Playing God

By Matthew Brooks

Computer hacker Mark D'Auria breaks into the servers of Universal Software, the world's largest software company. He is just looking for programming flaws that he can exploit and sell. In the process, he accidentally stumbles across an attempt to hijack the unused processing power of every computer on the planet. Mark immediately recognizes that the company is creating a world-wide supercomputer.

Rogue elements high up in the US Government place him on Homeland Security's "Kill Or Capture List" because of what he has found. Mark is forced to go on the run and it takes all of his hacker skills just to stay alive. He desperately tries to uncover the purpose of the supercomputer. This leads him to the discovery that it is only a small part of a larger and much more deadly plan.

Hidden deep in the NSA's massive computer network is a top secret file called Lamplighter. The file details plans to ignite a third world war. It also contains the blueprint for an event so unthinkable that it defies belief. Armed conflict breaks out in the Strait of Taiwan as the United States and China come to blows. The clock is running down and Mark soon discovers that he is up against an elusive and very powerful sociopath known as Kane.

He is thrown together with Alex Steele, a female FBI agent on the cusp of going rogue and Antonio Felli, a former Italian Secret Service agent. Kane's influence seems to be found everywhere they turn. The three are unsure of whom they can trust as the entire world hovers on the brink of war.

They race against time to unravel a web of global intrigue that includes the Vatican, an assassinated pope, an ancient manuscript, a centuries old secret society and a deadly deep space probe poised for launch at Area 51.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Brooks
• Release date: Oct 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301891139

Matthew Brooks

Matthew Brooks is a writer, artist/sculptor, and musician as well as a computer security professional. As an artist/sculptor, he attained a modicum of fame with the publication of "A Glimpse Beyond the Veil, The Art of Matthew Brooks" in the late 1990's and garnered international attention when well known soccer star David Beckham recently chose one of his paintings to have tattooed on his side. He is the author of numerous articles on the subjects of computer hacking, religion and art, and more recently the full length novel: "Playing God". As a musician, he produced several albums in the late 1980's with moderate success. He lives in Hubbardston, MA with his wife and five children and is currently at work on his next novel, The Black Stone.

Book preview

Prologue:

Now Giants were upon the earth in those days. For after the sons of God went in to the daughters of men, and they brought forth children, these are the mighty men of old, the men of renown.

Genesis 6. 4

The unwieldy looking craft broke the top of yet another 90-foot wave then perched precariously at the peak before plummeting down into the trough. As the bow plunged under the water, Its blunt prow coupled with its natural buoyancy pushed back and caused the stern to slip out of the natural line of its descent, leaving the vessel slightly sideways to face the next great wall of seawater. The skeg worked its magic however, and the rushing water pouring off the next titanic wave pushed the Ark back to a perpendicular course in relation to the heaving sea. For all intents and purposes, the 500 foot long craft was hove to. Its forward progress sacrificed for directional stability in the enormous seas.

The pitch covered hull creaked and groaned under the intense pounding of the mammoth waves but proved to be more than their match. The vessel's construction was of a basic frame and plate structure. The frame was longitudinal and the transverse and diagonal members were fixed to each other, then the plate structure was attached to the frame. If it had been made of a sturdy hardwood, the design would have been more than adequate to meet the normal rigors of the sea, but this was anything but a normal sea. The massive keel, the large fixed rudder or skeg, and the frame members were made of a special wood whose properties mimicked petrification. Semi-flexible but as strong as stone, the material, whose name roughly translated is gopher wood, made the structure capable of withstanding the worst that nature could throw at it for an extended period of time.

In addition to its top deck, the Ark had three main decks 30 meters wide spaced 10 meters apart and made of teak like the pitch coated planking of the hull. Stairs fore and aft and at the center supplied access to the three decks. Hatches in the lowest deck provided access to the stores area below it. The animal pens occupied the front and rear of all three decks with a clear area in the center for working and staging feed. The heavier animals were housed on the lowest deck to provide ballast and the lightest ones were housed on the uppermost deck. Along the pitched top deck and running the length of the Ark was a ten meter wide superstructure that housed Noah and his family. It was vented to the outside air and had a pitched roof that hung down over the vents to prevent seawater from pouring in. A second wall just inside it kept the living area dry.

For forty days the clumsy looking Ark weathered the outrageous storms that were fueled by underground earthquakes, volcanoes and meteor strikes. The rain was relentless and the winds buffeted the vessel with unceasing regularity. The metal ships did not fare so well. Smaller craft either pitch poled or capsized, their propulsion systems useless in the face of the raging sea. The larger ships with their razor sharp prows augured into the troughs of the waves taking longer and longer to recover They too sank with either their backs broken or finally driven under by the increasing load of the water they had begun taking on. The great ships of the air fought valiantly in the teeth of the furious gale and eventually, fuel expended, they too plunged into the depths. Underwater craft were dashed against the rocks by titanic underwater currents or were buried in the debris from underwater volcanoes and meteor strikes. The great city built by Adam and his offspring, the one we know as Atlantis, fell victim to the violently crashing tectonic plates and was plunged into the depths. It's sister cities met similar fates or were buried under mountains of debris by the tremendous tsunamis generated by the earthquakes.

Eventually only the Ark remained, preserved and guided by the hand of God as Noah never tired of reminding his family. Ham, third son of Noah, groaned inwardly each time he had to endure this litany of how blessed they all were. He certainly didn't feel blessed. The pitching decks, the monotonous food. the endless chores. Every morning the animals that weren't hibernating had to be fed their measure of grain mixed with an herbal concoction of Valerian Root and several other sleep inducing leaves and roots. Then the excrement had to be put into barrels and hoisted to the top deck where it could be washed out to sea. The carnivores had their grain mixed with animal fat to make it more palatable but this meant that their waste had a much more pungent smell. Ham wrinkled his nose in disgust as he hoisted yet another barrel of waste up to the top. He cursed his father again for causing the deluge and bringing them to this. He was sure Noah had conspired with God to deprive him of the comfortable life he used to have.

On the fortieth day the cataclysm began to subside and the waves grew imperceptibly smaller with the passing hours. It would be many months before the waters, that covered even the highest mountains, would recede and many months after that before there would be enough dry land to allow them to leave the vessel. As the seas calmed though, the chores became easier and were accomplished in much less time. This left Ham with hours to kill. The time dragged and the inactivity was mind-numbing. There was nothing to do.

So Ham wrote a forbidden chronicle of the time that had passed. Details of the amazing technology that had been lost in the great deluge. A book that might someday allow it to be recreated. Exotic metallurgy, energy, propulsion, transportation, space travel, even weapons of war, everything that had made life what it was before the flood. It pleased him to be doing what his father had expressly forbidden, for Noah had explained that God was driven to destroy the world by not only the evil of men, but also because of the secrets imparted by the angels who had gone into the tents of the daughters of men and brought forth children. Secrets that drove technology to heights never dreamed of by Adam, secrets that men used to make war with the giants and enabled mankind to plunge to ever greater depths of evil. Therefore, said Noah All the vestiges of our mighty civilization must be erased along with any memory of it so that man can return to a humbler state and turn back to his creator.

The book occupied Ham for several months as he painstakingly drew complicated diagrams and equally complex explanations. When he had finished he wandered the ship, his agile mind achingly unchallenged. As he walked past his mother's room he felt himself stir. Here might be the entertainment he was seeking. Nine months later, his seed would produce a son, Canaan. To preserve Canaan's birthright, Ham would later castrate his father, Noah, as he slept in his tent so that he could not sire more children.

Ham trudged down the ramp. His face registered irritation at the tacky pitch pulling at the bottoms of his primitive sandals. The ark had long since come to rest on Mount Ararat and the waters had receded to expose a bare landscape. Gone, all gone, he thought morosely, as his head shifted imperceptibly side-to-side. His hands self-consciously pulled at the rough, coarsely woven robe he wore awkwardly like a rich man thrust into poverty. The waters had finally receded and at the base of the mountain verdant plains had started to transform the barrenness. The birds of the air had already been set free and preparations were underway to harbor the domestic animals and release the others into the wild.

As he meandered down the rocky slope carrying the load of sticky planks that his brothers, Shem and Japeth had pried off the hull of the ark, he reflected on the overwhelming amount of work that lay before him. The Ark would be dismantled until only the keel and frame remained. The lumber would be used to build shelter and fencing to hold sheep, goats, cows, fowl, and other useful creatures. The longitudinal sections would be cut with stone axes to make fenceposts and to frame a large dwelling for Noah and his family. All that would be left when they were finished was the great keel and skeg which were too thick to cut or be of any use. It would take ten years to fully complete the project and in that time his wife Ne'elatama'uk would bear him three more sons that he named Cush, Phut, and Mizraim.

The transition from bountiful luxury to primitive subsistence was already looming large in his sight. Like a man entering a prison to start a life sentence, there was a surreal quality to the harsh landscape that was arrayed before him. His remaining years would hold only the prospect of scratching a reluctant subsistence out of the bitter ground.

Ham! A voice called from further up the hill, Stop daydreaming and get up here!

He shook his head vehemently and headed back up the hill, a frown furrowing his brow. I'm a physicist with specialties in metallurgy, propulsion, materials synthesis, sub-atomic manipulation, and organic circuitry, he muttered, and now I'm relegated to assisting with animal husbandry!

He took a deep breath and tried to calm his rebellious spirit. He reminded himself that God had spared no one else but he, his father and brothers, and their families but he was unsure of the mercy of that gesture. He flexed his forearm but instead of marveling at the thick cable-like sinews that were borne of the heavy labor he had endured helping to build the Ark, he despised them as he had despised the physical exertion that had brought him the iron hard muscle, but no satisfaction. Just bruises and painful blisters to his hands and feet. The thick cords would serve him well during the unspeakable exile that was to come. Cut off from all he remembered at a mere 254 years, Ham knew he still had just about half his life left to live. Old enough to have heard the stories of Adam told by those who had known him, but young enough to be facing a 200 year future bereft of all he had known.

Some 60 years later, Ham took his sons, their wives, their sons and wives and a host of children and headed west across the Euphrates river and into the land we now know as Egypt. There he swore an oath that his offspring would raise a mighty empire and return to enslave the offspring of his brothers. To this end, Ham began to teach. To the young ones he taught the history of Atlantis, the giants, the great battles and the wonders that had been. He taught them rudimentary writing using picture symbols and interspersing them between the simpler characters of the complex Atlantean language. They used rude papyrus as paper and carbon black as ink. The older ones were a different matter. Ham was not a teacher and was out of his depth trying to impart his vast store of knowledge. He cursed his father again for forbidding all forms of writing to keep the secrets of the past buried with the past. He grew frustrated at the need to teach complex language skills and at his own inability to create and follow an organized lesson plan. He found himself trying to impart technological concepts before his students had grasped the nuances of language necessary to understand them. He spent his evenings recopying diagrams from his book in the hopes that their understanding would grow organically and they or their descendants would find them of use. He had long despaired of imparting enough knowledge for civilization to be rebuilt in his lifetime and instead hoped that it would rise again with succeeding generations.

His hopes would prove to be in vain however. Fifty years later when Ham, Canaan, their favorite concubines, and their retinue departed for Babylon, the more adept of his students applied their primitive understanding of his teachings to become a ruling class of high priests and god-like kings. They held his more esoteric writings over the heads of the people as secret knowledge that was perennial proof of their divine powers. Scribes labored furiously to make sense of the more elemental texts. With each small advance the power of the Pharaoh and the high priests grew. The empire grew as well and, in time, great monuments and giant statues would be raised in honor of the defied Atlanteans; both giants and men. Ham's tales would pass into legend and be carried wherever men settled, populating their religious beliefs and becoming such myths as the gods of Mount Olympus and the giants of Asgard.

In the end, Ham's dreams of recreating the civilization of Atlantis all came to nought. The only ambition that bore fruit was his oath that his offspring would enslave the offspring of his brothers. This would come to pass when the Egyptians enslaved the Israelites and scattered the other semitic races, killing and enslaving many and leaving the rest to wander aimlessly through the desert for hundreds of years.

Ham held onto the original book, the one that he had penned in secret on the Ark, until the day he died. On his deathbed, Ham told one of his sons that he repented of disobeying God and of ever writing it, and that he had hidden it where no one would ever find it again. Its hiding place remained undiscovered for nearly 2500 years until it was uncovered by Saint Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great. Helena subsequently donated it to the fledgling Vatican Library. With its bizarre text and many strange annotated drawings and diagrams, the book was the subject of much intense study over the centuries but steadfastly resisted all efforts to prize out its secrets.

The North Sea 1393

The Nijerk Hanse Kogge was making her best speed of about 5 knots through the blackness following the well charted trade route to London. The winds had remained fairly constant throughout the first twelve hours of her twenty hour crossing from the Low Countries to the Isle of Britain and her single 200 square meter sail was full. She was a sturdy craft of 21 meters long and 7 meters wide and was fitted with crenellated castles or raised decks fore and aft and several small cabins below them. Her hull was made of sturdy oak and it was caravel built on the bottom with a clinker built upper hull. In his small cabin below the aft castle, Sir John Alem'emed stood up from his bed restless and unable to sleep. His journey had begun three weeks ago at the palace of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, the Duke of Milan. The Duke and his cousin the Archbishop of Milan had taken advantage of the confusion surrounding the recently ended line of Avignon Popes and the disputed papacy of Urban VI to loot some of the treasures of the Vatican. These he used to greatly enrich the Visconti Library and the Visconti treasury. Amongst the ill gotten gains was the strange book that he was to sending back to Oxford for further examination and study by his friend, Dean Wycliffe, Sir John's mentor. The book was sealed in oilskins and Sir John had no idea what it contained, only that it was a bit of a curiosity and somewhat important. Escorted by two of the Duke's men, he had ridden hard for three days to the port city only to be held up there for two and a half weeks waiting for favorable winds. He stretched and the wrought iron hinges of his cabin door groaned as he opened it and was greeted by the warm night air.

He picked his way along the lower deck, stepping carefully over the sleeping forms of the crew, and climbed the rough hewn steps to the fore castle. He felt the breeze at his back as his eyes strained against the false dawn, hoping to see some sign of land. He knew it was foolishness as the passage still had many hours to go but nevertheless he willed the journey to be over and done. As he stood leaning on the front wall of the castle staring out into the darkness he reflected back to the time twenty years ago when he was still a young student at Oxford. The day his odyssey had begun:

He recalled vividly the memory of glancing up from his papers, books and scrolls to see a wraithlike figure pause in the doorway. The man had worn the long black robes and cap of a Dean of the University. He had wide set intelligent eyes and a long hooked nose set over a flowing white beard.

Why Aristotle? the man had said by way of announcing his presence as he had glided into the library.

Dean Wycliffe, John had stammered flustered and had then stood as was customary, sign of respect for the senior man. He had taken a second to compose himself and had then answered, I'm just taking advantage of the time to go over some of the more obscure texts that I haven't yet committed to memory. In your lectures you imply that Democritus, Plato, Augustine, and Grosseteste far outrank Aristotle and I feel that the apologetics of this doctrine require a thorough knowledge of all five philosophers.

Mmm, John Wycliffe had said approvingly, and placing a long boney index finger on his pursed lips had continued. Perhaps the only good reason for wasting time on Aristotle. Do you mind if I join you?

Of course not, sir, he had said deferentially.

Wycliffe had regarded the young man appraisingly. You are John Alem'emed, and then had held up his hand to forestall a reply and continued, You are the son of a Moorish father and an English mother and, if I'm not mistaken, somewhat of a prodigy. he had started to protest but Wycliffe had continued, You entered the college here at thirteen and have been with us for four years now, excelling in all your studies. You possess a nearly eidetic memory as well as a sharp intellect and a keen interest in a variety of disciplines. Yet you are also gifted physically and athletically, a trait that seems to need no training or practice. You are skilled in sport and contest of arms, a talent which has kept your older classmates from making a sport of you.

The Dean is too kind.

Nonsense, Wycliffe had said. Just reciting facts. Then he had peered at the young man intently and asked, And your religion?

John had flushed. My father taught me the Quran, he had answered, But my mother raised me to be a Christian.

Wycliffe had nodded as if he already knew this. You know of my views regarding the Papacy and the clergy?

Yes, sir. I know them well and I too share your beliefs.

The Dean had paused thoughtfully and then appearing to satisfy himself of something had pressed on. Whatever the outcome of the rest of our conversation, you must hold what I'm about to tell you in the strictest confidence. Can you do that?

John remembered being confused. Sir?

I would like to invite you to think about joining an ancient order of exceptional men who work behind the scenes to bring about an age of reason. If you choose to accept, I need to know that you are a man of honor and can keep what you will initiated into in the strictest confidence. Can you?

Still a little confused, he had nevertheless replied, You can trust my absolute discretion, sir. It would be an honor.

Good, good. Then he had stood and gone to the library door. I will be back to see you after your commencement and if you are still inclined to accept our invitation, I will tell you more.

In the ensuing months he was asked, through different intermediaries, to do several simple but important tasks and he presumed these were small tests of loyalty and trustworthiness. From them he got some sense of the order and how it operated and was anxious to know more.

After his commencement, he was taken to meet again with John Wycliffe. He had been seated at a long table and was then introduced to several other men he presumed were peers of Wycliffe. One of the men, who he had sensed was the leader, spoke and said, We understand from Dean Wycliffe here that you are keen to join the order.

Yes sir, John had replied. He remembered his mouth had gone dry as he had tried to think of something else to add, but could think of nothing.

Very well. As you may be aware, we are the Order of Prometheus, or the Knights of Prometheus whichever you prefer. Our order predates the Crusades and though it is structured on feudal lines, with pages, squires and knights, a high council of twelve, and a Sovereign Lord, we view the Church and the Monarchies as a barrier to a more enlightened age. The age towards which we are working. We recruit the best and the brightest, and all members swear absolute fealty to the council and to the Sovereign Lord. In return, pages can rise rapidly in their field of endeavor due to the influence of the higher members. Also in their turn they can also rise to become squires and knights themselves. We count among our knights several cardinals and bishops, members of the aristocracy, wealthy merchants, influential financiers, and university chairs. It is a true meritocracy all working to a common end. Do you follow? We don't place members in positions, rather we remove the obstacles to a member rising to the limits of his own merit. Where several men may be deserving candidates, we use our influence to make sure that it is our deserving candidate that is given the position. If a member has risen as far as he deserves, that is as far as he will rise. We aren't in the business of nepotism. At this the man had regarded him sternly.

Yes sir.

Then the man had softened. On the other hand, our work is subtle. We regard our goal as being generations away which underscores the importance of recruiting well for the next generation as well as that of bloodlines.

Bloodlines, sir? He had asked, mystified.

Yes bloodlines young Alem'emed, John Wycliffe had answered. Those that are in a position that allows them to sire children are also tasked with finding women of the highest caliber, both physical and mental, who will bear them multiple male children. The best of these, rather than the first borne, is groomed to inherit a position with us and the cycle continues. The young man nodded and Wycliffe continued, For you, the bloodline would be especially important. I see your offspring, should they be of the same stock and characteristics as yourself, as being future Sovereign Lords. You yourself may see your ambitions being less than well served by your Moorish ancestry despite our best efforts to remove the obstacles in your path. Seeing the young man was about to protest, he had held up his hand. Don't get me wrong, you will go far, but your children will go farther and their children even farther than that.

And he had gone far, he thought. Further than he ever could have purely on his own merit.

He was jerked from his reverie by a curse sounding from the aft castle. He looked around in the darkness. Had the wind shifted? No, there was still a stiff breeze coming from the stern and filling the sail. What then? A waxing gibbous moon broke from the cloud cover and cast a sparkle over the choppy waves. In the the half light he could make out the figure of the captain manning the helm. Somewhat alarmed, he descended the fore castle's stairs and picked his way aft back along the deck. Then he climbed a second set of stairs to the upper deck and joined the captain.

What's wrong? he asked.

There's a war galley back there that's been dogging us for the last couple of hours.

John stared out into the night, trying to see what the captain was talking about but could make out nothing in the blackness.

How can you tell? he asked. I can't see anything back there.

Listen. said the captain.

John strained but could hear nothing. He was about to speak when he finally detected a faint rhythmic splashing from far off. A feeling of dread swept over him. His mentor had warned him that this journey might be dangerous and though he had been lucky thus far, he wondered if his luck had just run out.

He turned back to the captain and asked, What is she?

She's either a pirate raider or she's French, which is nearly the same thing.

The Hanseatic League has no quarrel with the French. John protested.

We're obviously bound for Britain and the French do have a quarrel with them. That makes us fair game.

Can they catch us?

A war galley at full speed is slightly faster, but if the wind stays with us we'll be off the English coast before they can get close enough to get up to any mischief.

And if the wind were to shift? he asked, although he thought he already knew the answer.

Then she'll be on us within the hour.

John prayed that their luck would hold and maintained a tense and silent vigil with the captain. The wind stayed constant throughout the rest of the night, but just after dawn their luck ran out and the it shifted to port. With a curse the captain began shouting to wake the crew. Several men jumped to the rigging and turned the sail to try and catch some of the wind but it was too far to port to be of any real use in maintaining their progress. Dutch Kogges like the Nijerk were notoriously clumsy vessels and nearly impossible to tack, relying solely on favorable winds filling their one large sail to make headway. With the shift, her speed dropped until she was nearly dead in the water.

The remaining crew donned chain mail and broke out crossbows, manning the castles in preparation to defend the ship. John looked vainly forward for some sign of land but with a sinking heart he knew they were still at least four hours from the harbor.

What are our chances? he asked the captain.

Our high fore and aft castles make us a formidable opponent, but we're out manned and the galley has the advantage of maneuverability.

What will you do? asked John who by now could see a speck on the horizon that was growing larger with each passing moment.

If I could maintain steerage I'd try and get in close and shear off her oars. He studied the wind and then shook his head, It's not going to happen this time, we'll have to stand off and slug it out. We're a tough ship to board but they outnumber us at least four to one. I'm afraid we're just fighting a delaying action. The end is probably inevitable."

John cursed. What will happen to the crew?

The captain stared at the approaching galley, She's French so they'll fight to the last man. The alternative is a French jail for any survivors and that's a fate worse than death. To be fair, a pirate raider wouldn't have been much better.

Is there any hope at all?

We're still three hours out from Britain, but there's a chance an English galley might stumble on the fight and give us some assistance. It's unlikely though, the sea is a big place.

John grimly set his jaw and grabbed a crossbow. Soon the boat was filled with a noisy clanking as the crew worked the cranks on the heavy weapons. Then, with everything in readiness, there was nothing left to do but wait and see which side the galley would attack first. The distance between the two ships was closing fast and, with his heart pounding and the blood roaring in his ears, John saw that he could make out the figures in the galley's forecastle now. Her triangular sail was reefed as it was useless at close quarters and the rhythmic slap of the oars was clearly audible. They would be overrun within minutes.

Make your shots count boys! shouted the captain and the crew steadied their weapons in the ports and began to take aim. Was this how it would end, he thought? And what of the mysterious package that was so vitally important? He thought about tossing it overboard to keep it from falling into French hands but quickly dismissed the idea. If by some miracle he survived, the package had to survive as well. He was taking aim when suddenly the galley began veering away to the starboard.

What's happening? he shouted to no one in particular. He looked around to see if another galley had appeared but could see nothing. Were the French breaking off? His hopes began to rise and he thanked God he had not given in to despair and tossed the package into the sea. The galley was off their starboard quarter and John turned to the crewman next to him and asked, What are they doing? Are they disengaging?

The crewman was silent for a minute as if he too was wondering this but then he pointed and said, They're coming about. John looked and sure enough, the galley began to turn. John looked back at the crewman who said, They're going to ram us.

Hopes dashed, with a sinking heart John watched as the galley pirouetted gracefully in the water and began moving through the water in a deadly drive towards their amidships. The captain cursed aloud, but, dead in the water, there was nothing he could do. The French crew had taken cover on the forecastle and on the rear deck had their shields positioned to protect the man at the rudder. The crew held their fire so as not to waste bolts when they had no targets.

The French captain lined up the distinctive, long, iron bound ram that comprised the bow of his ship with the kogge's vulnerable midsection. There was no mistaking his intent, indeed this was a tactic of galley warfare that dated back to ancient times. At the last moment, the galley shipped oars in preparation for the impact that came moments later with a sickening crunch of splitting timbers. Impaled on the galley's prow, the doomed ship was helpless. The French troops massed for boarding, swarming onto the kogges deck. They took heavy casualties as the withering fire from the crossbows cut them down and soon the the deck was awash in blood. John lined up a target and sent a bolt through the chest of one of the enemy and pulled his crossbow down to reload. A French bolt hit the stock of his weapon and the force drove him backward into another crewman whose crossbow came crashing down on his skull. As he blacked out, he thought with regret of his wife and three sons whom he would never see again.

The battle raged on for several minutes longer as the crewmen fought valiantly until, as the captain had predicted, the last man died reloading his crossbow. The French soldiers dispatched the few who were wounded and dumped the bodies into the sea where their chain mail dragged them instantly towards the bottom like an anchor. With the decks cleared and their own wounded returned to the galley, they waited expectantly as a tall figure in a black cassock boarded the kogge and pointed towards John's crumpled form. As instructed, the soldiers had not killed him, but rather left him where he had fallen. Revive him. The man ordered. One of the soldiers grabbed a bucket of seawater and doused John's unconscious form.

He came to coughing up seawater and saw himself surrounded by French soldiers. He hurriedly looked around for a weapon and was rewarded with a hard kick to the chest by a mailed foot. He grunted in pain and fought to breathe. The figure in the black cassock stepped forward and, in perfect, unaccented English, he demanded, Where's the Book of Ham?

John looked up into the man's cruel, coal black eyes that were devoid of pity. He had mediterranean features and olive skin and his black hair shown in the morning sun. He sighed impatiently and repeated his demand. I threw it into the sea. John croaked when it finally dawned on him that the man meant the package he was carrying.

You're a liar! The man turned to one of the soldiers and said, Check his cabin. Then he struck John in the face as if the lie had personally offended him. Minutes later, the soldier returned with a package bound up in oilcloth and passed it to the man. With a smile, he untied the twine and unwrapped the translucent protective cloth. He flipped through some of the pages and, seeming to be satisfied, he slipped it into his cassock. Then he turned and walked back to the galley. John was imagining himself wasting away in a French prison and wondered if there were French members of the order. Before he could complete the thought, the man turned back and barked, Tie a sandbag to him and dump him over the side. Then burn the ship.

Two of the soldiers lashed him to one of the rigging counterweights while the rest fetched torches from the galley and began setting the oaken boards ablaze. They tossed John overboard and he hit the water so hard he almost lost the breath he had held. He struggled but the weight was pulling him down too quickly. He managed to get hold of his dirk but saw immediately that the ropes binding him were too thick to cut. His lungs felt like they were going to burst, but he hung on. In a panic, he drove the knife hard into the canvas bag holding the sand and ripped it open again and again. The sand began to fill the water cutting visibility to zero and he quickly felt his descent slow. He kicked hard and fighting the urger to breathe he began to rise. He thanked God that he had kept his body hard through constant training rather than let it grow soft over time. The daylight was a dim spot above him and it seemed miles away. How deep had he sunk? He dismissed the question and concentrated his entire will on fighting his way back towards the surface. His lungs were screaming for air and darkness was forming in his peripheral vision but he refused to give up. At last he could see the daylight was just ten feet above him and he redoubled his efforts. He gave a last kick and finally broke the surface.

Ironically he nearly drowned as he started to breathe and was dragged down beneath the waves by the weight of his clothes and the wet rope. He panicked and then kicked his way back to the surface and kept kicking long enough to get a deep breath before he let himself slip under the waves again. rejuvenated by the breath he kicked back to the surface and took another. Working furiously in a pattern of kicking and sinking, he managed to loose the heavy rope and immediately felt his buoyancy increase as it slipped away. Finding that now he could stay above the surface with a minimum of effort, he looked around to get his bearings. The kogge was listing badly to starboard and burning like a pyre now but he was hidden from view by its bulk and smoke. He heard the scraping of broken timber as the galley backed away from the sinking craft. He maneuvered to stay out of sight until the galley was far enough away and then relaxed somewhat, finding that he could now stay surfaced with a minimum of effort. Now what? he thought as he remembered he was a four hour boat ride from land. He tried to think, but then the cold began to set in and he started to shake. The icy waters of the North Sea had slaked away the body heat that he had generated in his mad dash for the surface. He tried to swim and regenerate some heat but was only marginally successful. The burning kogge hissed and steamed in its death throes until it finally slipped beneath the waves without leaving any debris he could cling to and along with the cold, despair began to set in.

Just as he was about to give up and let himself slide into the deep, a long cylindrical shape popped to the surface. He stared at it hardly daring to believe his eyes. It was an empty tunne. The main deck of a kogge has gaps between the boards so seawater can flow into the hold and then be pumped out by a primitive bilge pump. This process would obviously be hard on cargo, so goods traveling by sea on a kogge are placed in large watertight containers called tunnes which is where our English word ton comes from. It was an empty one of these that must have broken free of the sinking ship and then subsequently bobbed to the surface like a cork. John mustered the last of his energy reserves and swam over and climbed up on it. Shaking from the cold, he draped himself length wise along its beam to stabilize it and promptly passed out wondering how many days it would be until somebody stumbled across him.

Hours later, his first conscious sensation was of a powerful thirst. The summer sun was now high in the sky and had nearly dried his clothes. He vaguely wondered how long he had been out for and guessed it at about six hours from the angle of the sun. Then he heard a familiar rhythmic slapping sound and groaned. The war galley had returned to do what the sandbag and the cold North Sea had failed to do. As he closed his eyes and waited for the crossbow bolt that would end his life, he prayed for a quick death.

There was a thud as something struck the side of the tunne and he tensed for the next shot, sure it would strike home somewhere. Please Lord let their aim be true and spare him the agony of many wounding shots. He could hear a clamor of voices and imagined the French soldiers queued up along the wall of the forecastle for target practice. When no further shots came he opened his eyes.

He was greeted by the welcome sight of an English war galley. The men in the forecastle shouted again for him to grab the rope which he did, unable to believe his good fortune. An hour or so later, ensconced in a spacious cabin with a tumbler full of brandy he listened as the captain of the galley, a member of the order himself, related how John Wycliffe had arranged for the warship to meet the kogge and its precious cargo to escort it safely to harbor in England. They had timed their departure from home based on the arrival of winds favorable to the North Sea crossing and had sailed for several days in an oval pattern along the course the kogge should have been traveling. They were about to turn back when the lookout had spotted him atop the floating tunne. John took another pull off of his brandy and then related how his ship had been set upon by a French war galley and been lost with all hands leaving him the sole survivor.

And the package? asked the captain.

Is here, said John patting the side of his chest. He stood and unwrapped the cloth binding that held the oilskin tight against his under arm and passed it to the captain who examined it curiously and passed it back.

And what of the decoy copy?

The Vatican emissary has it.

Then the ruse worked?

Apparently so, said John, Although the real one nearly ended up lost forever on the bottom of the North sea.

Bloody French, always with their great big gallic noses stuffed up where they don't belong. We've been battling them for decades with no end in sight. Then the captain stood. Rest now, he said, There will be fresh horses and and men waiting to escort you on to Oxford when we make harbor. You're nearly beyond the Vatican's reach now. He paused and eyed the package, I wonder what it contains. he mused, They are going to a lot of trouble for something so small."

The agent from the Vatican called it 'The Book of Ham', John replied thoughtfully. He had privately wondered the same thing. Wycliffe had been evasive on the topic but promised a full explanation on his return. It must be important.

Neither man had any idea just how important it would someday prove to be.

Present Day

Carl Weinhart maneuvered his Porsche 911 off of the expressway. The motor growled agreeably as he downshifted using the steering wheel mounted gearshift that allowed him to change gears while keeping both hands on it. He exited the ramp and accelerated onto the winding two lane state road that would take him to his large expensive ultra-modern residence up in the hills. He was one of the elite rockstar programmers at Universal Software and the convertible was yet another one of the perks of his ridiculously well paid position.With the sun shining and the top down, he should have been enjoying the challenge of navigating the curves at well over the speed limit in the responsive machine that always seemed to be glued to the road. Today however, his mind was elsewhere.

Something troubled him about a section of the programming he had done as part of his work on Janus 13, Universal Software's latest operating system. It was just