Forty Feet Below

Copyright © 2010 by Johnny T. Rockenstire

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-8216-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-8218-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-8217-4 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010907696

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 05/20/2010

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Author’s Note

About the Author

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I would like to thank the staff at iUniverse for their tremendous help and assistance in transforming this book from a sloppy manuscript to the complete and professional novel before you now. I never could have imagined a company so dedicated to its customers and so willing to help. As a United States Marine, for most of the time I was writing this book, I was either in a training environment or deployed. The iUniverse staff made it possible for me to continue working on this project throughout all of that, enabling this book to come out when it did instead of several years later. A special thanks goes out to my editorial consultant, Kathi Wittkamper, who guided me through the initial publishing process which was an entirely new experience for me.

Secondly, I want to thank my entire family. When I first told you I was writing a book, you probably thought I was joking. Thanks for sticking it out with me. Mom, you were the first to read the book and give me feedback. A lot of what you said inspired me to make some needed changes and produce a top-quality product. Dad and my brothers, Jay and Jerry, you all kept me motivated to keep working on it and gave me more ideas than you think. To my sister Jill, your passionate devotion to archeology and ancient history is what got me into studying about those topics. Without the countless hours of us talking about random topics like history and the Crusades, I would never have been able to write this.

And finally, I want to thank all of my fellow Marines who, through your random inquiries and demands to read my book, even before it was done, kept me working on it until the job was finished and this book made it to the bookshelves. Gung Ho and Semper Fidelis.

This book is dedicated to all of the explorers, adventurers, and treasure hunters of the world, for it is by your bold and sometimes dangerous actions that the rest of the world can look upon treasures and read about the missing links in our history. Thank you.

The search for buried treasure and finding that missing link in history has been carrying on endlessly for thousands of years. The day there are no more treasure hunters will be the day history starts to disappear forever.

Unknown Author

Prologue

1317, off the coast of Nova Scotia, Canada

Freezing cold winds carried in the evening tide. The sun had already disappeared behind the trees on the western end of the island. As the evening set in on the tiny, cold, and desolate island, a number of nomadic-looking men entered into a small clearing from the woods. In their hands they carried large pieces of wood and logs from the forest. As they gathered up the wood, other men were throwing the last dirt into a small depression in the ground. What they had covered up would now fall into history, into legend.

The weary and exhausted bearded men had spent the better part of the last several years on this one project, this one single hole in the ground. They could not have done a finer job; no one else in the world could have done a finer job than these men. They had designed it to be perfect. Not good and not spectacular—perfect. They had to plan for everything and everyone that would come to try and uncover what was hidden. It was too great a risk to leave what they had discovered and what they knew in the open.

As the last of the mysterious men walked up out of their covered hole, the others were placing logs into a huge circular pile. A torch bearer then threw a flaming torch into the pile of logs setting them ablaze. The fire was soon burning high, almost as high as the very trees surrounding it. The bright orange flames shot up into a dark blue, star-filled sky. All the trees on the island were silhouetted in the scenic night. After quietly watching the fire for more than ten minutes, the men began grabbing the burlap sacks that lay at their feet. They silently opened them up and began pulling out white mantles. As they approached the huge fire with the robes in their hands, they turned them over in a silent ceremony, revealing a blood red, eight-point cross on each of the robes.

One by one, the men tossed their white robes into the fire and then stood back as the flames consumed every last thread of cloth. It was a somber moment to witness. Yet as they watched their identities burn away into history, there was not only grief in the hearts of those present. As they looked at one another, they could all tell there was something else: desperation. The large group of weary yet fierce-looking men were no longer the most feared fighting force in Europe. The strength that had carried them and their brothers through two centuries, to the ultimate glory, was gone. They had endured unknown horrors in escaping a betrayal that was surely the worst of all time. The land they had once called their home was now swarming with their enemies. Ten years ago, thousands of their brethren had been slaughtered in a single day, a day that was so treacherous, murderous, and treasonous that later it became known as a day of bad luck: Friday, October 13, 1307.

Once the fire started to die down, the large group of men looked to their leader, a tall, broad man with thick, black hair and a crude, long beard. He looked around for a moment before dropping to his knees. He moved his right hand from his forehead to his stomach, and then from his left shoulder to his right. Following their leader without hesitation, the rest of the men went down on their knees and repeated his actions. For what seemed to be eternity, they prayed. Some prayed for a safe trip back to the new homeland they had settled in. Others prayed that their identities would be kept a secret, and they would be able to live their lives once more. Some even prayed that one day they might have the strength to take up their fight again and finish what others long before them had started.

Their leader, however, did not pray for vengeance or a new life. He did not even pray for a safe voyage home, for he knew better than all the others that their mission was complete. From this moment on, their lives no longer held value. He prayed that whoever would eventually uncover what was left behind, whoever came to reveal the secrets of the past, would take great care in revealing a knowledge that had led to so many deaths over the past years.

Lightning flashed in the distance as thunder rolled in on the tiny island and its temporary inhabitants. In minutes, rain was pouring down as the storm hit with a violent energy in the black night. The men had already moved down to the coast, where they looked out as the silhouettes of their ships disappeared beneath the stormy, dark waves of the Atlantic. Only one single ship seemed to be holding out against the powerful waves and heavy wind.

With a single vessel left, the men on the beach, soaked and desperate, felt whatever hope they had for making it back to their homes flee their bodies. Only their leader stood tall with confidence, for against all the odds, against fate itself, he knew a secret. He knew that they, outnumbered and against the combined might of all the kings and monarchs, cardinals and bishops, had won. The secret was hidden and would remain hidden for as long as necessary. The massive bonfire died out, and the island disappeared into the black night … and into legend.

For the next seven centuries, explorers and treasure hunters alike would risk everything in vain, futile attempts to recover what was buried. For some, the island would come to symbolize their financial downfall. For others, it would become their final resting place, a watery tomb.

Chapter 1

The Parade

Sunday October 11, 2009

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Oregon Avenue and Broad Street, where the parade was supposed to end, was still partially flooded. Four hours after the last rain stopped falling, only some parts of the city of Philadelphia were finally beginning to dry up. Tiny puddles littered the streets, and there were a few flooded areas in the lower portions, but fortunately for the mayor and the rest of the city, the majority of the parade route was clear. The air was cold and damp although the wind had died down significantly since the previous night’s storm. The local police were busy setting up barricades on every side street from Washington Avenue to Oregon Avenue. Security was, as always, a major concern for public gatherings. The mayor wasn’t taking any chances since his city was scheduled to host the newly elected president of the United States of America in December.

As always on days like this, Agent Castle didn’t get much sleep. As he stepped outside of the mobile command center of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he realized he needed two things this morning: the threat assessment from the previous shift and a cup of coffee. Agent Castle grabbed a copy of the parade’s participants and VIP list. The list included several high-ranking church members and the governor’s son, an upcoming political figure who many believed to have a lot of potential. Castle had studied the list several times already, but one more time always seemed to help.

What are you looking for, James? The voice came very loud and annoying from a few feet behind him. Castle turned around to see his Department of Homeland Security liaison, Thomas Pitt, slowly strolling up with part of a bagel in one hand and a clipboard in the other. A man of completely average appearance, Pitt blended into the general public perfectly. But then again, no civilians could see his concealed government-issue sidearm.

Tom, if you don’t have a bagel for me, I’ll be looking for a new liaison.

C’mon, James, you know I can’t let you hold classified evidence. The look on Castle’s face forced Pitt to start chuckling. I’m sorry, James, he began. You see, this isn’t just my breakfast. I have to destroy sensitive information about the crime ten minutes ago.

What crime ten minutes ago? Castle asked as Pitt stuffed the last of it into his mouth. Just then, the police chief of the first district approached Thomas Pitt from behind. The large and rather round officer breathed hard as he came to a stop a few feet from the two agents.

Hey, if I find out which one of you feds took my breakfast, you can be sure I’ll have you kicked so far out of my city you’ll need a compass to find your way back to DC.

Pitt swallowed hard, the last of the bagel disappearing down his throat, before turning around. Well, sir, if we find the culprit, we’ll be sure to apprehend him and bring him in.

The police chief grunted and nodded stiffly, turned around, and waddled back to the trailer. He struggled to get through the door, and as it shut behind him, Castle got a glance of the heavy police chief reaching into a box and pulling out a cream-filled doughnut. Well at least he doesn’t need his bagel anymore, Castle said as he turned to Pitt. He was still staring back at the trailer, gazing. Pitt, you good? Pitt shook his head back and forth a few times.

Yeah, I think I’ll leave this vicinity now. I sure would hate for the chief to come out here and eat me once he smells the bagel in my stomach.

Castle laughed. All right, he said. It looks like it should be an uneventful parade. We’ve already swept through all the floats, blocked the streets, moved K9 teams into place, and we also have a sniper team about halfway down the route. Somebody would think the president himself was coming through today.

I thought he was? asked Pitt as he looked up at Castle, surprised. You mean to tell me I planned all this for a parade?

Before he could make another sarcastic remark, Castle grabbed Pitt’s clipboard and smacked him on his head. Shut up and get going. Remember, Tom, I still need to get the numbers and freqs of the other DHS heads on site. See you later, Tom.

As Pitt walked away, he turned back at the FBI agent. Once this parade is finished, you wanna get together for lunch?

Sure, as long as you get me those numbers. Pitt nodded and began walking off. Hey, Tom, Castle yelled. He threw the clipboard over to him. Don’t forget that. You may need it.

Thanks, and I’ll be stationing myself near the end of the parade route near Marconi Plaza, okay? See you later, James. Thomas Pitt turned a corner and vanished.

The parade started at a little before noon. It wasn’t as big as the parade in New York City, where Christopher Columbus was more of a celebrity than in any other city in the Western Hemisphere, with statues and traffic circles named in honor of the famous explorer. However, Philadelphia wanted to make it as colorful as possible for the citizens who came out into the cold to watch it. As usual with parades, the United States Armed Forces were represented, as well as several local universities and high school bands. The Knights of Columbus were out marching and waving their banner, along with the Christian faith flag and that of the United States of America.

Although there were perhaps a dozen floats, the main displays of the parade were three fairly large mock floats of Columbus’s ships. Each measuring between 40ft and 25ft in length and up to 15ft tall, the ships were built of real oak and pine wood and even featured authentic sails. The ships took on the traditional Columbus look with bright white sails featuring stylish red crosses in the center. On the ships, volunteers, dressed up in fifteenth-century costumes and carrying swords, flags, and tall crosses, waved to the crowds on the sidewalk. Several members of the Knights of Columbus were also on the ships in their uniforms and tall feathered hats, which looked more like they were props from a Broadway play than a charitable Christian order of knights. Meanwhile, aboard what was supposed to be the flagship Santa Maria, the governor’s son waved his arms as the people, and potential voters, cheered back in support.

Standing outside his unmarked government car watching the parade, Agent Castle was vigilantly scanning the crowds of bystanders looking for suspicious activity: a backpack without an owner, a group of men with trench coats, anyone with a turban on his head. With years of training and experience, he was sure he could positively identify any threats in his sector and quietly neutralize them without disturbing the peace.

Six stories above James Castle, lying low in an empty apartment window, two men quietly awaited a phone call. Of course, the phone call would only come if there was a problem and they had to abandon the operation. The go signal would be much more visible … and violent. They and their comrades had waited long enough, and a treason that lasted more than seven centuries was about to paid back. There would be no going back once they committed to their decision. It would be blood for blood. One of the men peered out of the window, viewing the parade with growing disgust. The three ship floats were now four blocks away. As he stepped back from the window, he glanced down at the huge white cloth rolled up just beneath the window. Across the street, two more men with a similar task were also waiting.

Thomas Pitt was at the second mobile command center at the end of the parade route. He was looking wearily through various anti-terrorism briefs and other Homeland Security paperwork. Finally, giving up, he set the papers down and left the trailer. Outside, he pulled out a Newport from the pack and put it in his mouth. As he lit the cigarette, a thought came across his mind. He had told himself the day before that he would quit. As he took the first drag, he realized he would have to quit again. A sudden feeling forced his head back up from the sidewalk where a man was rushing towards him holding a cell phone. For a split second, Pitt considered reaching for his pistol before seeing it was one of his own agents from DHS. He quickly tossed the cigarette on the ground as the man reached him.

Sir, just got this call from a local fireman. You’re going to want to hear this one. The DHS agent appeared to be sweating under his bomber jacket. Thomas quickly grabbed the phone, bringing it to his head.

This is Thomas Pitt, Homeland Security liaison for security. Who am I speaking with?

The man on the other end answered incredibly fast. This is Joe McConnor. I’m a fireman working out of the north district. I came down here with my sons and daughter to watch the parade.

Okay, sir, Pitt said. Why did you call us? Is there an emergency?

I would say there is, replied the fireman. I’m a former army engineer, and I know explosives. Well I was cutting through an alley to save time over on Bush Street when I noticed a large amount of material lying outside the dumpster. These materials can definitely be used to make plastic explosives, and in my opinion, they were.

Pitt noticed that the man’s voice seemed desperate and scared. Okay, Pitt said. We’ll send someone over to your location right away. Please don’t touch anything there just to be safe.

Okay, thank you, sir. The line went dead as the fireman hung up. Pitt turned to the other DHS agent next to him.

Why does this shit always happen?

Sounds like a drill to me, sir, the agent replied.

No, there’s no drills scheduled today. Believe me, I know. I’m the one who would have scheduled them.

Five minutes later, Thomas Pitt and the other agent were walking up the alley. A local cop was already on the scene, keeping any more curious civilians out of the way. Joe McConnor was also there, talking to an unknown individual with a notepad. As Pitt approached the evidence, he silently confirmed his worst fears. The fireman appeared to be dead on. Sticking out of several black trash bags were wires, detonators, blast cord, and a dozen different tools. There was also material that didn’t seem to belong there, like wood chips and broken sticks as well as tattered and torn pieces of clothing.

Agent Pitt pulled out a pair of latex gloves and, after putting them on, knelt down and gently rummaged through the trash. Small pieces of what appeared to be C4 explosives were left in the bottom of the bags. As he picked up a few pieces of the cloth, mostly white, he turned to the other agent. What do you make of that?

Could be cotton, sir, the agent replied. Cotton is an ingredient for improvised fertilizer bombs.

Like Oklahoma City? Pitt replied.

Yes, sir.

Pitt stood back up and looked around. As he pulled off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket, he approached some civilians crowding around the alley. Thomas then stepped over the police barricade and asked aloud if anyone lived in the surrounding apartment buildings.

A young teenage boy stepped forward. Yeah, me and my mom live in up on the third floor of that one, he said, pointing over Pitt’s left shoulder.

Tell me, when does the garbage get collected here? asked Pitt curiously.

The boy looked around for a second, trying to remember. It got collected Friday. It usually goes on Mondays, but with this whole holiday crap, you know, those city workers just got to take the day off. You know how it is, dawg.

Pitt shook his head and then turned back to the other agent. Three days, damn it. It could have been put here anytime from Friday after pickup until now. Damn. He looked at the street sign. Only two blocks away from the parade route. Pitt reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. After a quick speed dial, he reached James Castle.

What’s the matter, Tom, have to cancel lunch or something?

Pitt had a sudden flash of anger rush over him. Hey man, this ain’t a joke. I’ve got a real threat here. Garbage bags full of explosive-making materials in an alley two blocks from the parade route. It was reported to me by a local fireman. I’m here at the site now.

Hold on, Castle said. Is this training or is this real-world?

No, Pitt replied. This is not training and it’s not an exercise. This is a real-world threat, and we need to start implementing immediate actions to prevent this from going off, assuming the explosives are already in dangerous hands.

Castle slammed his fist on the hood of his car, causing a few nearby heads to briefly turn in his direction. Maybe I’m crazy, but there was no threats in any of the assessments we looked through, correct?

You’re right.

Then who the hell could this be? asked Castle. Random violence or domestic terrorism?

Look, I’m not sure right now. I’m calling it up to higher. Figure we might as well let them know now.

Okay, Pitt, I’ll call everybody on scene and we’ll start by sweeping all nearby vehicles and other potential hiding places along the route. We have to protect the governor’s son and everyone else out here.

As Castle closed the cell phone, he had a sudden flashback. He arched his head up with lightning speed to see a 767 crashing into a one-hundred and ten-story tower of steel. The fireball. The terrible smoke. Terror. Never again, he swore to himself. That’s why I joined the Bureau, to make sure that never happened again. He was retired special forces then. Now he was a protector of the civil public, a guardian of the republic.

James quickly shook himself out of his past and started issuing out orders using a hidden microphone in his coat. Other unmarked security personnel started moving out to begin sweeping their sectors for the new threat. It was then that James took a deep breath and looked up. Less than fifty meters down the road, the three Columbus ship floats were still rolling along.

Suddenly a bright flash caught his eye. Where did it come from? What was it, a scope from a rifle? That’s when it hit him. Signal mirror. As the seconds stretched out, he swung his head from building to building, scanning vigilantly for another mirror signal. As his mind canceled out background noises, he began hearing his own heartbeat in his head. That’s when he heard a little girl cry out. It was significantly louder than the other noises, and he turned his head in the direction of the scream. He focused his eyes to the street where the little girl was running across the road to her father. But Castle realized he wasn’t staring at the girl. He was looking just behind her … at the ships.

Just then, a thunderous roar smashed him to the ground. A huge, dark orange fireball erupted from behind the first two floats. The flames and smoke rose above the surrounding buildings. Castle quickly regained his thoughts as he focused on the smoldering remains of the third ship, completely decimated. Burning pieces of wood had been sent flying into the crowded streets. The float that was named Nina was gone, reduced to carnage. Hunks of debris littered the street. As Castle began to call into his microphone, he looked around for any possible suspects. He saw none, only the rushing of people in every direction as the crowds along the street began to flee or run to help others who fell during the explosion.

Finally convinced that the assailant had already fled, James rushed in towards the blast area. Suddenly, the street thundered again, throwing everyone to the ground once more. Another huge fireball erupted, this time from the second ship in line, and the Pinta was no more. As Castle began to get up, he looked down and saw blood smeared all over the street. He looked at his coat and saw it ripped and bloody. He glanced up to see bodies lying in the street. One was missing half its torso. Another was burning. As he looked around, he saw the little girl again. She was crying in the middle of the street, kneeling down besides a tipped-over metal trash can. She was almost next to the first ship in line, still intact.

As Castle struggled to get up, a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, ran out into the middle of the street, over to the little girl, to help her. Castle then thought about another person. He reached up to his sleeve microphone. Get the governor’s son off that ship, he shouted. As he got on one knee, several agents rushed up to the float.

At that moment, the world once again erupted into flames, smoke, and thunder. This time, the sound was almost deafening as this was certainly the closest of the three explosions. Castle was once again thrown down into blackness.

Two blocks away, Thomas Pitt and the other agent were already running as fast as their legs could take them. Pitt was pushing aside crowds of civilians frozen in place by the clouds of smoke rising up several streets away. There was no time for courtesy. Terrorism had just struck the heart of the United States again. Almost breathless, he turned another corner. Pitt could see smoke flowing around the street ahead of him. Clearly this was no small incident. He charged the last distance until finally seeing the flames of the first ship, the Santa Maria. He rushed towards the scene when suddenly his world went downward fast. He smashed his knees on the street, realizing he tripped over something. He turned his head back to see an arm. But there was nothing attached to it. He looked back at his hands. They were resting in a puddle of blood. He jumped up, looking around, horrified.

He turned to the other agent, who was in even more of a state of shock. The agent was frozen in place, shaking at the sheer level of destruction all around them. As he stared at his hand, he watched it shake uncontrollably.

Pitt turned from his partner to the scores of injured civilians all around. It was time to rescue as many people as possible before it became a recovery operation. However, as Pitt scanned around, he knew that there was going to be a large recovery operation no matter what. But his attention quickly focused on a building nearby. Through the smoke, he noticed something large and white fluttering high above the street. He strained his eyes to see a large white flag now hanging out of a window. In the center of the flag was a blood red eight-point cross. It looked like one of the sails on any one of the floats but the cross was slightly different. He stared across the street, where exactly opposite was another flag of similar appearance. He knew they hadn’t been there before but shrugged them off.

After an unknown time in blackness, James Castle finally regained his consciousness. The horrors of that dreadful Tuesday morning in September were playing over and over in his mind. It was a strange and horrible sort of déjà vu. This was like a nightmare that came back three times in the last few minutes. Sirens were closing in from all directions as countless emergency vehicles responded. Castle’s first thought was to look for the young man and the little girl beside the trash can. He stumbled around in the smoke and ruins. Everywhere he looked, there were burning pieces of wood, cloth, or human remains. Ghostly screams broke through the thick smoke as unknown civilians pleaded for help or mercy from God. Finally, Castle saw it.

James ran over to the trash can and then stepped back when he saw a sharp metal piece that had been blasted into the side of the can. James hesitated to look inside, fearing what bloody carnage might be there. But as he looked inside, he saw what he never imagined. The little girl was quietly sobbing, in one piece. Her knees were bloody and her face was a little cut up, but she was alive. He quickly helped her out of the can. He picked her up in his arms and carried her over to a fireman on the scene. As soon as he handed her off, Castle returned to the trash can to look for the body of the young man who had clearly saved the girl’s life. Castle hoped he was still alive but was not about to be optimistic. He knew how deadly the explosions had been.

As he searched around the area, he came across the body of one of his own Bureau agents. Michael? he shouted. Mike? He ran over and checked the agent’s pulse. Shit, he shouted as he felt nothing. His eyes then glanced down at the stomach. It had been shredded by shrapnel from the blast. As he got up, he saw another body. He rushed over to it, seeing that it was the young man. The man’s jeans were cut up and bloody. His dirty leather jacket was also stained with blood. As Castle turned the man over, he came to consciousness. Stay where you are, Castle ordered. How bad are you injured?

Where’s the girl? the man shouted back.

Castle leaned back. She’s fine. A few cuts and bruises, but she’s fine. You saved her life.

Thanks, the man said. Stuffing her inside that can was the only thing I could think of at the moment.

Well it was enough, Castle replied. As he stared at the face of the young man, he suddenly jerked his head back questioningly. Wait a minute, do I know you? What’s your name?

The man propped himself up on his elbows. Nick Baker. And yes, you probably remember me. We met in Arizona a few years ago. That was with the Superstition Mountain thing. You’re Agent Castle, right?

Castle smiled when he remembered the face. Damn, that’s right. You’re that treasure hunter. Well, Nick, I would ask you how you’re doing, but I have a good idea. For a second, he almost forgot the death and destruction all around him. Then it hit him again. Well I have to get back to work here.

What just happened? Nick asked as he sat up, wiping blood and dirt away from his face. Castle stood up slowly and looked around, wondering that himself. Emergency vehicles were already streaming into South Philadelphia in convoys. Local and federal law enforcement officers were sweeping through over a dozen city blocks, house by house, looking for the terrorists.

As the rescue effort kicked into full gear, Thomas Pitt resumed his role, coordinating the security response between eight separate police departments, state police, and at least two federal agencies. Hundreds of cops, including SWAT and FBI tactical teams