Black Sun Reich Part 1

BLACK SUN REICH.

The Spear of Destiny.

A FAR RANGER NOVEL.

TREY GARRISON.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

No one told me the writing would be the easy part. The real work begins when you work with great people to make it better than it was, and better than you thought it could be. What makes the hard slog possible is having people who believe in you, even when you don't always believe in yourself. I have a lot of thanks to give.

First and foremost is my smokin' hot wife Cindy, who has made me a better man just for being in my life. Then there are my parents, who didn't strangle me in the crib or shoot me in my teens even though either would have been justified. Aaron and Amy suffered through the painful chapter-by-chapter first drafts, giving me encouragement when I needed it most and ideas when I was tapped out. The great mystery writer Harry Hunsicker likewise gave me invaluable insight, motivation and notes, as did Charles Martin at Literati Press and that master racontrepreneur/editor/P90X conqueror, Eric Celeste.

Standing forefront in making this book really happen is my agent, David Hale Smith, who saw past my flaws and believed there was something there worth taking a chance on. And then my editor . . . wow. Where this book is at its best is where my editor, Will Hinton, had the most influence. (I also thank David and Will for not taking out a restraining order against me when I was lobbying them with daily-sometimes hourly-calls, asking them to give my weird, genre-mashing first novel a read.) Finally, I really owe my late best friend, a Chihuahua named Harley, who sat on my lap for three-quarters of the time I wrote this book. He made sure I stayed at the keyboard even when I wanted to walk away.

This book is my humble attempt to capture the unabashed fun of the adventure stories, books, and movies that formed my worldview. There are Easter eggs and love notes throughout this work-more than I can remember now-nods to writers, fictional characters and scenes that inspired me, whether I was dashing after dragons with a wooden sword or jumping from our roof with a red towel around my neck, flying to save the day. They're the things that remind us that good is worth fighting for. I wanted to add a little bit to that body of stories for my daughter, Piper, who will fight the never-ending battle tomorrow.

Thank you all for being there. I mean that to both the people in my life and the stories and heroes that give us hope and feed our dreams. I hope I lived up to what you have given me.

PROLOGUE.

Vatican City.

April 16, 1922.

Arturo awoke alone in the acolytes' dormitory. The beds of the other boys were empty. The clock said it was twenty past three in the morning. They had done it to him again. He would be late and the brothers would punish him for his tardiness, but not the others for failing to rouse him and instead sneaking out while he slept. Arturo rushed to pull on his coa.r.s.e robes and his ceremonial vestments while cursing the other boys silently.

It wasn't fair but it's what he'd come to expect. Wherever they hailed from originally and no matter what their age, all of the boys were like him. They'd lost their families to the carnage of the Great War. They were the "Orphans of the Storm," as Brother Michael called them. His storm orphans. Brother Michael took a special interest in the boys, Arturo was told, because of the war. Arturo had seen a dagger tattoo with the letters SPQR on Brother Michael's arm when he was teaching them to swim and he asked about it, but Brother Michael would only say it was one of the many things he couldn't wash away.

Arturo never quite fit in with the other boys, and the others made sure he knew it, through petty cruelties like letting him sleep in.

The slap of his sandals on the cold cobblestones echoed in the darkness as he sprinted across the lesser piazza to the acolytes' entrance to Cathedral Basilica of St. Peter Apostle, that holiest of all the churches in Christendom on this, the holiest of days.

By now, he knew that the other storm orphans would be setting up the candles and laying out the communion trays and cups, polishing and pressing and shining every inch of the altar. Two levels below the cathedral and inside one of the locked, guarded vaults, Brother Michael and a cardinal would be overseeing the boys as they brought out special items from the reliquary for this special sunrise ma.s.s. That's where he should be, and he was glad neither of the Swiss guards was at the lower gate room when he snuck in. Brother Michael never dealt out corporal punishment, but he was rather inventive when it came to other kinds of punishments. Sometimes it was a thing as simple as holding two candlesticks out on both sides. Easy the first few minutes, excruciating thereafter.

Arturo tried to slip as quietly as possible into the reliquary chamber. He was almost there when he heard what sounded like crying. The air was colder than the usual sixty degrees in the underground chamber. Much colder. The hairs on his arms stood up. There was electricity in the air, but not the static electricity Brother Michael had demonstrated for them in school. It was a negative charge he'd felt one time before. It was a dark magic, and somehow here in the place it should least likely have any power. He moved silently behind a tapestry, edging his way to the gilded vault doorway. His insides suddenly felt as if they had been doused in iced water.

The crying and sobs grew louder and more numerous. The air smelled of copper and something more pungent. The dark charge in the air grew stronger. Arturo knew he wasn't just imagining it. Harsh, guttural voices barked out commands. Though he was fluent in his native Spanish, in French, and of course Latin, he did not speak the one he heard now. But he knew the sound of German all too well.

Through a seam in the tapestry he saw the other storm orphans lined up and on their knees, along with three brothers, the cardinal, and two of the Swiss guards. Three men in dark overcoats and hats stood over the kneeling men and boys. They held angry black pistols with long barrels . . .

It was the fourth man's silhouette that froze Arturo. He stood in stark contrast to the other three. He was tall, impossibly thin, and wore a long white military coat that gathered at a black collar and a white peaked cap. The prisoners whimpered and prayed softly. The man in white was saying something in a raspy, lisping voice. He turned to his right, and in profile Arturo could see that his face was encased in a mask that looked like wet black leather with reflective buglike eyes. The skin around the edges of the mask was sickly white and deeply scarred.

Arturo wanted to run but couldn't move his feet. He felt a warm trickle on his inner leg. The white-clad man hissed and cursed a question at Brother Michael. The young monk shook his head. The man in white touched a long, bony finger to the chin of one of the Swiss guards and whispered something in his ear. A frigid blast of air swirled through the room. For a moment the man in white had a red glow about his skin. Shadows danced in the chamber, though the electric lights didn't move or flicker. Even the men with pistols looked about nervously. Arturo could hear the man's voice faintly, but only in his mind, not with his ears. It sounded like broken gla.s.s.

At the man in white's signal, one of the men in dark overcoats nervously handed a knife to the Swiss guard to whom the man in white had whispered. The guard nodded slowly, stood, and climbed atop a stack of storage crates beside where they cl.u.s.tered. Knife still in hand, the guard reached up to a pulley system on a track that hung from the rafters. It was normally used to lift heavier, crated artifacts onto wheeled dollies.

With no expression on his face or life in his eyes, the Swiss guard slipped his arms through one of the guide rope loops, pushed off with his feet, and slid with feet dangling along the track until he hung above the kneeling prisoners. With the rope snugly under his arms, the guard took the knife and without hesitation plunged it into his stomach. He made no sound, and showing little emotion beyond determination, pulled the knife across the length of his belly. It sounded like wet canvas being ripped. His entrails poured out of his body onto the others below. And still he made no sound. Brother Michael leapt to his feet and charged one of the men with guns but was knocked back down with a blow to his head.

Arturo's own cry was covered by the screams of the prisoners. The boys and Brother Michael tried to move out from the mess of intestines and blood that poured from the disemboweled guard, only to be stopped by the gun-wielding men in overcoats.

The guard finally looked down, and as if for the first time seeing what he'd done, screamed. As an injured Brother Michael said a prayer below, the guard tried to stuff the dangling innards back inside his belly. It took another minute before death mercifully took him.

Arturo was beyond feeling now. It didn't seem real. It had to be a nightmare. He watched as Brother Michael rose and led the man in white to one of the vaults. They emerged a minute later. Brother Michael was shoved back down on his knees as the man in white admired the object they'd taken. From Arturo's vantage point it looked like a simple staff or candlestick. Not even gold.

The three guards with guns quietly filed out the main exit, leaving only the man in white and his kneeling prisoners-the boys, Brother Michael and the two other brothers, the cardinal, and the remaining Swiss guard.

With his scrawny, porcelain hands, the thin man in white gathered up half a dozen knives from a collection of cutlery and tossed them on the floor in front his kneeling prisoners. Then he removed his mask, and Arturo knew he was looking at the face of a demon. The man's head was simply a skull; alabaster skin pulled taut, as if not there at all, and a few wispy hairs atop it. Cold red eyes burned from within his deep sockets. Everywhere, there were symmetrical scars. His ears and nose were nubs.

The man in white was closer to Arturo now, and he could hear the cold man's voice in his head more clearly. Again there was the gust of chill air and the b.l.o.o.d.y glow. The man's mouth did not move but Arturo heard his voice in his head, spoken to the whimpering group. "The sin is inside you. It must be removed. It is inside you."

Arturo knew it was his own sin the man meant. His feet started to shuffle forward. He needed one of the knives. But then he caught himself. He felt for a moment that he'd lost control of his body.

The others, nearer to the man, did not awaken. The boys and the churchmen all rose and took a knife in hand. The man in white put his mask back on, turned his back to the group, and held up the object he'd been given toward one of the bare lightbulbs strung overhead. The kneeling prisoners began gathering up the knives.

Arturo could hear the man's own thoughts still as he stared at the relic. The man in white was admiring the object's craftsmanship even as he thought to himself that it was another in a line of forgeries for his master's collection. Still, as careful as if he considered it the object he'd truly been after, he wrapped the artifact in an oilcloth and placed it inside his satchel.

Arturo watched the others, knives now in hand, line up and one by one do exactly what the first Swiss guard had done to himself. They did so without a sound. Arturo held back his scream of anguish even as he cried out to G.o.d in his mind.

A white, bony hand pulled aside the tapestry. Arturo stared up at the man in white. A cold finger touched his cheek and his bowels emptied. He knew then that it was his own sin that had caused the gory tableau before him. But the man in white did not beckon him to remove the sin, as he had with the others. No, the man knew that just knowing he was the cause was punishment enough for the boy. The he turned and walked away.

Knowing all of this was his own fault was the last sane thought Arturo ever had.

MOVIETONE NEWS PRESENTS . . . THE WORLD ON PARADE . . .

Dateline the Texas Freehold: The G.o.ds of the East must have been smiling given the warm welcome and even warmer weather that greeted famed Hindu poet Sir Rabindranath when he sailed into the Texas port city of New Orleans aboard the airship Goa Winds. It was the poet's first visit to a North American nation since his celebrated book tour of the Republic of California in 1920. Welcome back, Sir Rabindranath, and mind those ladies on Bourbon Street.

Dateline Germany: Reports that the Third Reich is dedicating resources to cleaning up the poisoned wastelands on their eastern border and the "Dead Zone" in the Rhineland on their western border are apparently true, according to the BBC. Information from inside the Reich is hard to come by since the mustachioed strongman came to power in the 1922 revolution, but sources tell the BBC that some western powers are concerned the Huns may be using the cover of the Dead Zone to violate the terms of the 1918 armistice. Watch yourself, Adolf, or Germany will get another taste of the old one-two.

Dateline Confederate States: President Robert Mosby addressed Congress as part of his ongoing uphill battle to pa.s.s the nation's first Voting Rights Act. The bill, which would ensure voting rights for the Southern nation's colored citizens, doesn't address the inst.i.tution of legal segregation that remains in six of the CSA's eleven states. Opposition to the bill is strong, but Mosby is the grandson of the famed guerrilla fighter known as the Gray Ghost. Overcoming impossible odds is a family tradition.

Dateline Union States: Some 20,000 Union States veterans of the Great War marched with General Pershing in Boston to protest the Labor Party's planned tax on military pensions. Government benefits for the Yank doughboys who once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Imperial German Army against the Allied Powers of France, Britain, the CSA, and the Texas volunteers have become the latest economic battleground in the Northern nation's ongoing economic depression. President Joseph Kennedy, who knows how to appeal to the common man, is vowing to veto the new tax. To our neighbors to the north, we say hang in there.

CHAPTER ONE.

Santa Marta, Colombia.

May 1928.

The sun was just rising over the treetops lining the beach as the German doctor stepped out from the so-called VIP lounge at Santa Marta International Aerodrome onto the pa.s.senger tarmac. The tropical heat threatened to overwhelm him. Within moments the leather handles of the attache in his left hand and the suitcase in his right felt sticky. He set his suitcase down-but not the attache-then doffed his fedora and wiped his face with his pocket square.

His "tropical weight" gray wool suit felt anything but; sweat was streaming down his ribs from under his arms. Still, he did not remove his jacket. He did not loosen his tie. He did not allow himself to regret using his usual styling oil to properly comb his blond hair.

He checked his charter doc.u.ment again. The information on it hadn't changed in the last fifteen minutes.

FAR RANGER AIR, FLIGHT 002.

DEPARTS SANTA MARTA, COLOMBIA AT 8:45 A.M.

His watch said 9:57 A.M.

The German had observed the few other pa.s.sengers in the VIP lounge in the casual, local version of what pa.s.sed for business wear in this d.a.m.nably humid country. He'd gathered they were booked for the next flight after his to Havana. Compared to his own fastidious travel wear, the other pa.s.sengers wore rough-spun cotton tunics, loose pants, and sandals. It was as if they'd been doing farm ch.o.r.es and decided midway through the morning, "To h.e.l.l with this, I'd rather be in Cuba."

Still, compared to him, they seemed comfortable in this steam room of a country. The German doctor wasn't one for informality, but in rare moments like this he questioned his slavish adherence to protocol, proper fashion, and etiquette. Even after two months living in the interminable heat of the South American nations-seven weeks in Rio, one here in Colombia-he hadn't changed his ways.

No, he refused to go native, as the saying went. But for a moment he took in the gentle tropical scents of sweet hibiscus plants and salty ocean air. He listened to the rhythmic Vallenato music drifting from somewhere nearby. It was a music he'd grown to appreciate during his time in South America.

But he was resolved: he would show the fort.i.tude of his breeding and culture by treating the heat like any other irritant beneath his notice. He would show no weakness in front of these natives.

He would show them the quiet, poised dignity of a young, twenty-three-year-old Prussian n.o.ble. The German's shoulders crept up to his ears at what he heard next.

"I don't give a flying doughnut hump what that boy says, I bought a ticket for a flight that's supposed to be up and in the air by nine A.M., and that was an hour ago. And I don't want another d.a.m.n mo-jee-toe or what pa.s.ses for a Manhattan from youse. You people best get me in the air before I cause you a h.e.l.l of a lot of trouble!"

The German closed his ice-blue eyes and silently repeated his resolve of poise and dignity.

A rough slap on the back nearly knocked him over.

"You and me both, we need to find out what's the holdup up there," said the man, whose grating, hard-vowel accent and blunt manners marked him a citizen of the Union States. "You're on the flight to Austin, too, eh?"

The German regarded the Yank with the same look he might regard someone who pa.s.sed wind in an operating room. The man wore a wrinkled seersucker suit ill tailored for his round figure. The sweaty mess of hair combed across his balding dome was doing him no favors. The smell of his Cuban cigar combined with the heat made the German doctor want to vomit.

Then the fat man stuck out a fat paw.

"My name's Daniel Chamberlain," the Yank said. "From New York City. German, eh? You know I was in the army during the Great War, fighting alongside you Kaiser boys against the frogs, limeys, and the Con-feds. It's been rough for all of us after the war, but things sure are different nowadays over there since your Uncle Adolf took charge, eh? Things are looking up, eh? Sometimes all it takes is a good man with a strong hand."

The German cringed. He faced more than ten hours on a flight to Austin, Texas, with this man. Could he pretend not to speak English? No, the Northron had clearly overheard him speaking more than once to the aerodrome field master in English.

Etiquette drilled into the German for more than two decades took over. One didn't let the commoners-no matter how common-affect one's manners. The German clicked his heels and nodded his head.

"Dr. Kurt von Deitel," he said with a clipped and much affected accent. Perhaps he could pretend to barely speak English.

The doctor's mission to Austin-his first-required absolute discretion. So much was hanging in the balance, and undoubtedly the Gestapo was on the trail of the materials he carried. If not Deitel himself. Dealing with this American would complicate things. Drawing attention would be worse, though.

The American took Deitel's hand in his sweaty, cold, flabby mitt and shook it vigorously.

"Well, glad to meet you. Doctor, huh? Maybe on the flight you could look at this growth I have on my back. But that's if we ever get on our flight. Let's go find out what's going on," Chamberlain said, waving in the direction of the twin-engine transport on the tarmac with his cigar.

It had to be their flight, as it was the only plane on the ground aside from a few twin-wing crop dusters turned into tour flights. The small airship dock was currently unoccupied. Chamberlain was already off marching toward their belated charter.

Deitel pinched his thin hawklike nose between two fingers, sighed, and reluctantly followed.

On closer examination, the plane was nothing like what Deitel expected, given this remote and primitive airport. The plane was anything but primitive. Its wings and tail were swept back, and the rivets were countersunk flush to the body panel, which even Deitel knew would increase lift and reduce drag. The pod atop the fuselage housed the radio antenna in a likewise more aerodynamic manner than the older way in which antennae jutted out. The engines looked large and powerful. To Deitel's casual eye, it looked as advanced as the latest Fokker and Heinkel cargo planes. But at the same time its hull seemed battered in places and rough, the paint on its markings faded and chipped-almost deliberately so, he noted, given the well-maintained look of the prop works and the landing gear. The German's innate fastidiousness made him wonder why its owners would let exterior detailing appear in such a state, given the obvious care taken with the workings. Was it on purpose?

Emblazoned along the plane's nose was a smiling, winking cartoon head of a fox in a cowboy hat above the word Raposa-the Fox-as the German knew from his recent immersion in Portuguese. On the twin tail stabilizers it simply said in faded paint "Far Ranger Air."

A tall man in mechanic's coveralls was standing under one of the plane's engines, his arms and upper torso enveloped in the open service panel of the housing.

Chamberlain shouted at him as they approached, "Hey there, service man. What's a matter, eh? We've been sitting out here for a c.o.o.n's age waitin' for you to finish tinkering with that d.a.m.n propeller."

The mechanic slowly extricated himself from the underside of the engine, and Chamberlain's eyes went wide when he saw a black face turn to him with a slightly amused expression. Chamberlain stopped short.

Deitel noted this. What was the polite word here in the Americas? Negro? Perhaps octoroon, as the man's complexion was more a light mocha than deeply black? Chamberlain's Union States had more cla.s.sifications by race than the Fatherland, and more immigration restrictions. Some of the Third Reich's racial policies were actually based on the laws in the Union States. But here in South America, did they even care? Deitel had noticed racial categorization wasn't practiced at all in Brazil.

Whatever his origin, the mechanic stood well over six feet, with broad shoulders to match. He was clean-shaven of face and head. And Deitel saw that despite his bemused demeanor he made Chamberlain nervous.

"This is not a propeller," the black man said with a rich Carioca accent Deitel recognized from his time in Rio, but colored with a strong Englander influence. "This is one of two Rolls Royce RR-1950-90C eighteen-cylinder radial engines capable of producing 1,350 horsepower.

"That," the mechanic indicated, pointing to where the engine housing met the front of the wing, and as if explaining a choo-choo train to a kindergartener, "is the propeller. It goes round in circles. Makes the plane go," he said, miming the plane's wings with his hands.

It took a moment for Chamberlain to realize he'd been condescended to, and meanwhile Deitel was stifling an urge to grin.

"Now you listen here, boy. Go get the aeronaut pilot or chief mechanic-and tell him we want to have a talk," Chamberlain said, his face growing red.

"Yes. We're waiting for the pilot," the black man said, an unperturbed grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Can't fly without him."

Chamberlain huffed.

"Well, boy, why don't you get our bags on that plane of yours and get your d.a.m.n pilot out here. Let's go," he said. To Deitel, he whispered, "You have to know how to talk to these moulinyans."

The black man made no move. He just stared past both of them, shaking his head. Deitel followed his gaze, and the beep of a horn from the approaching car on tarmac caused the two would-be pa.s.sengers to jump. An open-top two-seater Fiat pulled up. Inside, a Colombian woman with curly blond hair and olive skin was at the wheel. A white man was in the seat beside her, snoring and sprawled out, his head lolled back.

The mechanic rolled his eyes and helped the semiconscious man out. He was wearing only a leather flight jacket, a rumpled straw cowboy hat, flier's sungla.s.ses, boxer shorts, and cowboy boots. He smelled of rum. A faded scar ran from his forehead down, skipping his eye and continuing on his right cheek, and there were the makings of a new bruise on his chin. The mechanic and the blond woman walked the drunk to the plane.

"Hey, Chuy," the man slurred, opening his bloodshot eyes. "This is . . . Isha . . . Isabel. Ish . . . Isabel Ripoll. She's from Barranquilla. We're gonna buy a bar together and live there." He leaned to kiss Isabel and then promptly pa.s.sed out again as the man he called Chuy put him over his shoulder.

Chuy grinned at the two pa.s.sengers.

"Gentlemen, may I present your pilot, Captain Sean 'Fox' Rucker."

Rucker raised his head. "Howdy."