A Sacred Storm (44 page)

“Are you alright, mate?” asked Graham, his fellow patroller.

“Yeah I'm fine,” said Paul, wiping the side of his eye. “It's just a but dusty.”

“I suppose it is,” said Graham with a grin. “Do you think we should put our masks on?”

“Don't be funny, mate.”

They moved on up the road cautiously, the emptiness making them nervous. Overhead a helicopter broke the silence, the sound of its rotors briefly giving them company before fading back into the clouds. The wind picked up and began blowing litter across their path. A light rain started to fall.

Just before they reached the town hall their radios crackled to life. It was base command telling them to proceed up to the Bretch Hill estate immediately. They ran back up the High Street and jumped into the waiting Jeep.

“What's going on?” Paul asked the driver.

“What isn't going on,” the driver replied. “It's all kicked off up on this estate. The Paki's have gone mental and the white boy's are fighting back. They reckon there's thousands of them involved. It's worse than fucking Beirut.”

The Jeep hurtled around the Banbury Cross and up West Bar towards the action. Fearful faces peered out from behind twitching curtains as they went. Paul checked his weapon one last time and lit a cigarette. He only managed four drags before they came to the final roadblock. He threw the unfinished cigarette from the Jeep and then jumped out.

He and Graham hooked up with another six men from their unit and marched up the hill. Terrified citizens ran past them the opposite way, fleeing for their lives. Blood-spattered women and children screamed and pleaded for help. Paul focused his mind, trying to forget where he was.

Soon they came upon the battleground. The main road across the top of the hill was a roaring sea of people and missiles and fire. Petrol bombs had already set nearly half the houses alight. A police officer with a megaphone tried unsuccessfully to appease the situation with some futile words, his voice drowned out by jeers of aggression and the helpless cries of the injured.

Paul's unit let off a volley of warning shots, but it was like a whisper in a thunderstorm. Even those rioters closest to them barely noticed the cracks of gunfire.

“This is ridiculous!” shouted Graham. “We need more men!”

“Tell me about it!” yelled Paul.

They let off another volley of warning shots, and yet again received no acknowledgement. On command they stepped away and awaited further orders.

“Fuck this!” said Graham, watching the riot continue from fifty yards back. “Where the hell are the rest of the police? And where the hell are the rest of our men?”

Second-lieutenant Alan Rigsby lit a cigarette. “There's another incident on the other side of town,” he said. “Just as big as this one apparently. They've had to split us between the two. If you ask me we should all deal with one and then move onto the other – we're never going to get anything under control this way. Well, not unless we start…”

His voice tailed off as he side-stepped a flaming bottle. There was no need for him to finish his sentence though. Everyone knew exactly what he was going to say. It was a suggestion that each of them feared more than anything. An order to fire at will on their own people.

The helicopter banked sharply and Stella got her first glimpse of the White House, a mile away and four hundred feet down. Even in the circumstances she allowed herself a gentle smile. Whatever her views on America and its over-zealous foreign policy, there was no denying that their destination was probably the most iconic and powerful political headquarters in the world, and the fact that she was on her way there as an invited guest gave her a secret tingling of importance. As they drew nearer and descended towards the famous lawn she had to stop herself from appearing too overawed and excitable.

Next to her Stratton was dozing fitfully, seemingly unimpressed by the whole adventure. He hadn't said much at all since breakfast, and she was beginning to wonder how much longer he would last. Unless mankind veered from its present course his outlook was bleak.

The chopper landed softly on the grass and the group disembarked. Grady was out first and Stella followed. Jennings and Cronin guided a weakened Stratton, and Stone jumped off last. They were met by White House Chief-of-Staff Greg Albany, who shook Grady's hand and led them away from the slowing but still-noisy rotors.

“It's good to see you, Scott. It's been a long time,” said Albany as they approached the building.

“I know,” said Grady. “But it's not like you're any easy man to reach anymore, Greg. I can hardly drop by when I like to visit you.”

Albany grinned. “I guess not. But you're here now, and like I said – it's good to see you, old buddy. I just wish it was a better time.”

“You and me both.”

Inside the White House they were led along a plain white corridor to a room on the left where they were offered coffee and some light food. Greg Albany left them in the hands of a junior aide while he rushed off to meet the President for a short briefing.

“This is alright,” said Jennings, munching on a fresh donut. “Coffee and cakes in the White House. If my mother could see me now.”

“She'd probably tell you not to speak with your mouth full,” said Grady.

Stone sipped his coffee nervously and stared out of the window. He would have been a lot happier staying behind on the submarine, but the others insisted that his standing as Ayres' head of security, and knowledge of the situation would lend much-needed weight to their claims. He had pointed out that he was no longer anything to do with Ayres, and probably considered a traitor, yet his protests had fallen on deaf ears.

Stratton stretched himself out in a leather chair and drank some water in an attempt to stay alert. His body was teetering between sluggish and exhausted. He could feel the world and its people gradually slipping away to the point of no return. Soon the fear and the hatred would have taken hold completely, forcing them towards a sorrowful and desolate destiny. He tried to keep his thoughts light, but the pressure on his mind grew increasingly tense.

Stella put down her coffee and went over to kneel beside his chair. “How are you feeling?” she asked, knowing the answer before she spoke.

“I'll be alright,” he said. “How about you? I expect you're made up being here in the White House.”

Stella gave a sheepish smile. “You know me too well,” she said.

“There's nothing wrong with it,” said Stratton. “I'd be pretty excited too if I could manage it.”

Ten minutes later Albany returned and they followed him along a number of short corridors to a huge meeting room with white walls, a deep blue carpet, and a large twenty-seat conference table in the middle. Already sat down at the head was James Mackenzie, the first black President of the United States. To his left were a couple of military men, and to his right an empty seat followed by three men in suits. Albany performed some quick introductions and then took the chair next to the President. The newcomers took their places – two one side and four on the other to balance the table.

Jennings tried to digest all the names. He knew who James Mackenzie was of course, and the two military men next to him were both generals – Johnson and Perry. The three suits were the heads of the CIA, NSA and FBI respectively: Bob Tobin, Trent Arthur and Lionel Jones. They all waited quietly for Mackenzie to begin the meeting.

“Well, gentlemen,” he started. “I think we should get straight down to it and find out exactly what our friends here have got to say.” He opened the folder in front of him and took a cursory glance. “We've had a chance to look through various files relating to this – let's say ‘mystical knowledge' – but I'm not sure that we have all the facts. Most of what we have is hearsay and conjecture from a Professor Miles, late of the National Institute for Paranormal Studies. And we have no intelligence whatsoever since a vague report from Mr Grady here at the end of December, saying that the box and its contents had gone missing at Stonehenge. Would you care to fill us in on events since then.”

Grady nudged Jennings with his arm. “I think it's probably best if you give them the lowdown on this, buddy.”

Jennings looked around the table for help, but none seemed forthcoming so he began to tell the story as he saw it from the point of Grady's last report. At first he stumbled slightly, mindful of the esteemed company he was in. But after a while he began to speak freely, ignoring the stony-faced Americans and recanting events with as much relevant detail as he could. Stone filled in some blanks about the Prime Minister's involvement and between them they drew a clear and current picture for the assembled council, stopping only to answer the occasional question.

When they'd finished President Mackenzie called for coffee and leant back in his chair. “Interesting,” he said. “Very interesting. So neither of these guys was sent by God at all.”

“No,” said Jennings.

“The thing is,” Mackenzie continued. “I'm not sure which story is the most unbelievable. I'd just about got used to the fact that Christiano was really the Messiah returned. I've met him and seen him in action and he certainly fits the bill. And for me personally as a Christian, I really wanted it to be true. But now I don't know what to think.”

General Perry cleared his throat. “Do you have any real hard evidence of this ‘mystical knowledge'? I mean to say – we only have your word about all this. I've seen the footage from yesterday at Yankee Stadium and I've got to say I'm pretty convinced that guy's the Son of God.”

“But we've explained how he did that,” said Jennings.

“Can you do it?” asked Perry.

“No, I can't,” said Jennings. “I don't know the right symbol.”

“What about you?” he said to Stratton. “You know all the symbols don't you? Can you do it?”

Stratton shook his head. “Not at the moment,” he said. “I'm not feeling too good.”

“You're not feeling too good? Well that's an excuse if ever I heard one. If these symbols were real and you did know all of them why would you be feeling unwell. Surely illness should be a thing of the past for you?”

“It's complicated,” said Stratton.

Perry raised an eyebrow. “Really? Do enlighten us.”

“His power is linked to the human race,” said Grady, surprised by what he was saying. “I don't pretend to understand the finer details of it, but basically if we're all at peace then so is he, and if we're at war then he's sick. And at the moment with all that's going on he's sick.”

“It all seems very convenient,” said Perry. “Christiano's powers don't seem to be index-linked.”

“Listen, General,” said Grady, starting to lose his cool. “Stratton here is for real, I've seen what he can do myself. I saw this guy die, for Christ's sake. How would you explain his resurrection?”

Perry shrugged. “I can't. But it could have been a trick. It wouldn't be the first time someone had faked their own death.”

Grady sighed and tried to calm himself. “With all due respect, General, what exactly are you trying to achieve here? I would have thought what we've said would please you no end. Christiano is a real risk to National Security. You're not going to be able to maintain control of the population with him around. As it stands he's probably the most powerful person in the world right now.”

“And that's exactly why we need to keep him on side,” said Perry.

“No,” said Grady. “What you need to do is take back control of your people. This whole thing is ripping the world apart – can't you see that?”

“I agree with Grady,” said Bob Tobin. “We need to discredit this guy and get everybody back to reality. This religion thing's gone far enough.”

Perry looked to skies and shook his head. “And how do you suppose we discredit him, Bob? How do you discredit someone who can stop a fucking bullet with his fucking mind?!”

“I don't know, but there must be a way. If we discuss it properly I'm sure we can come up with something. What do you think, Mr President?”

Mackenzie was non-committal. “I don't know, Bob. I think that General Perry has a point. But I also think that you're right about the situation being out of control. If these guys could come up with something more to convince us it might help.”

“Scott Grady's word is all I need to convince me,” said Tobin. “If he says the guy's using mystical symbols then that's exactly what he's doing. I introduced him to Sharlo Miles last year when I was Deputy Director. I put him on the job for two reasons: one – because he's our best field agent by a long way; and two – because he's nobody's fool. He's the last person that would believe in this shit if it wasn't true.”

Mackenzie raised his hand. “Okay, Bob, you've made your point. But even if you're right we still don't have any feasible way of getting rid of Christiano without causing a complete uproar. The American people are behind him one hundred percent. They've probably forgotten I exist, for Christ's sake. Unless you can come up with a decent plan I don't see we have any choice but to go along with him. We've got enough on our plates with the Middle East situation, we don't need our own people turning against us like they have in Europe. Whether he really is the Messiah or not I think at the moment he's our only chance of restoring some kind of peace to the world.”

“With all due respect, Mr President,” said Tobin. “Do you really think the Muslims are just going to accept him as the one true messenger of God? Their own saviour's just been murdered, Christiano is just inflaming them even more. Perhaps if we get rid of him then there's a chance we can avoid all out war – because that's where we're headed.”

“The war's already started, Bob,” said Mackenzie. “And a World War is almost inevitable. There's hardly a country on the planet that isn't experiencing at least some trouble. Our sole responsibility is to keep the citizens of the United States safe from harm. We have to protect our nation by whatever means possible. And at this moment in time I think we'd be best served going along with the show.”