The Devil's Crown

By Gary Towner

Johnny Walker is asked by an old friend, Karl Baumstark, to come rescue him from marauding rebels that have taken him and his granddaughter, Heather, hostage. The rebel leader has learned the archeological dig Baumstark was working on just might harbor a biblical relic, a tiara called the Devil's Crown. Legend has it that the wearer will gain supernatural powers endowed by the devil himself. With plans of universal domination, the lizard eyed Basil Crump believes Walker is the only hope he has of making Baumstalk tell where to look for the find, but he harbors an unyielding grudge against Walker that makes him as dangerous as nitroglycerin left out in the sun. When Walker arrives on the scene he soon finds out Crump is the least of his problems; Baumstark's flirtatious granddaughter is smitten with him. Walker must keep reminding himself she is only sixteen years old. Worse yet, when he finds the accursed Crown inside a cave, Walker is unable to resist trying it out. Instantly he loses all self-control and he tries to force Heather to submit to the unthinkable. Heather nearly brains Walker attempting to escape. She later fears she killed him. So ends Walker's last Adventure... or is it only the beginning of an even greater adventure?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Sep 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781611603170

Book preview

Forward

Every American high-school student knows of the late summer 1875, brave but fruitless Battle of Little Bighorn and Lt. Colonel Custer’s last stand. Custer, in a fit of overzealousness, miscalculated the size of Crazy Horse’s Oglala Sioux opposition and he blindly led his men of the 7th Cavalry into a trap of mammoth proportions. Custer’s ultimate, and some say inevitable, defeat culminated on a high ridge in Montana.

Not as well known is another disastrous military battle four years later, this time suffered by the British. It is called the Battle of Isandlwana. The country is South Africa and the British commander of H Company, 1st Battalion, was Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Henry Pulleine under the command of Lord Chelmsford; the opposing forces were the fearsome Pyrrhic Zulu Warriors under the direction of Zulu king Cetshwayo. Their number was fifteen to one of the invading British who were determined, historians say, to protect and even expand the British Empire at any cost.

While the Zulu buildup was indeed perceived as threatening to the British outpost at nearby Pietermaritzburg, Natal, Sir Bartle Frere, Governor of Cape Colony and High Commissioner of Native Affairs in South Africa overstepped his authority when he urged Chelmsford to use the forces under his command to capture the Zulu king using whatever methods he saw fit. Both men acted without the consent or knowledge of Queen Victoria, the ruling monarch of the English empire at the time.

Consequently, with much pomp and ceremony, Lord Chelmsford and his Redcoats crossed the Buffalo river to invade Zululand under the ruse Zulu King Cetshwayo had ignored an ultimatum to disband his disciplined Army of over forty-thousand. Within days of their advancement Chelmsford’s mens’ bright scarlet uniforms became covered in dust, converting them into a dull musty brown color; their shiny pith helmets were tea-stained tan, obstinately to avoid broadcasting their movements to their distant adversaries.

Historical accounts describe in detail how at Isandlwana the two armies clashed and the British suffered the loss of 1,774 officers, NCO’s and men, and approximately 806 men of the Imperial forces. Also slaughtered were 471 native troops loyal to the British. In addition it is recorded that all the Column’s stores and transport were lost to the Zulu army that was estimated at over 20,000 warriors. Natives who lost approximately an equal number of lives to the invaders they vanquished.

Though, unlike Custer’s humiliating rout, there were some survivors; this battle is considered to be the greatest British military defeat by an adversary in history. Due to the primitive communication links of the time, however, the news of the initial outcome of the invasion took weeks to reach an astonished London. Benjamin Disraeli, the Prime Minister and the de facto leader of the British government, was outraged to learn his orders to avoid war had been ignored and he consequently ordered Chemsford relieved of his command.

Chemsford counted on his being in the Queen’s favor when he obstinately refused to step down. Instead he proceeded to conquer the Zulus and eventually subjugate them to British rule. Only then did he officially resign, presumably in order to save face. Though pressured to censure him for incompetence at Isandlwana, the biased Queen could not find it in her heart to reprehend him; instead she granted him the Gold Stick at Court and appointed him Lieutenant of the tower of London.

All this is well documented in books and dramatized in modern times movies such as Zulu and Zulu Dawn. But unrecorded anywhere is the discovery of a series of hidden catacombs under the desecrated British encampment at Isandlwana, moments prior to the massacre. Nor, is there oral or written mention anywhere of the vast fortune, and ancient Pagan artifacts the British soldiers did not live to exploit. This is the story of one of these artifacts known to a scant few as the Devil’s Crown and the adventures of the intrepid Johnny Walker who unearthed it on the way to finding out what his real purpose in life was.

Chapter 1

January 11, 1979

Luambe National Park, Zambia

Luambe is located northeast of the South Luangwa National Park, and just south of the North Luangwa National Park. It lies mostly in the Luangwa River rift valley. It is a small park considering it encumbers a mere 116 square miles. It is five hundred to seven hundred meters above sea level and the landscape varies from woodland savannas to waste high grassland, but in the rainy season, the Luangwa River typically floods and small lagoons are everywhere.

These floodplains provide an ideal ecosystem enjoyed by a multitude of animals and birds. But in recent years excessive unauthorized hunting has led to a drastic decline in the indigenous wildlife. To reverse this trend, the Zambian government had advertised the need for a part-time resident policeman to hunt down and arrest the insidious poachers that kept cutting holes in fences in their efforts to ruthlessly exploit the mostly endangered animals within the park perimeters.

As an incentive to applicants, the government promised liberal use of a Toyota 4-wheel drive Land Rover and a Cessna 150 aircraft; both to be used for reconnaissance within the park limits. So it was that with eyes as blue as the sky, Johnny Walker, a man with no discernible past, found the job offer irresistible. And how he came to be hired as part time chief poacher hunter for the mostly unbearably sauna-like park expanses.

The tall, rugged-looking Walker, a borderline recluse, relished the occasional respite from his covert big-city work as an undercover agent for Interpol. In his line of work Walker had friends in low places and it was one of them that provided him with forged papers and references that more than exemplified his past work as an insect exterminator when he applied for the job. The local governmental constabulary never even suspected his dual role as hunter of poachers and Interpol hunter of criminals.

If the truth were to be told, Walker had actually been in the exterminator business years ago, back in the states; just not for as long or as recent as his inflated resume stated. At least it was a cover story that showed he had a past that didn’t include prison bars. Also, it didn’t hurt that his bio stated that he was an experienced African bush pilot; that part was not fabricated either.

Walker’s government-subsidized ranch was accessible only by a helicopter, 4-wheel drive, motorcycle, or horse, and his only contact with the outside world was through intermittent visitors and an equally intermittent shortwave radio. He justified not getting the rig repaired to factory condition by convincing everyone that the one in the Cessna always worked—if he flew it high enough.

For electricity, Walker kept a noisy gas-operated 500-Watt, army surplus generator running. He told his friends he always marveled that a refrigerator full of beer sure took a whole lot of gas.

There was a reason Walker kept to himself. That way he was assured of an almost complete lack of feminine companionship. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the ladies, it certainly wasn’t that he was gay, which he wasn’t, but he carried a lot of baggage from his previous encounters with women; one in particular. He had forced the name of Harlow from his memory. She called herself that because her thoughtless father had named her Butriss, a moniker she hated. The wounds she left him with weren’t going to heal anytime soon. As for other visitors, there were some he even looked forward to seeing. His best friend, Dean Raintree, the park ranger and veterinarian, for instance.

The Aussie transplant, Raintree, was the nearest thing to a doctor in the area and, like Walker, he didn’t care what brand of bourbon or beer he drank. Or whose bourbon or beer.

What really sealed the deal for Walker, living by necessity so deep into such isolation, was the resplendent animals in the park. He had an affinity for almost anything that walked on four legs. There were buffalo, elephants, hippopotamus, impalas, roans, elands—and the list seemed endless due to his diligence in performing the duties he was hired for. He reserved a special fondness for lions; he even had befriended one, an almost tame lioness he named Simba. Though the natives reserved the name for male lions, Walker called her Simba as a kind of insider’s joke. He kept her in a pen in back of his ranch, spoiling her with daily chunks of meat he paid for out of pocket. She had become so tame Walker took her with him on many of his adventures outside the park, but, when at home, the pen kept the mostly timid Simba safe from predators.

Defying the gender name, Simba eventually had cubs, but when they grew large enough to fend for themselves Walker compassionately released her and them into the wilds. Simba disappeared soon after, but not for long. After several days she came ambling back from the tall grasses to stay, and nothing Walker could do would make her change her mind.

Walker felt comfort when he heard nearby lions roar late at night; he was sure it was just the cubs saying "Hello, we’re doing just fine out here." to both him and Simba.

If Walker had a vice, besides bourbon, beer, and taking a naps at all hours of the day or night, it was sports. Any sports. He had won a ten-inch diagonal TV in a card game on his last visit to headquarters, and anticipating lots of sports, he installed a satellite dish on his ransack roof. Sadly, Walker’s knowledge of electronics was marginal at best and the TV only brought in vague, very snowy pictures. Worse yet, due to the inclement rainy weather in the park, the dish was frozen in place by a thick cluster of white colored mildewed rust.

The only real luxury Walker allowed himself, and was thankful for, was indoor plumbing. This was due to an over-sized septic tank he maintained outdoors, and a shed full of one-ply toilet paper. His Interpol work was mostly on intermittent demand, leaving him ample time to enjoy his seclusion. As for his over-inflated, albeit notorious, drinking habits, he consoled himself that if it weren’t for that, he would have to go out and get himself another unproductive hobby.

To keep himself busy on the long lonely nights, Walker did have an extensive library that ranged from adventure novels to accounts of famous historical battles. He read mostly at night, and mostly by candlelight to conserve the generator gas. Candles to ease the smell of the room, candles to read by. The current book de jure he had half-read was Donald R. Morris’s Juju epic, The Washing of the Spears.

Walker could never be accused of being tidy; he always said that if God had wanted everything clean, people would have been born with dusters for hands. He certainly maintained the sort of place that would make dust bunnies feel at home. Hidden from anyone’s casual view, Walker also had a closet full of unwashed clothes, and in plain sight his sink was nearly always filled to the brink with unwashed dishes, knives, and spoons.

High above in one corner hung a two-year-old no-pest strip clustered with mosquitoes and flies. Always mindful of his muscle tone, Walker had bought a set of barbells that sat in another corner, but the dust covering them gave moot testimony as to how often they were used. Still, all that beer drinking hadn’t yet inflated Walker’s midriff. Charley Atlas had nothing on him, but it was the life Walker loved, and exercise just didn’t enter into it. He inherently knew maintaining the park is what really kept him fit.

Interpol satisfied another need for a purpose in life and Walker’s park retreat did offer respite from what was often dangerous work. But even that wasn’t all perks. Walker had an aversion to snakes; even the non-poisonous variety gave him a bad case of the wild willies on a daily basis. This day he was still shaking from an episode a day before when the dreaded black mamba greeted him as he opened his front door and he nearly tripped over it. God, Walker thought, the deadliest of all African snakes and it has to curl up on my front stoop to take a nap.

These, assuredly the deadliest of all African snakes, are infamous for their loud hissing, gapping mouth, and a penchant for aggressive striking at anything that moves. This particular mamba was determined to live up to its reputation. Walker remembered being mortified. His first thought was to quick draw his sidearm, his trusty Taurus .38 special revolver, and give the Dendroaspis polylepis a third eye.

But part of Walker’s job was to protect the inhabitants of the park, not kill them. Walker was no circus acrobat either, so a backward-flip into the house was out of the question. Also, it occurred to him at the time throwing the bottle of beer he was clutching in his trembling hand might further agitate the thing. Those beady eyes. Walker would have fainted if he didn’t think the sudden movement would give the mamba incentive. He read somewhere that mambas, cobras, and most snakes are especially sensitive to motion.

That revelation was wasted on him at the time, as suddenly his feet felt as if they were encased in fast-setting concrete. Walker sucked wind and forced a prolonged freeze. Now, as sweat began dribbling down his forehead, the serpent’s terrifying head eerily rose to just under his chin, obviously pondering its next move. Walker prayed the snake would tire of the standoff and slither back into the bush it had most likely come from. But now, as if to torment him, his nose began itching.

The strain to resist scratching grew unbearable as the inevitable sneeze sent out a virtual mist of mucus into the snake’s gapping mouth. The irritated receiver of the blast dodged most of it, but it made it clear it took the emission as an act of irritating aggression.

Walker shuddered as the determined interloper flattened its neck and the darting tongue almost touched Walker’s quivering nose before arching its head backward. The hollow-sounding hiss grew louder and Walker cringed, bracing himself for the inevitable.

Was Walker about to pay the ultimate price for sparing this terrifying creature’s life? he wondered. He longed for the comfort of the Taurus pistol lying limp in his holster. Still, he knew deep down he wasn’t Quick Draw McGraw.

Just as the mamba lunged forward, Walker found the strength to first teeter forward then tumble back on his heels. To his horror, the snake was not to be deterred.

Chapter 2

The shotgun blast shattered what was left of Walker’s nerves. The bulk of the pellets had blown the mamba’s head to smithereens, but the majority of its remains careened off the door frame and spewed undulating serpentine body and blood all over Walker’s heaving shirt.

You ’right, mate? It was Dean Raintree, the park ranger in shining armor. He reached down and held up the bloody carcass of the ten-foot long snake by its midsection. The gray-eyed, five-foot tall Aussie had to extend his arms high just to keep the bulk of the thing off the ground.

"Onkus Mamba. Very bad, mate. You’re lucky I came along when I did. Two drops venom of that lot and you can kiss your earthly problems goodbye. He was a biggun too. Nine foot if I’m any judge."

I noticed. Walker used his elbows to keep from lying flat on the floor. His teeth were still chattering, but his expression had turned from horror to exasperation.

Drats!

"What, he get ya? I got some anti-venom out in my Rover. It might work fast enough."

Naw, I spilled my beer!

"Well, mate, let’s fire up the barbie. These Joe Blakes taste just like English hen. Come to think on it, it’ll taste a whole lot better than the grub a hospital would torture you with—if it had got you and you by some miracle survived the trip there. You’re looking a mite pale, mate. Snakes always have that effect on you? I’ve seen better complexion on a cigar store Indian in Sydney."

Walker grinned feebly. "It’s a long story better told over a cold beer. C’mon in and prop your feet up. I’ll tell you why I let snakes get to me, Walker said. Women get to me too for that matter."

Sheilas? All Sleilas, or just one? Raintree ribbed.

Walker shoved a bottle of beer into Raintree’s eager hand before replying. Is there any difference? But let me get to the snakes first. A few years back I was doing undercover work at a bar in Mbuji. I worked for Interpol back then. In waltzes this gorgeous lady who looked ‘bout as uptight as they come. Said the local cops were anxious to throw her into the pokey where sweaty drunks would welcome her with welcome arms. She begged anyone who would listen to her to help her get out of town. She called herself Harlow.

Wait a minute. You said you were doing undercover work. What was that all about? Raintree asked.

"Didn’t I tell you? I think I just said I used to be an undercover agent for Interpol. The only one south of Kenya. My assignment was to keep tabs on any shady dealings going down in the bar; then the place was a mecca for the slave trade and diamond smugglers. You’d be surprised at how open criminal types are when they think you smell like a brewery. Anyway, there I was, posing as a drunk and in she walks—"

Raintree couldn’t help interrupting with, Whoa, you worked for Interpol and you looked and smelled like... you stank? What made you leave Interpol anyway, your nose give out?

"Yeah, that’s it. I just changed my modus operandi to allow for the times."

"I see why you left. What use to Interpol would you be hang’n out here?"

You never know, the animals may need more watching than anyone suspects. Anyway, the lady needed my help. But at the time I thought she was nothing but a Tasmanian Devil turned loose. To make a long story shorter, I had business in Bosnia and I convinced her to tag along.

I know I’ll regret asking, but what’s that got to do with snakes?

"I’m getting to that. There was an incident at the bar. I, er, we wore out our welcome and had to escape through a second-story window. We fell down an awning and rolled down into the back of a passing truck. The native driver was quite personable and we later became friends. Stop your giggling, would you?"

Raintree almost gagged as he complied. You sure do have a way with women. You say you ‘convinced’ her to tag along? I bet she jumped out of that truck the very first chance she got and hitched a ride with somebody that smelled better than you. Even today I can’t stand bein’ downwind of you.

You want to hear about the snakes or don’t you? Anyway, I got the native to agree to drive us to a friend of mine’s compound. I knew he was keeping my airplane in one of his hangers for me. On the way it got dark and when the truck brakes failed, things got... complicated. The lady and I fell out the back just as the native rode his damn truck clear off a cliff and into the middle of a murky swamp.

A murky swamp? You do have a way of embellishing a story. Don’t tell me. That swamp was full of squirming creatures.

Whose telling this, you or me? Even though it was dark as a witch’s heart, the truck light, it only had one that worked, bobbed to the top of the waterline and I could see the native never got out. It was up to me to dive in and see what I could do to save him.

Darn decent of you, mate. Did you get to him in time?

"Yes, but it wasn’t easy. This is where the snakes come in. As it turned out that light attracted a mist of creepy flying and stinging insects. They were bad enough, but swimming straight for me, as I held on to the side of the truck, were hundreds and hundreds of hissing, squirming, undulating snakes. I almost fainted at the sight. But luckily, I had brought along my trusty machete. I diced a few of the front-runners and dived below the surface to see if I could yank open the cab door.

"It took a few more dives, but I managed to pull the unconscious native out and drag him to shore where he responded to my mouth to mouth handiwork. As he revived, he mistook what I was doing and it took all the chutzpah I could muster to explain my good intensions and keep him from going for my throat."

Is that it? You got momentary fright from a few wigglers?

I guess you hadda be there. And like I said, there were hundreds of them. It’s something you never forget; I still get the leap’n willies just thinking about it.

"Well, they sure do make mighty fine eatin’. Get a fire on the barbie and I’ll prove it. Maybe after you fill your gut you can tell me about your