The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1)

by Unknown

  A long pause, and the mob fell silent, waiting for the count of zero. But no zero came, and no sound of gunfire either, only the steady chatter of the helicopter hovering above them. They began to jeer triumphantly, revelling in their small victory.

  ‘Zero!’ they shouted mockingly, stomping to the rhythm of the chant. ‘Oh, Oh, Zero! Oh, Oh, Zero. Oh, Oh, Zero!’

  The two policemen struck down by scaffolding bars had barely had time to cock their guns. As the helicopter’s searchlight swept Downing Street illuminating the shadows, there was the glint of an automatic rifle lying on the ground. One of the mob dived for the weapon, raised it, and fired a long burst. The helicopter exploded in a great ball of flame, and the crowd below ran screaming from the rain of burning metal.

  In Moscow and Beijing, Berlin and Paris, in Tokyo, Washington and Brussels, police and the army battled the mobs. Fires raged unchecked, and the cities were enveloped in a twilight gloom fed by great columns of dust and smoke rising thousands of feet into the air, obliterating the sun.

  In London, the few TV and radio stations still operating broadcast largely inaccurate accounts of the latest events. Facts were hard to come by, reporters unable to move about the streets, and communication with news rooms brief and intermittent. During the last twenty-four hours rumours had begun to circulate about the disappearance of hundreds of prominent people. The Prime Minister himself, it was said, had vanished; so had several senior members of the government. Not only politicians had disappeared, it seemed, but also high-ranking officers in the armed forces, leading scientists and engineers, doctors and surgeons.

  It was all very mysterious and disturbing, though it was generally assumed that all these important people had fled London to save their own skins, callously abandoning less fortunate citizens. There was nothing extraordinary in that. It was simply another example of the cowardice and treachery of the privileged classes. What was new? It was the way they had always behaved.

  Soon however, an even more disturbing rumour began to circulate. These people had not run away at all. They had been kidnapped by the Angels of Mercy and were being held hostage. The implications were sinister indeed. How so many people could have been spirited away in the midst of such chaos no one could understand. The terrorists were evidently even more efficient and deadly than anyone had imagined. Such rumours and speculation enraged the mobs still more. Kidnapped or not, their leaders were responsible for what had happened.

  Fear overcame all rational thought. To many it seemed that the end of the world had come.

  From the Oval Office the US President made a late night appearance on TV, one last desperate attempt to calm the American people, more especially those millions still trapped in Washington. He was, he assured them, still at his post in the White House, and would remain there, confident that a solution would be found. Negotiations were at a delicate and crucial stage, and he had every hope would be successful. Similar messages were conveyed by their respective leaders to the citizens of Berlin and Brussels, Paris and Moscow, Tokyo and Beijing. None of these palliative words had the ring of truth; few were deceived.

  Meanwhile the terrorists tantalised and tormented their victims, agreeing terms, then, almost immediately, denying that they had agreed anything. As time passed and the deadline approached, the harassed negotiators were reluctantly compelled to conclude that the Angels of Mercy were toying with them. The frightening truth was that they had no intention of doing a deal with anyone. Their aim, it seemed, was to teach the free world a lesson it would never forget, so that next time – and assuredly there would be a next time – their terms would be accepted without discussion.

  Amongst those in the know, the only question now was not whether the devices would be detonated, but where, when, and in what order. Which city would be the first to be devastated? This was mental torture of the cruellest kind. Most worrying and most humiliating of all, eight of the most powerful countries on the planet were powerless to defend their citizens against the machinations of a few wicked men.

  In the small hours of the final day, Tuesday, the 28th October, fragmented and incoherent stories of strange events in Tehran began to drift into TV news stations. Reporting from a hotel in the city centre, an excited German reporter – unfortunately cut off in mid-sentence – appeared to suggest that Tehran was under some kind of attack. This however was immediately denied by a Russian reporter on the streets.

  Moments later the senior political commentator of ABA, the American global news network, reported that the Iranian government had received some kind of ultimatum, one that was apparently related to the terrorist organisation, The Angels of Mercy. Whoever was responsible had supposedly threatened specific consequences at hourly intervals unless certain conditions were met. According to official government spokesmen the ultimatum had been rejected with scorn by the government of Iran, who also strongly denied any links with the terrorists. The commentator reluctantly concluded that the ultimatum was a bluff, a desperate last-minute attempt by the eight countries under threat to resolve the crisis. If so, it had failed. Hopes swiftly raised were as swiftly dashed.

  For a time there was no further news. Then came a flurry of wild stories that seemed to indicate that Tehran was indeed under attack. There was talk of lights in the sky, mysterious flying objects and alien landings, culminating in the most absurd rumour of all – the disappearance of two of Iran’s largest oil terminals in the Persian Gulf. As if that were not incredible enough, it was reported a few minutes later that several key buildings in the centre of Tehran had also disappeared.

  These stories, flashed instantly around the world, although impossible for most people to take seriously, were lent a certain circumstantial credibility by the conviction with which they were reported. Next came a bulletin from a respected Asian journalist from TAT International, broadcasting live to the world from his hotel room on Imam Khomeini Street, as one by one, he watched the Central Bank of Iran, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and finally the Iranian Parliament, vanish into thin air. Less than fifteen minutes later the same correspondent reported that the entire Iranian government had resigned. This news flash was immediately confirmed by several news agencies. The assumption was that this startling development was in some way connected to the crisis precipitated by the Angels of Mercy.

  Thirty minutes later it was reported that the President of Iran had resigned, and that at ten a.m. Tehran time, six- thirty London time, his successor would make an important announcement on Iranian television.

  Across the world billions tuned in their TV monitors to view the new Iranian President. His message was surprisingly gracious. His country, he declared, wanted better relations with its neighbours and with the whole world. Iran was misunderstood. Far from condoning terrorism, it was doing everything in its power to combat this terrible scourge. As immediate proof of this he was happy to report that the terrorists who had planted bombs in various world capitals had been arrested, and had revealed the exact location of the devices, together with instructions for their de-activation. The government of Iran had already instructed its ambassadors to pass this vital information to their counterparts in Moscow, Peking, Tokyo, Berlin, Brussels, Paris and Washington. Regrettably, he added, the terrorist who had planted the devices in London had only given their approximate locations, refusing to reveal the precise co-ordinates. Under interrogation he had swallowed a poison capsule and died.

  Soon after two a.m. Washington time, less than two hours before the expiration of the deadline, the hunt for the bombs began in all eight cities. It was a desperate operation, carried out by helicopter-borne bomb disposal experts guarded by elite paratroopers who had to fight their way through angry mobs to reach their objectives. Miraculously, by two-thirty a.m. Washington time, the devices planted in all seven capitals had been located and de-activated.

  It was known that three devices had been planted in London, one in St. Paul’s Cathedral, one in The Stock Exchange, one in the Houses of Parliament. D
uring the last two hours, teams of bomb disposal experts had been scouring all three buildings. It was eight-thirty in the morning. In thirty minutes the bombs would explode, and so far not a single device had been found.

  In Parliament Square in front of the Houses of Parliament, in Old Broad Street, Throgmorton Street and Threadneedle Street around the Stock Exchange, and in the streets by St Paul’s, Cheapside, Newgate, Paternoster and Martin’s le Grand, the crowds gathered, fearful, but silent and subdued.

  In the last few hours the mood of the mobs had changed dramatically. It was as if the people of London were resigned to their fate, having lost all hope. Hunger, thirst and fatigue had drained their bodies, rage and despair their spirits. They were stunned by the anarchy of the last few days, and ashamed at having been a part of it. Hundreds of thousands had already taken refuge in the sewers that lie beneath the streets of London, in ravaged stores and office buildings, in theatres and cinemas, churches and museums, in underpasses and underground car parks, anywhere that offered the slenderest hope of surviving the catastrophe that was now inevitable.

  As the final minutes ticked away, millions sat huddled together for comfort on the streets, parents hugging their children, men and women their loved ones, doing what little they could to protect them from the horror to come.

  Five minutes to nine. Through the pall of smoke and dust covering the city, the pale ball of the morning sun was dimly visible. For a few seconds a single ray of sunlight pierced a small hole in the clouds, as if to offer hope. But then more clouds moved across, and the gloom descended once more. In Parliament Square the eyes of a hundred thousand people were focused on Big Ben.

  Two minutes to nine. Across London, and throughout the country, millions of men and women who had long since abandoned their faith in God, prayed to Him now. Embracing each other, the crowds in Parliament Square wept and said their last farewells. Lips moved silently, measuring the last precious seconds of their lives.

  One minute to nine. The crowd stirred, moved, it seemed, by the same thought. Men, women and children rose to their feet. Everyone was standing now. Heads bowed as the great mass of people began hesitantly to recite the dimly remembered words of the Lord’s Prayer.

  The minute hand of Big Ben clicked to the vertical. The murmur of voices died. A fearful hush descended. As the massive clock chimed the hour, a hundred thousand souls closed their eyes and waited for death. But the explosions did not come.

  Dreading what might happen, people opened their eyes again and raised their heads slowly, inch by inch. Looking about fearfully they stared, first in amazement, and then in disbelief. The Houses of Parliament were no longer there. Nothing was there, nothing but level ground. Across the Thames was an unobstructed view of County Hall, St. Thomas’s Hospital and the Albert Embankment. No Big Ben, no House of Commons, no House of Lords. The Palace of Westminster had vanished into thin air.

  So had St. Paul’s and the London Stock Exchange. It was impossible, it could not be, it had not happened. Across London crowds of people rubbed their eyes and looked away, and then looked back again, not believing what they were seeing, or rather what they were not seeing.

  There were no celebrations, only hugs and tears of joy, and heads shaking in bewilderment. No one knew what to say, where to go, what to do. Aimlessly the crowds drifted, some to the smouldering ruins of Buckingham Palace, some to Trafalgar Square, some to Piccadilly Circus, many to the City or Parliament Square, to see for themselves if the incredible rumours were true. When eventually they arrived to swell the already vast crowds, the new arrivals gazed in silent wonder, and looked at each other in amazement, hoping that someone would explain these extraordinary events. But no one did, no one could; for no explanations were possible.

  The first bells to ring were those of Westminster Abbey. Then one by one the churches of London responded, until the whole city resonated to the joyful sound of pealing bells. The Deputy Prime Minister appeared briefly on television to urge people to return to their homes so that the streets could be cleared, and public services resumed. He did not mention the disappearance of any buildings, saying only that the danger had passed, and that the government would do all in its power to ensure that life returned to normal as soon as possible.

  Television newscasters were naturally less circumspect and so the speculation was endless. Who had made these buildings disappear? And why? Some insisted it must have been the terrorists. Others scorned the idea. What possible motive could they have had? And anyway, weren’t they all either dead or in jail? Many were convinced the government was responsible and was concealing the truth. Was that not what governments always did? But then, as others shrewdly pointed out, governments invariably claimed credit for every good thing that happened. In this case they had not, so obviously they were as mystified as everyone else.

  One reporter addicted to science fiction suggested that some alien, though presumably friendly entity, had made the buildings disappear in order to locate and de-activate the bombs but since he was unable to explain how such a thing was possible, no one took him seriously.

  Still the question remained. Where were the Houses of Parliament? Where was St. Paul’s? Where was the London Stock Exchange? Had they really disappeared? How could they? There were no answers, only theories, and of those there were plenty. Perhaps the most popular one was that they had not disappeared at all, and that the whole phenomenon was in reality some kind of mass illusion. Many psychiatrists and medical experts agreed that such an illusion was theoretically possible, and that in the panic and confusion of the moment the crowds could simply have been duped. Those who disagreed pointed out that such phenomena were normally transient; but then, as it turned out, so was this one.

  For when the sun rose the next morning, touching with gold the veil of dust and smoke that lay over London, there they were where they had always been – The Houses of Parliament, St Paul’s Cathedral and the London Stock Exchange.

  At about the same time, the news broke that the three buildings that had allegedly vanished in Tehran had also reappeared, thus seeming to confirm the mass illusion theory. Those who only twenty-four hours before had seen those vast empty spaces with their own eyes were utterly confused, those who had not were deeply sceptical. But almost everyone now accepted that no buildings had actually disappeared. It was generally agreed by knowledgeable observers that these strange events were the product of mass trauma. Fear, it was said, could paralyse normal rational thought processes, so that people confused fantasy and reality.

  It was the sci-fi addict who was the first to ask an interesting question. The devices concealed in London were never found. That they existed was beyond doubt. So what had happened to them?

  But even as the TV morning newscasters were attempting to rationalise these extraordinary happenings, stripping them of mystery and magic, and putting everything into sensible and reasonable perspective, something even more extraordinary was taking place in the skies over London. And not only over London. For as the dust cleared, and the sun burned away the mist, a light blazed, a light as powerful as a hundred lightning flashes. Across the world billions witnessed the same phenomenon that day.

  In the sky hung a great sword, its blade glowing so brightly that no one dared look at it for more than a second or two, fearing permanent blindness. As the sun rose higher in the heavens, the sword shone brighter and brighter. In the afternoon its light began to dim. At the day’s end, when the sun sank below the horizon, the sword glowed blood red, fading from view with the dying light.

  There were a few, a very few, who recognised that sword and understood its meaning, proclaiming as it did that the ancient prophecy had been fulfilled, and that Arthur had come again to save the world.

  The End of the Beginning

  Other books by the author Alan Fenton will be soon available on Amazon Kindle and Paperback.

  The Hour of Camelot,

  Shadow of the Titan

  And already on Kindle

  Ki
ll or be killed

  Table of Contents

  Part One To Save the World

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Part Two Father and Son

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen