable hypothesis.”

Sam snapped angrily, “I thought I put it exactly the way it is.”

“We are against what the physicists above are scheming.” Frober said. “They have lost direction. Libra originally had good intent. We set about safeguarding the planet from dwindling resources, and yes – we were self-appointed sheriffs in our efforts to control over population.”

Hunter closed his eyes and rubbed his palms into his eye sockets. “What a f*ckin’ nightmare, it’s a doomsday epic waitin’ for some Hollywood studio to pick up; not even Crichton would have come up with this creative plan.”

“Crichton?”

Hunter looked from Frober to Sam who met his eyes calmly, then flicked his frustrating stare back to Schroeder. “I see you’re too busy f*ckin’ with the planet’s destiny to read a good book or two.”

“Leave it be, Gard,” Sam whispered beneath his breath.

He considered his next words for several drawn out seconds. “So that’s plan A and plan B. Tell me what in God’s name is plan C?”

“Allow me to explain the workings a little more. We have four hundred and thirty-seven commercial nuclear power plants throughout the world. One hundred and five are in your United States. The quantity of nuclear that is created is gargantuan.” Frober shook his head as if to make a point of the size of the supplies. “Nations cannot just flush this material away. They cannot bury it and hope it dissipates into the soil. All they can do is store it. Your country is responsible for creating in excess of seventy thousand nuclear weapons in preparation for war with the Soviet Union, North Korea, Beijing, and the Middle East

– with whomever. The Alliance for Nuclear Accountability has reported the United States has created nuclear residues sufficient enough in number to cover a football arena to a depth of four miles beneath the surface of the playing field.”

“So how’d that go unnoticed?”

“Simple – the cloak and dagger antics of the United States and Soviet Union swept it under the carpet.” He made a sweeping motion and nodded with a grin. “They hid it in the secrecy of their Cold War. The dangers we are now aware of were of little interest back then, there were few who paid them any credence. The mess now faced by nations worldwide is monumental to say the least.”

The room became silent, and Hunter’s face scowled as he fought off terrifying thoughts. He made a questioning gesture. “Isn’t there a landfill region where the stuff’s buried, someplace in the States?”

“The Waste Isolation Pilot Plant is the most prominent in your nation, but it does not solve America’s problem. The United States established an underground facility in a salt bed, half-mile beneath the ground near Carlsbad in New Mexico. Your Environmental Protection Agency approved the site for permanent disposal of radioactive material back in 1998. They dumped the first loads ten years back, a further forty thousand truckloads of radioactive cargo will be shipped there over the next thirty years,”

“I thought Libra was into parallel universes, all of that faxin’ people shit?”

Frober grinned. “Agent Hunter, do not assume the work of Libra is limited to particle transference and population imbalance. Our mandate has a wide parameter. Solving the nuclear waste issue has been on Libra’s agenda for some time. Particle transference is in embryo stage. Population figures involve simple adjustments of past incidents. How our planet disposes of accumulated nuclear waste in a safe manner is part and parcel of our particle transference work. It is different in so much as it shapes the future rather than erases the past. We are looking into the largest trash disposer conceivable. Not only has nuclear waste been created by nuclear weapon detonation but also from commercial nuclear power. If we could find a way to relocate waste back to a time that would make the plutonium’s affective life insignificant, say one hundred thousand years before man’s arrival, well then, we would make the problem of storage a non-issue.

“Nuclear waste contamination has similar effects as radioactive fallout from a nuclear explosion: the waste causes increases in the occurrence of cancers as well as infertility and birth defects. Storing of radioactive material as was done in the 50s when the accumulated waste was disposed of in lakes and unlined pits, well, that is no more than another form of fallout. How to handle our nuclear substances safely challenges the best scientists in the world. The Russian’s have exacerbated the dangers of nuclear waste storage. There are no means by which to permanently and safely dispose of such matter. They directly injected enormous quantities of high level waste into the ground.”

They listened to Frober in amazement. He paused, studied their expressions as his stare cut into them like a razor.

“They started from point A and went in the wrong direction. What we are doing at Libra is going back to A and heading in the right direction – in the manner we sent Moreau and Campion back – so that we are able to manipulate alternatives.”

“And that would be?” Sam inquired.

Frober exhaled loudly. “That would be a population explosion.”

Frober set about delivering the message in a more simplified fashion, having felt he’d adequately presented his point – he was forced into maintaining a level of tolerance. He spoke to Sam in a condescending tone. “Plutonium has a half-life of twenty-four thousand years, but the world’s physicists have no idea what medium will best contain it, what soil or rock will best stop its dissipation. We have rock, clay, sand, soil, even salt. We just do not know. There is in excess of two hundred million cubic yards of nuclear residues of which only two hundred and fifty thousand cubic yards are destined for the underground disposal site in New Mexico. The remainder of over one hundred and fifty million cubic yards will remain at sites in twenty-eight states in the U.S.A.”

Sam looked at him incredulously. “So where’s this all going? Where are your guys,” and he stabbed a finger at the ceiling, his voice becoming more aggravated, “and how are those f*ckers upstairs involved?”

“Libra has sent its man, Neuberg, back to eliminate their rogue operatives. Moreau cannot be allowed to reenter with the Lucifer virus. Günter Neuberg is carrying an activation device.”

“An activation device,” Sam said pensively, “to activate what?”

“Plutonium.”

“In 1356?”

“You are not following what I am explaining, Mr. Ridkin.” Frober inhaled impatiently, and held the breath for six long seconds allowing frustration to show as he exhaled.

“Try me,” Hunter growled. “What the f*ck are you gettin’ at? There ain’t no nuclear waste back in...” He paused, gave Sam a confused expression.

Sam put on a contrived smile. “But you’ve got yourselves the next twenty-four thousand years to find what works best . . . right?”

Frober nodded, “Voila! Clay appears to be the most likely medium. The Belgians and French have tested clay and America has looked at igneous and hard rock as possible repositories for the waste. The physicists are unsure if underground storage will be successful. Germany has two dump sites, one in the former East Germany, the other in former West Germany. A salt bed underground facility in Gorleben was closed in 1998 when water was found to be leaking into the site at a rate of over four thousand five hundred gallons daily.”

“So – how about allied nations?” Sam asked shrugging. “You know – the U.K. for instance.”

“The United Kingdom halted construction of their underground storage site at Sellafield. All construction of underground facilities within Germany and the United Kingdom has been halted.” Frober stalled for a breather. He pressed a desk button and an overweight receptionist entered through a sliding door. “Getränke und Kekse,” Frober said.

Three minutes later the woman returned with a carafe of fresh coffee and a selection of cookies. Frober nodded at the pastries, “Please gentlemen, be my guests. Mr. Ridkin, as far as those who predict the outcome are concerned, it is going to become unstable in the near term, as they say - for some inexplicable reason.”

“So then - Libra plans to provide that inexplicable reason?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” Frober replied. “The physicists upstairs are planning a catastrophe that will destabilize and trigger leakage into the world’s water supply lines. World leaders claim the natural movement of the ancient salt bed will isolate lethal material, but Bosch, Danzig and Schroeder plan to prove them wrong. These misguided ‘specialists’ believe that out of sight is uh - out of mind. They consider they can excavate an area, deposit waste into the hole and salt will eventually creep in and encapsulates the waste. The waste will become one with the rock.”

Sam leaned in closer to Frober. “I thought the salt’s supposed to be enough to contain the radioactive material for thousands of years?”

“The ceilings of the dump holes are designed to collapse soon after the New Mexico sight is sealed. The surrounding geological salt beds will, according to the designers and their advisers, adequately contain the nuclear waste.”

“What do the crazies upstairs have in mind?” Sam asked as he tried to nail Frober to an exact response. “What are their plans for this guy, Neuberg, what’s he doing with the device?”

“The water system in the New Mexico dump site runs directly into the Pecos, which itself runs onto the Rio Grande River,” Frober said. “Libra plans to contaminate the Yangtze, the Rhine, the Colorado and every other major waterway. These rivers would not become contaminated for more than a hundred years allowing natural evolution to take its snail pace route. Libra plans to reduce that one hundred year contamination time to less than one year. There is already water seeping into the facility. Physicists claim there is an aquifer within the facility. This is a total fabrication, a lie. If there was an aquifer, the salt would not be there. Multiply this by the thousands of plutonium dump-sites worldwide and, well, I am sure you get the picture. Our friends upstairs, Beckman and Bosch, they are determined to implement their plan.”

“They’re crazy! It’s suicidal!” Sam snapped. “How in the name of sweet Jesus do they safeguard their own people from this disaster? I mean to say - everything will be affected, right?”

“Absolutely - and there you have plan C. Libra plans to rid our planet of all military, all aggression, oh, and unfortunately they cannot avoid collateral damage

- the population at large and all of man’s drinking water that comes from run off, established catchments, mountain springs. Libra will start with a clean slate, with a Garden of Eden.” Frober took a long few seconds to study the disbelieving faces.

Eventually Hunter groaned, “A Garden of Eden, with Beckman playin’ God – or will Bosch be holdin’ out the apple?”

Frober chuckled, “They will each play God, Agent Hunter. They see their roles as, hmm...” He paused and mulled over his choice of words, “as providing a rebirth opportunity for a new race of humans, a peaceful beginning

– one without political aspirations of leaders who are no more than national mobsters, brutalizing citizens for their own greedy ends.”

“How’d they plan to . . .”

Sam didn’t complete the question.

Frober turned away, strolled to a cabinet. “They will evacuate selected personnel together with their families, establish sanctuaries, safe havens. Libra will repopulate the planet to suit their dreams, create an Arian Race, you might say. There will be no more illness, no more nuclear crazed governments. To better phrase it, Libra will be a New World Order, an ideological utopia. They aspire to a Fourth Reich and will continue with their Bilderberg connection. They will create Hitler’s aspiration, an Arian Race. Libra will claim to be moving forward, to by-pass what would without their intervention be deemed inevitable.”

“Deemed inevitable? You’re saying annihilation is gonna happen unless Libra intervenes?”

“So their physicists say, Mr. Ridkin. In time – yes – it will happen.” He paused as though considering a better way to phrase his reply. “Yes, that is exactly what will occur. We have considered a number of scenarios but unfortunately we arrive at the same conclusion - that human intrusion in the manner Libra plans is the only solution. The alternative is a world devoid of food supply, a human race driven to cannibalism for its very survival.” He unrolled a map showing the North American continent, Europe, Australia, South America, Canada and China. “You see these hi-lighted areas? They represent billions of clean acres.”

“Clean acres?” Sam asked.

“Yes, catchment areas containing fresh water far afield from the plutonium leakage, sufficient amounts to create trillions of cubic feet of fresh drinking water once run through an aquifer. It will provide irrigation to grow food. Every cubic foot of previously worthless land will contain the most valuable commodity on a drought stricken planet - fresh water.”

“And these lands are the property of?” Sam asked.

“Libra is very clever. They bought up these wastelands for pennies on the dollar and quietly set a pipeline into each directly from the oceans of the world. The salt water will travel through the aquifer and voila, an underground storage of cool, clean drinking water. We presently pay around five dollars for a small bottle of drinking water. After Neuberg activates his devise, that figure could rival the price paid for the most expensive wine. We can live without the wine, but we have to have the water. As Benjamin Franklin said, ‘you won’t know the worth of water until the well is dry.’”

“So the device that Günter Neuberg has, it will activate the . . .”

Frober exhaled impatiently. “When Neuberg transfers back to our time, when Libra knows the three ampoules have been safely removed and Moreau terminated, they will have their people in place. Neuberg will activate every plutonium dump-site on our planet and Libra’s intrusion will release toxic chemicals. Radioactive components will contaminate the biosphere and water infiltration will mix with the plutonium creating plutonium hydride, an amazing substance that ignites spontaneously. The possibility of accidental penetration will more than detour investigations from facilities such as Libra in situations where containment facilities are located in areas rich in oil, gas, and potash. We are certain that any potential investigators would be far more concerned with their own survival than searching out the cause of their demise.

“Meanwhile pumps will bring in billions of gallons that will run through the aquifer and fill enormous underground caverns with an endless supply of uh - hmm, of course...” He paused, made light of his attempt to add humor, “an endless supply of bottles of Dasani.”

Sam and Hunter remained stoic. Frober quickly put his serious face back in place.

“When we worked harmoniously with the people upstairs, we mastered reverse osmosis, raised it to a level previously unimaginable. Successful commercialization occurring in the early 2003 period enabled us to force seawater through a membrane.”

Silence.

Sam gave a few long seconds for Frober to elaborate further. After too long a silence Sam said, “Allow me to play Devil’s advocate here. If for some reason Neuberg doesn’t destroy the ampoules – what’s the effective life of the Lucifer virus?”

“Lucifer will kill for two hours, three maximum. It will kill everything that breathes – all bird life, everything on the surface of the Earth.”

“And then?”

“And then it will die, Mr. Ridkin, then it will die.”

“Die?” Hunter queried. “You mean after what – after a few years?”

“No. Lucifer completely destroys itself just three hours after release.”

“Is there some way . . .” and Sam hesitated to better think out his question. “Is there some way to destroy the virus while it remains contained in sealed ampoules?”

“The virus can only be destroyed when the ampoules are subjected to extreme heat.”

“How extreme?” Hunter asked.

“Six thousand degrees . . . Celsius.”

“You’re saying it’s gonna take a nuclear explosion to kill this thing?” Sam asked.

Frober interlocked his fingers, stretched his palms toward Sam and replied in an acquiescing manner. “Nothing less, Mr. Ridkin – nothing less; our intent is to intercede in the return of Libra’s Anti-Christ. We have the ability to destroy Lucifer, to inhibit the triggering of plutonium contamination - to destroy Günter Franz Neuberg.”

*****

An hour and ten minutes after the commencement of the meeting, Frober attempted to explain the existence, or rather, the survival of their prototype Particle Transfer Chambers tucked away in a storage area deep beneath the rambling Zurich facility.

“In our earlier days,” he said in a deep level of intensity, “well, in those days we attempted particle transfer and struggled with photon interference.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam interjected with a raised palm. “I know I speak for Hunter and me when I say our science vocabulary is embarrassingly limited. What little we arrived with has been totally erased.” He gestured with a shrug. “What the hell is photon interference?”

“Among our Libra physicists there are those who several years back believed quantum theory indicated the existence of parallel universes.”

“And so you moved those early guys back in time, correct?”

“Well – no. The initial subjects were animals. Those dogs that ran by – they are the luckier ones.”

“Luckier?” Hunter said making a face.

“Yes. We experienced issues with the early model chambers.”

“Issues?” Hunter asked with a strained expression that hung like a death mask. “What kind of issues?”

“Our Particle Transfer Chambers are lined with multiple mirrors, Agent Hunter. The use of silvered mirrors has a tendency to bounce the photon off the mirrored surfaces. Unfortunately our people had several issues with photon detection. As this is far removed from the statistical basis of thermodynamics in classical physics, we suffered having to endure a lack of precise knowledge of initial conditions.”

“So correct me if I’m wrong, Doctor,” Sam said, “What you’re saying is that until recently, Libra was taking a shot in the dark?”

“We are dealing with quantum theory here, Mr. Ridkin; quantum theory has never been one hundred percent possible when it comes to predicting the absolute outcome of experiments. Predictability of an experiment’s success in quantum physics is a random factor. We have found a fifty percent success rate to be quite acceptable.””

Sam looked solemn. “Ah, you’ll have to excuse me; I was under the misunderstanding that precision is a fundamental part of what physicists do.”

Frober sniggered. “Probability was a fundamental part of what we strived for, but ‘precision’ – no. We have never claimed we could achieve precision. We are more than pleased with a fifty percentile success rate.”

Hunter winced. “Probability - that hardly makes me too thrilled about probability and my body. I mean to say, you’re plannin’ to safely ship me back to a parallel universe, right?” His flustered panic increased with each word. “What if your shot in the dark misses its target, what if I end up in the Coliseum - you know – fightin’ off a f*ckin’ lion?”

Frober enjoyed Hunter’s panic attack. “Steady, Agent Hunter. All possible outcomes that can take place in a parallel universe do in fact, take place. Technically, randomness is a subjective aspect of reality. Here at Libra, we have completed a great deal of advanced research with regard sub-atomic particle transfer. We have solved the issues of several inconsistencies in standard quantum theory. Have done away with non-locality, or entities at different locations.”

Frober chortled and made a pretend thrusting move as though imitating a gladiator wielding a sword. “Therefore Agent Hunter, your surprise arrival during the emulation of the Scipio Africanus defeat at the hands of the Barbarian horde will never eventuate. We are able to pinpoint your location to within a one mile radius of selected coordinates.”

“Oh good, now I’m a happy camper,” Hunter said sarcastically. “Just when I was gonna watch a rerun of Gladiator.”

Frober grinned. “No doubt, Agent Hunter – a favorite scene. Our computer ability has bounded forward. We have long mastered the quantum computer and are actively perfecting photon experimentation.”

Frober paused, stared for several seconds at Hunter as though analyzing his comprehension skills.

Hunter: “But these prototypes, are they as good as the equipment the guys upstairs are usin’?”

“These are the first chambers and are quite up to standard. Yes, you may rest assured these chambers are roadworthy.”

Sam analyzed the body language and when the staring became icy he let out a ponderous sigh. “Hunter’s skills lay in areas far removed from quantum theory. That, Doctor, is your job. If you’re as proficient at your craft as Hunter is at his, well then, we’ll have nothing to be concerned about.”

Frober nodded in agreement. “While our friends at CERNA needlessly studied more technical aspects of the theory, Libra reached the conclusion that quantum effects constantly divide the universe into multiple diverging copies.”

Sam stepped in. “Listen, my main concern here is this, when are you guys gonna bring my team back?”

Frober appeared dubious. He slouched in his chair. “I am the first to admit we are somewhat limited. There are only four of us working in this subterranean museum. We have the dogs, some comforts and adequate food supply, but the men above, Danzig, Bosch, Beckman, and of course our friend le Blanc, they have schemed to implement the plutonium water contamination plan for some time. In its initial stages, we objected strongly to the plan and that objection caused extreme trepidation.”

Hunter asked, “And you all got pink slips, right?”

“Pink slips?”

“Sacked! You dissenters were all terminated.”

Frober passed Hunter a wry grin and shook his head. “Terminated is an appropriate choice of words. We were to drive down to the resort. There was a skirmish between two of the dogs as we were about to leave the facility, one of the animals had fouled itself in a run of computer terminal wires requiring three of us to repair the damage. The car in which we were to travel met with an untimely accident on the snow covered mountain road. An avalanche drove it off a cliff. A group of recruits with the Avalanche training center on the Gurschenalpsay hurried to the site. They said the Mercedes disintegrated mid-air, not on impact. Investigators believe an explosion preempted the avalanche.”

Hunter was stunned at what he was hearing. He asked, “They found no remains?”

“Correct. Other than avalanche trainees and Swiss Army units, no one comes to this part of the valley, not this deep between the mountains.”

“Your two associates,” Sam asked as if afraid of the answer, “where are they?”

“With your imminent arrival they set about refurbishing the two original chambers for the transfer.”

“Two?” Sam said apprehensively. “I’m not going anyplace, so you just need one for Hunter.”

Hunter placed a little more distance between himself and Sam. “Oh, good,” he snorted. “Solid support, just what I need to hear.”

Frober quickly corrected the misunderstanding. “No, no, no, Mr. Ridkin. The other chamber is not for you.”

“Then for who?”

“For Bruno.”

“Bruno?

Frober looked about, placedthe tip of a pinky finger in each corner of his mouth and let out a sharp whistle. A minute or so later a large German Shepherd romped into the room and sidled up to Frober.

“Gentlemen, meet Herr Bruno.”

The dog raised its liquid eyes and gave a panting smile to its master.

Hunter tentatively slouched forward and stroked the dog’s head. “So what’s the deal with Bruno here?”

“Please do not misunderstand our intent. This entire area...” and he waved a slow hand about the room as he spoke. “This is considered a graveyard, considered dead space. Libra confines its focus on the upper level, on more advanced technology.”

Sam stared hard into Frober’s eyes for any clue as to what was festering in the German’s mind. He dismissed his doubt and shrugged, “These so called prototypes – are you feeling okay with them?”

“Initially we had issues, but Bruno will be in an adjoining chamber. We will set both coordinates for near simultaneous transfers. When Agent Hunter arrives at his destination, Bruno will have arrived a few seconds ahead of him.”

“Hey, hey, hey – back up there, Tonto. The dog goes

– then me? What if the dog goes and he disintegrates, do you still hit the blast off button for me? Does Bruno have his own disc?”

“If Bruno fails to transfer we have a three second window in which to abort your transference – a time lag – a kill switch.”

“And the dog’s disc, how does he activate it to get back here?”

“We are able to transport him back. His weight is a factor, yours however, well – it requires self-activation.”

Hunter made an aggghhh sound. “Wrong answer there, Fritz, ain’t what I wanna hear. What I wanna hear is ‘of course not, Agent Hunter.’”

Frober chortled, “Of course not, Agent Hunter.”

Hunter remained silent.

“Do you feel better now?” Frober asked. He repeated in a more serious tone, “Of course not,” and released a long sigh as he gave Sam a perfunctory glance. “I cannot overly impress the seriousness of the situation.”

Sam snorted, “I follow the nature of the situation, Doctor.”

“They are very clever men,” Frober groaned, “those people upstairs.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Very dangerous men – their philosophy is clear. They are not unlike politicians, attorneys and media – they believe that out of calamity comes opportunity and wealth.”

Sam thought about that for a half-minute. Before Frober could continue casting aspersion on those upstairs, Sam asked, “What do we need to know about this Neuberg guy?”

“Our ability to intercept Neuberg will destroy Libra’s ‘Hitleresque’ aspirations. We must alter his reentry coordinates, the angle of his return trajectory. If all goes well, we will direct him away from this universe. He will be dispatched into infinity, to some black hole where it will be our people who activate the device, not Bosch, not Schroeder. It will have no effect on our world. The waterways will remain safe. Our timing is crucial; we will have a very small window of opportunity.”

Sam became anxious, his palms were sweating and he rubbed them briskly on his sleeves. “A small window of opportunity – how’ll you override the men upstairs?”

“We three are the fathers of the Particle Transfer induction within Libra. Andre Ziegman, one of my two compatriots was head-hunted from CERNA. Andre is a genius and came at great cost. We are the brains behind what is now in the hands of those at the controls. They believe we are dead. The element of surprise serves us well. I should add that we do have one more card up our sleeve, a little help from one of our sympathizers - he remains extremely compassionate to our cause. He is above us; he is still in their trust.”

“You mean to say you’ve an associate upstairs - up in Libra?” Sam asked.

****

“I don’t like this,” Hunter said as sweat beaded on his face, “but I’m not gonna stay back and let Bell die. I’ve wasted too many years thinkin’ about her, ain’t gonna let her go like this, Blake too, ain’t gonna happen. Aw shit, Dallas too.”

Sam realized Hunter’s anxiety, realized he might not be able to convince his man to take the final steps.

Hunter repeated as if in a self-assuring exercise, “I’ve gotta do it. Just gotta do it.”

Sam considered the possibility that Hunter was clearly disposed to withdrawal. He speculated if Hunter would have considered leaving Blake and Dal to their demise had Bellinger not been involved.

Hunter gazed down at his hand. “Sam, I’m tremblin’, look at this.”

“Gard, aren’t you curious about what it’s like back there?”

“F*ck back there. I skipped a lot of history classes, Sam,” and he forced a grin.

It was a futile attempt to shift Hunter’s focus. Psychology was never Sam’s forte. After a minute had passed they moved off in the direction indicated by Frober, finally arriving at a dusty, dimly lit room that resembled a movie set for Knights of the Round Table.

Shivering and cold, Hunter moved to a dust covered burgundy upholstered chair. He looked at Sam and his voice sank. “Don’t know that I’m too kosher about the prototype shit.”

Sam hesitated and kept his eyes to the ground. He asked Frober, “What are the chances the prototype doesn’t get him back?”

“I am sorry. There are no guarantees, but I am confident all will go to plan.”

“But if it doesn’t . . .” Hunter said, “. . . I’d be stuck back in . . .”

“I am afraid so,” Frober said contemplatively. “You would remain in the year 1356.”

Hunter gazed at the period dress hanging on racks around the room. His eyes locked on the helm, a heavy pointed piece with the narrowest of slits restricting vision.

“Sam, you know I’m claustrophobic.”

Sam took the helm from its shelf and gave a pleading look to Frober. “Do you have anything less uh - less confining?”

Twenty minutes later Hunter stood erect, hardly able to move. His body was wet with sweat and suffocating in the long sleeved under garment. He felt restricted and had difficulty manipulating his arms. His shoulders sagged as both Frober and Ziegman placed the heavy chain-mail over his head and followed this by strapping on a breastplate. He received a final inspection from both Ziegman and Frober, and gave no acknowledgment to Sam Ridkin’s nodding smile.

Another man entered, pulled along by a large German Shepherd. The dog walked with a sense of purpose, giving Sam a sideways glance as it passed. The man smiled at Sam and gave Hunter an admiring half-nod. “Mon Dieu

- Sir Galahad,” he said in a sarcastic French accent.

Frober gestured warmly at the man. “Here we have our third musketeer.” He made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. “This is our d’Artagnan.”

The Frenchman made a saluting gesture, after which he lowered himself onto one knee and stroked the dog’s head. The shepherd’s collar had a malfunctioning fastener clip and the man struggled with joining it to the leash.

“Are you having a problem?” Frober asked as he and Ziegman continued adjusting Hunter’s body armor.

“Yes, it’s this collar. I’m going to replace it.”

“Be sure the transmitter is the most recent version,” Frober said as he caught the look of concern on Sam’s face. “A few of the collars ceased transmission,” he explained as he placed a hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder. “Use one of the red ones,” Frober said, “one of the RT6 units.”

The faulty collar was removed and replaced with a bright red nylon version, with the transmitter being clearly visible as a simulated tag, a small shiny disc. The Frenchman leaned back and admired the dog. “Bruno is my best boy,” he said. “The pick of the litter, he’s a very good boy.” He kissed the dog’s cheek and said in a high pitched voice, “Et le papa vous aime mon garçon”

Hunter said, “And you don’t mind kissin’ his ass goodbye as well, huh?”

D’Artagnan grinned, wiped his lips, and tapped on the collar. “We can bring him back, monsieur. We’ve done so two times before with Bruno.”

“However, unlike you, Bruno has no choice,” Frober added. “When we see you have transferred safely, we will recall him to the chamber. He does not need a disc, with his low weight ratio we are able to activate from right here. His return will be confirmation that all is working as it should. Obviously we would prefer to use the chambers in the main facility; however that is out of the question.” “Yeah,” Hunter groaned, “so is dyin’.”

“Agent Hunter, you will have your weapons. All we ask is that you locate and dispose of Neuberg. This is your prime objective. After he is eliminated you must secure his broadsword containing the device, find your friends, give each a replacement disc and we will affect their return to the chambers above. You will return simultaneously to the unit here below.”

“Doesn’t sound too difficult, wha’dya think, Chief?”

“Piece of cake, Gard. You’ll do it in a sleep walk.”

Sam tried to smile but the expression came across as a grimace. Hunter saw the look and sensed Sam was feeling bad about his chances. He placed the silver helm slowly over his head and lowered the visor. Ziegman swiveled the helm a little left, a little right, and aligned Hunter’s eyes with the narrow slit.

“I feel like a f*ckin’ Zippo,” Hunter groaned.

Frober placed a hand inside the breastplate and felt around Hunter’s waist.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Hunter moaned, unable to turn and eyeball Frober.

“Your two weapons, you must be able to remove a glove and reach your handguns. If Neuberg senses you have been sent to apprehend him, he will terminate you before you have time to react. Agent Hunter, time will not be on your side. Neuberg is well skilled in the ways of medieval warfare, moving about with a broadsword while wearing armor is his forte.”

The Frenchman with the dog said, “We should get you to your chamber.”

The shepherd pulled anxiously, followed by d’Artagnan, Frober and Ziegman. Sam stood in disbelief for a moment and then called to Frober, “I really have bad vibes about this.”

Hunter clanged his way toward the raised chamber and came to a stop as he tried looking through the narrow visor. He froze on the top step and groaned, “I can’t do this.”

Frober gave Sam a hard look and Sam nodded, disappointed, but not surprised.

“Way too claustrophobic,” Hunter called aloud. “I gotta take the f*ckin’ tin can off.”

Frober was unemotional. “That is fine; do not be concerned. I realize it is most uncomfortable.”

The two men eased the knight back from the chamber as Bruno lay comfortably in his confined space, looking content, looking at ease.

Sam whispered, “The dog looks really relaxed. What’s with that?” He flicked a thumb at Bruno. “He went into the chamber so willingly.”

Hunter, oblivious to the discussion, was in the process of removing his helm as Sam gave him an annoyed scowl. The three men sniggered as d’Artagnan explained with a half-smile. “The dog,” and he lowered his voice to avoid Hunter’s eavesdropping. “Bruno is in his house. That chamber is where he sleeps each evening.”

Five minutes later and feeling around a hundred pounds lighter, Hunter smiled and bounced about in an impromptu Irish jig. “You see,” he said as he bowed, “much better. Now I can move.”

He repeated some quick steps and for a few moments the reality of the task at hand slipped his mind. But all eyes were on Bruno stretched out in the comfortable confines of ‘his house.’

Hunter’s soft-shoe shuffle went ignored. He froze mid-step; his eyes moving to the dog then back to those around him. He shrugged and asked, “What’s with the f*ckin’ dog?”

Frober and Ziegler guided Hunter into position as he wriggled his body into the most comfortable position, uneasy as he lay in the chamber. Frober’s face, now illuminated by the green lights of the control panel, took on a sinister demeanor.

Hunter lay staring at the two men either side of the chamber, their faces holding contrived smiles, poor efforts at reassurance. In less than two minutes they’d secured the lid to the chamber as Hunter entertained pleasant thoughts in an effort to fight off claustrophobia.

Frober raised one finger and mouthed the words, one minute. He placed the tip of his index finger to his thumb-tip and made an okay gesture.

Hunter was on edge. He thought of how Bell had gone through a similar feeling of discomfort. The thought did little to diminish his fear. He felt confined, a caged animal. Like that. His eyes moved to his left, to the chamber alongside of him. He muttered, “f*ckin’ dog.”