The Hour of Camelot

by Alan Fenton

  ‘You want to know about Khalid,’ said the Magus. It was not a question.

  Disconcerting though it was, Merlin’s ability to read minds saved a great deal of time. Arthur shifted on his chair. ‘Could you not manifest your whole body?’

  A severe look. ‘As I have told you before, full manifestations are tiring and usually quite unnecessary. It is, after all, my head you wish to consult, is it not?’

  Arthur acknowledged with a smile that it was.

  ‘You are wondering if Sadiq and Khalid are up to something,’ continued Merlin.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And yet you have the most advanced and sophisticated surveillance network on the planet.’

  ‘It’s as you always told me. Nothing is what it seems.’

  As if to prove the point, the head glided from shelf to table where, disconcertingly, it came to a halt next to the mug of coffee, its big green eyes staring unblinkingly at Arthur. ‘Mercury was only a few hours old when he stole the gods’ cattle from Apollo,’ said the head, apropos of nothing. ‘Did I ever tell you that?’

  ‘You might have done,’ said Arthur. ‘I can’t remember.’ ‘You do know, of course,’ said the head, looking sternly at

  Arthur, ‘that Mercury is the patron of thieves?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Arthur, who found the proximity of the holographic head disturbing.

  ‘Well, live and learn, he is,’ said the head, retreating to its original position on the shelf between sugar and biscuits. ‘He is also a chronic schemer.’ Another penetrating look. ‘Did you know that?’

  ‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Accompanied by steeply arched eyebrows, the word conveyed both astonishment and mild rebuke. ‘Let me educate you, then,’ said Merlin, as if Arthur were still his pupil at Glastonbury school. ‘Mercury and Mars were the sons of Zeus, and Mercury loved playing tricks on his big oaf of a brother.’

  ‘What has all this to do with Khalid?’

  With a broad wink of a holographic eye, Merlin’s head began to fade, and to Arthur’s enormous frustration there was soon nothing on the shelf between the biscuit tin and the sugar bowl. The Magus had vanished, leaving behind him only his voice, and that too was fading fast. ‘Mercury is the clue.’

  Clue? What sort of clue? Why was the Magus being so infuriatingly obscure? Why couldn’t he just say what he meant? When night came, Arthur fed the planetary codes into the telescope’s computer and watched it track through the solar system, coming to rest at last on the planet Mercury; nothing especially distinguished about it, the second smallest of all the planets orbited the sun every eighty-eight days, and was barely visible to the naked eye.

  So what did Merlin mean, Mercury is the clue?

  Somewhere in the shadowy waters of Arthur’s memory a thought glided, elusive as a fish.

  Twenty Six

  NIWIS

  Through the afternoon and evening, past midnight and on through the small hours of the next day until mid-morning, Ian Tichgame, Agravaine and Arthur debated, theorised and squabbled, venting their growing frustration. Sitting at his own terminal, saying nothing, but listening with great concentration to every word, was Mordred. At Arthur’s request, Tich had taken him on as his assistant. ‘My nephew is observant, and he’s a good listener. I have a feeling he understands more than he says.’ So far though, the young man had made no significant contribution to the business of NIWIS, and Tich was not overly impressed.

  Agravaine raised two hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m all thought out, nuncle. My head aches, my back is killing me, even my brain cells hurt.’

  ‘Let’s take a break,’ said Tich. He was tired. Every part of his big body was tired, his arms, his legs, his shoulders, his belly, the wimples of fat round his neck – they were all tired. ‘Let’s look at it again in a couple of hours. Things could look different then.’

  ‘In a couple of hours the world could be at war,’ said Arthur. ‘Let’s look at it now.’

  The bin at Agravaine’s feet overflowed with soggy tissues. For the hundredth time he polished his pink-tinted spectacles fastidiously, deposited the used tissue in the bin, and, with compulsive care, realigned the tissue box until it was precisely parallel with his keyboard and equidistant from all the other tissue boxes. No one else, not Tich, not Mordred, not even Arthur, understood that if that tissue box was not correctly aligned, the world would end.

  For the umpteenth time Arthur repeated Merlin’s words. ‘Mercury and Mars were the sons of Zeus. Mercury loved playing tricks on his big oaf of a brother.’

  Tich sighed. ‘Let’s give it one last try.’

  ‘The clue is Mercury,’ said Arthur. He tapped his keyboard, and Mercury pulsated on his monitor. ‘What do we know about him?’

  ‘He was the messenger of the gods,’ droned Agravaine wearily.

  ‘How does that help us?’ asked Tich. Despite his exhaustion, there was the glint of adventure in his eye.

  ‘I don’t see how it does,’ said Arthur. ‘What else do we know?’

  ‘We know Mercury was a thief,’ said Tich.

  ‘True,’ said Arthur thoughtfully. ‘He stole Apollo’s cattle.’ ‘Who exactly was Apollo?’ asked Agravaine.

  ‘The sun god,’ said Arthur.

  More pondering. ‘Wait a minute,’ said Tich, his eyes seemingly focused on something far out in space. ‘Apollo had to be an excellent guard for the gods to trust him with their cattle. Right?’

  Agravaine was losing interest. ‘So?’

  ‘So how come Mercury was able to steal them?’ ‘Apollo was asleep,’ suggested Arthur.

  ‘The gods never sleep,’ said Tich.

  Agravaine yawned. ‘Doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘If he was awake, why didn’t he see Mercury steal his cattle?’

  A long, baffled silence was broken at last by Mordred sitting at his terminal. ‘Perhaps he didn’t know what he was looking at,’ he murmured, his back to the three men.

  ‘Are you suggesting he was awake and just wasn’t looking,’ said Tich.

  Mordred hunched his shoulders in embarrassment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He was looking. The thing is . . . ’ Tailing off, he appeared to have lost heart.

  ‘Go on, Mord,’ prompted Arthur encouragingly, ‘we’re listening.’

  Mordred swung round on his stool to face them. ‘Apollo was looking alright,’ he said, a glint of excitement in his eyes, ‘but he only saw what Mercury wanted him to see. He didn’t see what was there in front of his nose, because he was fooled by a master of deception. Isn’t that what Merlin’s clue was about?’

  Tich stared wide-eyed at Mordred. ‘I don’t get it,’ said Agravaine.

  ‘Sadiq and Ibn both have their own call signs,’ said Mordred. ‘Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And Ibn’s call sign is . . . ?’ He left the question hanging. Agravaine punched the air with his fist. ‘Mercury!’ he cried.

  ‘Oh my god! His call sign is Mercury!’

  ‘Mercury the schemer who plays tricks on Mars,’ said Tich, a new respect in his eye as he looked at Mordred, ‘Mercury the winged messenger whose messages no one trusts for fear they are lies and inventions.’

  ‘So,’ said Arthur slowly, ‘Merlin is telling us Khalid is the arch deceiver.’

  As the meeting broke up, Arthur put his arm round Mordred’s shoulder. ‘Congratulations, Mord. That was a brilliant insight of yours.’

  ‘Pure luck,’ said Mordred modestly.

  Tich shook his head. ‘That wasn’t luck. You, young man, understand how truth can be manipulated, and that’s a rare gift. You shall be my second-in-command. Together we shall develop the art of deception until it becomes a weapon as powerful as any in Camelot’s armoury.’

  Less than an hour after the meeting broke up, TV channels around the world showed first one, and then a second Titan – the largest commercial aircraft in the world – soaring into the blue sky above the Kingdom of the Euphrates and the Democratic
Arab Republic, bound for Washington. Minutes later Arthur was on videolink to Tich and Agravaine to inform them that Techforce Ten in Command Control had just monitored two calls from the White House to the Titans wishing the two leaders God speed and expressing confidence that the historic Camp David meeting would be a fruitful one.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ said Agravaine, ‘we were wrong.’

  ‘It looks like it,’ agreed Arthur, who had joined Agravaine in Galaxy. In rapid succession, he issued a number of orders. Eclipse, piloted by Lancelot, took off from the launch pad, and was soon heading west at top speed, its mission to stay mantled and track the two Titans on their flight to the US.

  From Eclipse came the voice of the robot controller. ‘Overhead Titans in ten minutes.’

  Waiting for further news from Eclipse, Arthur pursued his train of thought. ‘Do we have Sadiq and Khalid’s signatures?’

  Agravaine checked with Techforce Ten who confirmed they were analysing the available data. The “signatures” of world leaders, prominent politicians, army, navy and air force commanders, doctors, lawyers, businessmen, secret service agents, police and of course known terrorists, were stored in their thousands in Command Control’s closely-guarded online storage depot. These “signatures”, gathered over the years, mostly by satellites and robots, helped identify individuals by various means, including physical characteristics such as facial and body configuration, colour and shape of eyes, hair colour and texture, fingerprints, skin abnormalities like moles and scars, body temperature, smell, accents and voice. Not only physical clues, but behavioural patterns and gestures were analysed and stored. In a number of cases it had also been possible to obtain DNA profiles.

  ‘We do,’ confirmed Agravaine.

  ‘And we can positively identify them?’

  ‘All we have to do is programme a few holograph mini- satellites with their signatures.’

  ‘Let’s do it, then.’

  ‘What’s the point, nuncle? We already know they’re on board the Titans.’

  Arthur’s expression gave nothing away. ‘It will be a useful test for the holograph satellites,’ he said.

  Giving his uncle a strange look, Agravaine’s fingers floated across the keyboard. He pointed at the monitor. ‘Watch for circular red markers. A holograph satellite makes a pinging sound that becomes one steady signal when it locks on to its target.’ The two men hung expectantly over the big table screen. Three red markers floated in and out of view making their pinging sounds, then another five, then nothing for thirty seconds, then another two. None of them was sending the lock- on signal. Agravaine gnawed at what was left of his nails.

  ‘That’s odd.’ Agravaine frowned. ‘All those satellites are within signal range of the Titans. We should have picked up Sadiq’s and Khalid’s signatures by now.’

  More satellite images floated into view. ‘Still no signal?’

  ‘No,’ said Agravaine. ‘I don’t understand it. Must be a satellite fault.’

  ‘I dare say,’ said Arthur. Picking up something odd in his voice, Agravaine looked at him sharply, but again his expression was inscrutable.

  Now Lancelot was on speaker. ‘We are mantled, overhead Titans at sixty thousand feet. Awaiting instructions.’

  Arthur’s hand hit the gravitational wave communicator. ‘Scan both Titans, Lance.’

  ‘What am I looking for, sir?’

  ‘Anything that ought not to be there. Or anything that ought to be there and isn’t.’

  Lancelot was puzzled. ‘Such as?’

  ‘You’ll know when you find it, or when you don’t,’ was the laconic response.

  Agravaine wiped the sweat from his bald head. ‘What’s this all about, nuncle?’

  ‘When I know, I’ll tell you.’

  Which could hardly be less informative. Agravaine cursed under his breath, his admiration for Arthur sorely tested.

  Minutes later, Arthur was on screen with the US President. ‘ I don’t know where Khalid and Sadiq are, but one thing I do know – they are not on the Titans.’

  ‘They were when I spoke to them a couple of hours ago,’ said the President.

  ‘How can you be certain of that?’

  ‘I recognised their voices.’ During the silence that followed, the US President was thinking hard. ‘You don’t think someone could have imitated them?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Arthur. ‘Or maybe you really did speak to Sadiq and Khalid. But whoever you spoke to and wherever they were, they were not on the Titans.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said the President. ‘Sadiq, I never trusted. But Khalid? For chrissake, Arthur, we went to school together. He and I are buddies from way back.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘At my age you can’t be sure of anything,’ said the President glumly. ‘Fact is, I can’t afford to take risks. So let’s say you are right, and those two are holed up somewhere else – who in God’s name is on board those Titans?’

  ‘Who, or what?’ said Arthur.

  On the screen Arthur watched the President’s expression transform itself from confusion to horror. ‘You don’t think . . . ?’ ‘I don’t want to speculate,’ said Arthur. ‘We have both aircraft under surveillance.’

  The President was close to panic. ‘They’re planning to crash them on US targets,’ he said, by now convinced that imminent catastrophe threatened. ‘Filled with explosives they could kill a heck of a lot of people. This could be another 9/11 disaster.’

  ‘I believe they may have other ideas,’ said Arthur. ‘Such as?’

  Before Arthur could respond, Lancelot was on screen. ‘Eclipse has just completed scanning the two Titans. First, we confirm that neither Sadiq nor Khalid are on board either aircraft. Second, both aircraft have been converted into missile launch pads and are carrying medium-range missiles armed with nuclear warheads. We can’t be precise, but we think each Titan is carrying about eight missiles. Third, both craft are packed with high explosives and fissionable material, so aside from the missiles, the Titans themselves are deadly weapons.’

  The President’s face was grey. ‘This can’t be happening,’ he said, his voice unsteady.

  Lancelot continued relentlessly. ‘Each Titan carries a crew of seven men. So it’s a suicide mission. My guess is they’ll launch the missiles at military complexes and missile sites across the USA, and then, if they haven’t been destroyed, they’ll crash both aircraft into pre-selected targets – quite possibly key civilian centres.’ Having delivered his disturbing message, Lancelot faded from the screen.

  ‘They’ll never reach the USA,’ declared the President, thumping his desk. ‘We’ll blow them out of the sky before they get there.’ A moment’s reflection, and he was having doubts. ‘I hope to God we have enough time,’ he muttered. Before Arthur could comment, the President broke off to consult his advisers. A minute later he was back on screen. ‘The Senate is insisting on evidence before we shoot down two commercial aircraft.’

  ‘The images we scanned from the Titans are on their way to your Space Defence Operations Centre,’ said Arthur. ‘They should be there by now.’

  ‘Hold again,’ said the President.

  This time he was back on screen almost immediately. ‘Space Centre has the data, and I have the Senate’s go-ahead. This is it, Arthur. We have five fighters in the air.’

  ‘How long before they reach the targets?’

  ‘Approximately fifteen minutes. Pray God they get there in time.’

  ‘Why not use heat-seeking missiles to shoot down the Titans?’ ‘If they see missiles coming at them, the Titans might launch their nuclear missiles. It’s a close call, but my Defence Chiefs have opted for fighter aircraft. They believe they’ll have surprise on their side. Either way there’s a risk.’

  ‘I can take the risk out of the equation,’ said Arthur. ‘How?’

  ‘Eclipse is overhead the Titans. Let me order her to Elimat them.’

  The President hesitated. ‘It’s tempting, bu
t I can’t let you do that,’ he said. ‘Letting Camelot do the job for us would be like admitting to the terrorists that the USA can’t defend itself.’

  Arthur did not argue the point. America’s prestige as the greatest power on earth was at stake. Yet as time ran out and the two aircraft lumbered through the air toward the US Eastern Seaboard, it was obvious that the President was taking a big chance. Millions of people were in danger. The connection was cut, the two men agreeing to consult again shortly.

  The US fighters were now ten minutes from their target, the Titans twenty minutes from the east coast of the USA.

  ‘We have visual, Lance,’ said Agravaine. ‘Give me sound.’

  Mini-images of two fat-bellied Titans were on the table monitor, the piercing high-pitched whine of their engines shrill in Galaxy’s speakers. Then, like a bass counterpoint, came Lancelot’s deep voice: ‘Transmitting visuals of Titan’s interior. Minimal activity, as you see.’

  The seconds ticked by. Techforce Ten gave an update. Fighters nine minutes from target, Titans nineteen minutes from US coast. From Eclipse, Lancelot continued to report on the activity, or lack of it, in the Titans’ cabins: ‘No significant movement. Everyone seems to be waiting. Missile launch believed imminent. Exact timing uncertain.’

  And again from Techforce: Fighters seven minutes from target, Titans seventeen minutes from US coast. Each successive Techforce update heightened the tension in the control room. Arthur studied the pictures transmitted from the interior of the Titans, searching for possible clues to the timing of the missile launch. Agravaine, too nervous to look, circled the dimly-lit Galaxy, helped himself to some coffee from the dispenser and hopping back on his stool, resumed his frenzied realigning of tissue boxes and plastic cups to the left and right of him.

  Once more from Techforce: Fighters five minutes from target, Titans fifteen minutes . . .