Battle Lines (The Survivalist Book 5) (29 page)

Constructed from stone blocks and stained cedar timbers, the lower level looked more like a mineshaft than a museum. The air directly beneath the hole was swirling with dust, and Mason could barely see three feet in front of him. He debated asking Leila to lower him the night vision monocular, but decided against it. Looking through a narrow field-of-view lens could be disorienting when visibility was poor. The flashlight would have to do.

Leila leaned over the hole.

“Are you okay down there?”

“We’re fine,” he said, untying the cord from Bowie and securing it around his own waist.

She pulled up the slack.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you. Ten minutes, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Mason stepped out of the dust and shined the flashlight beam in front of him. The hallway was clear except for a small cave-in to his left. Figuring that the limited visibility lent itself to up-close fighting, he shifted the M4 to hang across his back. The Supergrade could take care of whatever trouble he might find.

He turned to Bowie. “The only rule is that we don’t crawl through anything we can’t come back through. I don’t want to be trapped down here.”

Bowie said nothing as he led the way down the dark tunnel. After a short distance, the hallway ended at a large door. It stood eight feet tall and four feet wide, and looked like it could have been crafted from wood taken right off the HMS Victory. There was no doorknob, only an antique mortise lock. Mason leaned forward to test the door, and was surprised when his hand crunched into the wood paneling. He tapped around and found that the entire door had dry-rotted. He used the tip of his knife to check the thick cedar frame above it, worried that the whole doorway might collapse. Fortunately, the cedar remained solid.

Reluctant to impart too much energy to the door, he leaned in and gave it a soft bump with his shoulder. The door cracked inward but didn’t quite push free of the jamb. He bumped it again, and this time, the door swung inward.

The room inside was roughly square, measuring perhaps thirty feet on a side. Based on the thick layer of dust covering the floor, no one had stepped foot in the room for more than a century. Cracked wooden pews were lined up along the right wall, and individual chairs were scattered along the left. At the center of the room, a lectern had been positioned on a checkerboard of black and white tiles with bare flagpoles standing to either side. Ornate brass candleholders dotted the walls, but all were tarnished and covered with cobwebs. The only other way out of the room was a door on the opposite wall.

Bowie pushed his way in and began sniffing around the room. Mason followed, shining his flashlight on the pews. He wondered if the room might be some kind of museum exhibit, a reenactment of a famous courthouse, perhaps. Turning toward the lectern, he stepped onto the tile, and it immediately cracked under his weight. He squatted down and cleared spider webs from a symbol inlaid on the front of the wooden podium. It was an architect’s compass hanging over a builder’s square.

“The square and the compass,” he breathed.

Bowie turned his head and looked over at him.

“This is the symbol of the Freemasons,” he explained.

While never having been personally involved in the organization, it was Mason’s understanding that Freemasonry was a fraternity dating back hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years. Famous members had included Davey Crockett, John Wayne, and Winston Churchill, not to mention many of the nation’s Founding Fathers. While often glamorized as a secret society of the influential elite, its role in modern society had become more of a benevolent charity. It was an organization steeped in secrecy and ritual, not because of nefarious undertakings, but rather to reinforce a close-knit brotherhood that many thought dated all the way back to the Knights Templar.

Mason ran his fingers over the emblem one final time, marveling at the mystery surrounding it. Then he stood and studied the room once more. This was no museum set. This was a place where men had gathered, perhaps to discuss local happenings, perhaps just to share coffee with fellow Masons. He concluded that the museum must have originally been built for a different purpose. By its size and shape, it could easily have been a courthouse, which might explain why influential men had chosen to meet in secret in its basement. Why the lodge had ultimately been abandoned was anyone’s guess.

Bowie gave a low growl, and Mason turned, his hand moving to the Supergrade.

A rat the size of an armadillo skirted out from behind the pews. Bowie watched it warily, but made no effort to follow. A wise choice, thought Mason.

“This way,” he said, walking toward the second door. “We promised we’d hurry.”

As Mason neared the exit, he saw an ornamental sword hanging next to the door. He brushed off the cobwebs and carefully lifted it from a hook on the wall. The polished ivory handle was embossed with the same Masonic symbol as that on the podium. He slid the sword from its metal sheath and read the writing scrawled across the flat of the blade.

Do not draw me without justice. Do not sheathe me without honor.

Mason smiled. It was a motto that would have been equally at home on his holster.

He felt of the blade’s edge. It wasn’t particularly sharp, obviously designed for ceremony over combat. Still, the tip was pointed enough to do some damage. He pushed the sword back into its sheath and carefully returned it to the wall. Perhaps one day it would be the prize of an archaeologist digging through post-apocalyptic ruins. For now, he would leave it to hang as a symbol of the honorable intentions of the men who had once gathered in the room.

He turned to the door and gave the handle a firm tug. The lock pulled free of the jamb, and the door swung open. Beyond was a hallway stacked with wooden crates and decaying cardboard boxes. Most of the boxes contained thick stacks of faded documents. Further confirmation, he thought, that the place had indeed been a government building at one time.

He and Bowie navigated the hall until they came to another door, equally as old and rotting. As Mason prepared to give it a good bump, he heard a voice coming from the other side. Bowie heard it too and looked up for instructions. Mason held a finger to his lips, and they both leaned in a little closer to listen.

“But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.”

Whoever was inside was reciting scripture. In Mason’s experience, that in no way made him less dangerous. He drew his Supergrade and bumped the door with his shoulder. He hit it harder than he needed to, and the momentum sent him stumbling into the room. Bowie raced around him, growling as he went.

The scene inside was not at all what Mason had expected. The room was filled with stacks of antique office furniture, including tall wooden bookcases, desks flipped on top of one another, and piles of wooden chairs that were stacked in what looked like the makings of a bonfire. Cobwebs and black mold covered the furniture, and there was a distinctly musky odor to the room.

A portion of the floor above had collapsed, and a man lay trapped beneath a huge slab of concrete. The block had fallen across his legs, crushing him from the knees down. He held a Bible in both hands, as if it offered relief from what must be unimaginable pain. In that instant, Mason knew that he had found Lenny Bruce. Not only did he share facial features with the man in the broadcasting studio photo, he also had a confident air that was as distinctive to religious leaders as mud-covered boots were to pig farmers.

Bowie advanced, circling in from the right.

“Have you come to kill me?” Lenny said, his voice trembling.

Mason holstered his Supergrade.

“I haven’t come to kill anyone. I’m a US Marshal.”

“A marshal?”

“That’s right,” he said, approaching. “And you must be Lenny Bruce.”

“For a short while longer, I am.”

Mason knelt down to better assess the man’s situation. The slab of concrete measured six feet on a side and was nearly a foot thick. At four thousand pounds per cubic yard, it easily weighed a couple of tons. He turned and looked around for some kind of a pry bar.

“Don’t bother,” Lenny said, shaking his head. “Three men tried for hours and did little more than mash up what’s left of my legs.” He smiled a sad smile. “I’m afraid this is where I’ll stay.”

Bowie eased closer and sniffed the top of Lenny’s head.

“That’s a beautiful animal.” Lenny closed his eyes and began to recite scripture. “A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast: but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.”

Afraid that he might pass out, Mason touched his shoulder.

“Lenny, I need to ask you a few things.”

The man’s eyes fluttered open, and Mason offered a reassuring smile.

“I was told that you worked with General Hood to receive a shipment of rifles from Glynco. Is that true?”

Lenny seemed confused. “Who are you?”

“I told you. I’m a US Marshal. I was there when the mercenaries took the rifles from Glynco.”

A light of understanding shined in Lenny’s eyes.

“Your arrival isn’t an accident at all. God sent you here. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.”

“I came here to ask you some questions, and I fear that we don’t have much time.”

Lenny’s voice started to rise and he became animate.

“Can you believe what they’ve done? All this suffering and death! And for what?”

“To kill you.”

Tears formed in the corners of Lenny’s eyes.

“Yes, to kill me.”

The radio on Mason’s belt suddenly squawked. He adjusted the squelch, but there was no receivable transmission. Still, he thought, it meant that the soldiers were getting close. He reached around and felt the cord tied to his waist. It remained taut.

“Lenny, I need to know the truth about everything.”

The man clutched his Bible.

“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

“Lenny!” he barked. “Save that for the next world. Right now, it’s time to settle matters important to man.”

He sighed. “Why? What does it matter now? They’ve won.”

“You may have lost, but that doesn’t mean they’ve won.” Mason squeezed his shoulder. “When one man falls, another must pick up the sword.”

Lenny seemed to draw strength from the words. He took a deep breath.

“What do you want to know?”

“I need to know who was involved.”

“General Hood was my point of contact, but he was speaking for Lincoln Pike.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Look around you. Who do you think did this? Not a rogue general.”

“All right,” Mason said, nodding. “How did you contact General Hood?”

“We communicated through a numbers station. Only in this case, we used letters.”

Mason knew that numbers stations were shortwave broadcasts of seemingly random numbers. Many people believed that they were automated systems used to transmit coded information between spies and their agencies.

“What frequency?”

Lenny recited the frequency, and Mason repeated it a couple of times to commit it to memory.

“You’ll also need to know the code.”

“What code?”

“Have you ever heard of a Caesar cipher?”

“Sure. Letters are shifted. A becomes B—that sort of thing.”

“That’s right. In this case, however, General Hood used a passphrase to set a different shift for each letter in the message. The code would be impossible to break without it.”

“What’s the passphrase?”

“Always faithful.”

Mason clenched his teeth. Many people knew that the Marine Corps motto was
Semper Fidelis
. What they didn’t know was that the words were Latin for “always faithful.” By adopting their motto as a secret passphrase to conduct his subterfuge, General Hood was tarnishing everything the Corps stood for.

“How does the cipher work?”

“The first letter of the passphrase is A, which means no shift is done to the first letter of the message. The second letter is L, the twelfth letter in the alphabet. That means a shift of eleven places is done on the second letter of the message. And so on.”

“But there are only fourteen letters in the passphrase. What happens after the letters are all used?”

“It just rolls back around to the A. The whole thing is ingenious really.” He coughed, and a fine spray of blood covered his lips. “That’s all you really need to reach him.” Lenny pointed to the door behind him. “There’s an opening at the end of the hall. I made the others leave. You should go too, Marshal. Hood’s men will be coming soon, and I’m too much of a coward to have you kill me.”

It didn’t sit well with Mason to leave anyone to die at the hands of violent men, but standing against a team of highly trained military assassins was not a decision to be made lightly. He owed Lenny nothing. By his own admission, Lenny had conspired with evil men to overthrow the lawful president. That was treason. Still, to acquiesce to the whims of vicious men was not in his nature.

“I can’t save you, Lenny. You know that.”

“That’s not within any man’s power.”

“But I won’t let you die at the hands of Hood’s soldiers.”

“Don’t be foolish, Marshal. You’re only one man.”

“That’s true,” Mason said, standing up. “Fortunately, I know a bit about stopping the enemy.”

Chapter 20  

Samantha stood on the roof of the truck, staring out across the cornfield.

“Let me get this straight,” Tanner said, gently probing the bright red abrasion that ran across his chest. “You dragged me half a mile across a cornfield using a truck winch?”

She glanced down at him.

“Pretty clever, right?”

“And you did this why?”

“I already told you. They were going to kill you.”

Tanner rotated his shoulders. They were sore, as was his back and neck, but the rest of him felt okay except for being covered in a thick layer of dirt.