Circle Series 4-in-1

by Ted Dekker

  Thomas studied the tightly rolled powder ball. “This, my friend, is our backup plan.”

  The canyon was gray. The Horde lay in their filth. Forty of Thomas’s men knelt over fuses with their flint wheels ready.

  Thomas took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. Opened them.

  “Fire the north cliff.”

  A soft whoosh sounded behind him. The archer released the signal arrow. Fire shot into the sky, trailing smoke.

  Twenty stood with Thomas on the ledge. They all stared at the cliff and waited.

  And waited.

  Nausea swept through Thomas’s stomach.

  “How long does it take?” someone asked.

  As if in answer, a spectacular display of fire shot into the sky far down the cliff.

  But it wasn’t an explosion. The trapped bomb hadn’t been strong enough to break its wrappings or the stone that squeezed it tight.

  Another display went off closer. Then another and another. One by one the bombs ignited and spewed fire into the sky.

  But they did not break the cliff.

  Scabs began to scream in the canyon. None had seen such a show of power before. But it wasn’t the kind of power Thomas needed.

  He dropped the last bomb into his saddlebag and swung onto his horse. “Mikil, do not fire the southern cliff! Hold for my signal. One horn blast.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Down.”

  “Down to the Horde? Alone?”

  “Alone.”

  He spun the stallion and kicked it into a full gallop.

  Below, the Horde’s cries swelled. But by the time Thomas reached the sandy wash, their fear had abated. Fire had erupted from the rocks above them, but not one Scab had been hurt.

  Thomas entered the canyon and rode straight for their front lines at a full run. The sky was now a pale gray. Before him stretched a hundred thousand Scabs. Eighty thousand—his men had killed twenty thousand yesterday. None of this mattered. Only the ten thousand directly ahead, packed from side to side and watching him ride, mattered right now.

  He leaped over the boulders the Forest Guard had used as a fighting base yesterday. If Desert Dwellers had trees and could make bows and arrows, they could have brought him down then, while he was still fifty yards out.

  Thomas slid to a stop just out of spear range. Elyon, give me strength.

  “Desert Dwellers! My name is Thomas of Hunter! If you wish to live even another hour, you will bring me your leader. I will speak to him and he will not be harmed. If your leader is a coward, then you will all die when we rain fire down from the skies and burn you to cinders!”

  He calmed his stamping stallion and reached for the bomb in his saddlebag. He was playing this by ear, and it was a dangerous tune.

  A loud rumble suddenly cracked the morning air and rolled over the canyon. A small section of cliff crashed down so far to the back of the army that Thomas could hardly see it. Dust rose to the sky.

  A bomb had actually exploded! One bomb in twenty. Maybe a spark that had smoldered and fumed before detonating in a weak spot.

  How many had been crushed? Too few. Still, the Horde shifted away from the cliff in a ripple of terror.

  Bolstered by this good fortune, Thomas thundered another challenge. “Bring me your leader or we will crush you all like flies!”

  The front line parted, and a Scab warrior wearing the black sash of a general rode out ten paces and stopped. But he wasn’t Qurong.

  “We aren’t fooled by your tricks!” the general roared. “You heat rocks with fire and split them with water. We can do this as well. You think we fear fire?”

  “Then you don’t know the kind of fire that Elyon has given us! If you lay down your weapons and retreat, we will spare your army. If you stay, we will show you the fires of hell itself.”

  “You lie!”

  “Then send out a hundred of your men, and I’ll show you Elyon’s power!”

  The general considered this. He snapped his fingers.

  None moved.

  He turned and barked an order.

  A large group marched out ten paces and stopped. It was a very dangerous tune indeed. If the bomb in his lap didn’t detonate, there would be no bluffing.

  “I suggest you move to the side,” Thomas said.

  The general hesitated, then walked his horse slowly away from his men.

  Thomas withdrew his flint wheel, lit a two-foot fuse, and let it burn halfway before urging his horse forward. He ran the steed directly at the warriors, hurled his smoking bomb among them, and veered sharply to his right.

  The smoldering bag landed in the middle of the Scabs, who instinctively ran for cover.

  But there was no cover.

  With a mighty whump, the bomb exploded, flinging bodies into the air. The concussion hit Thomas full in the face, a hot wind that momentarily took his breath away.

  The general had been knocked off his horse. He stood calmly and stared at the carnage. At least fifty of his men lay dead. Many others were wounded. Only a few escaped unscathed.

  “Now you will listen,” Thomas cried. “You doubt that we can bring these cliffs down on you with such a weapon?”

  The general held his ground. Fear wasn’t common among the Horde, but this man’s steel was impressive. He refused to answer.

  Thomas pulled out the ram’s horn and blasted once.

  “Then you will see another demonstration. But this is your last. If you do not withdraw, every last one of you will die today.”

  The fireworks started at the far end, only this time on the southern cliff. Thomas desperately hoped for at least one more explosion. One weak spot along the cliff, and one bag stuffed with black powder to send tons of rock—

  Whump!

  A section of cliff began to fall.

  Whump! Whump!

  Two more! Suddenly a full third of the cliff slipped off the face and thundered down onto the screaming Horde. A huge slab of rock, enough to cover a thousand men, crashed to the ground, and then slowly toppled over and slammed into the army. The earth quaked, and more rock fell. Dust roiled skyward. Horses panicked and reared.

  The Horde weren’t given to fear, but they weren’t suicidal either. The general gave the order to retreat only moments after the stampede had begun.

  Thomas watched in stunned silence as the army fled, like a receding tide. Thousands had been killed by the rock. Perhaps ten thousand. But the greater victory here was the fear he’d planted in their hearts.

  His own army cautiously edged to the lip of the northern cliff. What remained of it. Like him, they watched in a kind of stupefied wonder. They could have killed even more Scabs with the arrows that had just arrived, but the Forest Guard seemed to have forgotten those.

  It took only minutes for the last of the Horde to disappear into the desert. As was their custom, they killed their wounded as they retreated. There was enough meat in this canyon to feed the jackals and vultures for a year.

  Thomas sat alone on his horse staring down the deserted canyon, still unnerved by the devastation they had wrought upon the enemy. This enemy of Elyon.

  His whole army had gathered above, seven thousand including those who’d arrived in the night. They began to chase the fleeing enemy with a chant of victory.

  “Elyon! Elyon! Elyon!”

  After a few minutes the chant changed. From the west toward the east, a single name swept along the long line of warriors. The chant grew until it filled the canyon with a thunderous roar.

  “Hunter! Hunter! Hunter!”

  Thomas slowly turned his horse and walked up the valley. It was time to go home.

  8

  CRISIS WAS a strange beast. At times it united. At times it divided.

  For the moment, this particular crisis had at least forced a few of Washington’s elite to lay aside political differences and submit to the president’s demands for an immediate meeting.

  Clearly, a virus was neither Democrat nor Republican.

&
nbsp; Even so, Thomas sat at the back of the auditorium feeling out of place in this company of leaders—not because he was unaccustomed to leadership, but because his own experience in leadership was vastly different from theirs. His leadership had more to do with strength and physical power than with the manipulative politics that he knew would assert itself here.

  He gazed out over the twenty-three men and women whom the president had gathered in the conference hall off the West Wing. Thomas had flown westward, over the Atlantic, and with the time change arrived midday in Washington. Merton Gains had left him with the assurance that he would be called upon to address their questions soon. Bob Stanton, an assistant, would answer any questions in the meantime. Bob sat on one side, Kara on the other.

  Funny thing about Kara. Was he older than her now, or still younger? His body was still twenty-five, no denying that. But what about his mind? She seemed to look to him more as an older brother now. He’d given her the details of his victory using the black powder, and she’d mostly listened with a hint of awe in her eyes.

  “They’re late,” Bob said. “Should’ve started by now.”

  Thomas’s mind drifted back to the victory in the Natalga Gap. There, he was a world-renowned leader, a battle-hardened general, feared by the Horde, loved by his people. He was a husband, and a father to two children. His fifteen years as commander had been gracious to him, despite the misjudgments that William was kind enough to remind him of.

  The chant still echoed through his mind. Hunter, Hunter, Hunter.

  And here he was what? The twenty-five-year-old kid in the back who was going to talk about some psychic dreams he was having. Grew up in the Philippines. Parents divorced. Mother suffers from manic depression. Never finished college. Mixed up with the mob. No wonder he’s having these crazy dreams. But if President Robert Blair says he goes on, he goes on. Privileges of the office.

  A tall gray-haired man with a beak fit for a year bird walked on the stage and sat at a long table set up with microphones. He was followed by three others who took seats. Then the president, Robert Blair, entered and walked to the center seat. The meeting had the aura of a press conference.

  “That’s Ron Kreet, chief of staff, on the left,” Bob said. “Then Graham Meyers, secretary of defense. I think you know Phil Grant, CIA. And that would be Barbara Kingsley, health secretary.”

  Thomas nodded. The big guns. The front row was crowded with vaguely familiar faces. Other cabinet members. Senators. Congressmen. Director of the FBI.

  “Not often you get such a broad spectrum of power in one room,” Bob said.

  Ron Kreet cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming. As all of you know, the State Department received a letter by fax roughly fourteen hours ago that threatened our nation with a virus now known as the Raison Strain. You’ll find a copy of this fax and all other pertinent documents in the folder you were given.”

  It was clear that not all of them had read the fax. A number flipped open their folders and shuffled through papers.

  “The president has asked to speak to you personally on this matter.” Kreet faced Robert Blair. “Sir.”

  Robert Blair had always reminded Thomas of Robert Redford. He didn’t have as many freckles, but otherwise he was a spitting image of the actor. The president leaned forward and adjusted his mike, face relaxed, stern but not tense.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” His voice sounded shallow. Blair shifted his head to one side and cleared his throat.

  “I’ve thought of a dozen different ways to proceed, and I’ve decided to be completely candid. I’ve invited a panel to answer your questions in a moment, but let me summarize a situation that we’re now opening up to you.”

  He took a deep breath. “A group of unconventional terrorists, whom we believe to be associated with a Swiss, Valborg Svensson, has released a virus in numerous cities throughout the world. These cities now include six of our own, and we believe that number will increase with each passing hour. We have verified the Raison Strain in Chicago, New York, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Miami, and Washington.”

  The room was still enough to pick out heavy breathers.

  “The Raison Strain is an airborne virus that spreads at an unprecedented rate. It is lethal and we have no cure. According to our best estimates, three hundred million Americans will be infected by the virus within two weeks.”

  The room itself seemed to gasp, so universal was the reaction.

  “That’s . . . what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, Peggy, that if all the people in this room weren’t infected ten minutes ago, you probably are now. I’m also saying that unless we find a way to deal with this virus, everyone living between New York and Los Angeles will be dead in four weeks.”

  Silence.

  “You knowingly exposed us to this virus?” someone demanded.

  “No, you were probably exposed before you set foot in this building, Bob.”

  Then noise. Lots of it. A cacophony of bewilderment and outrage. An older gentleman stood to Thomas’s left.

  “Surely you can’t be sure of this. The claim will cause a panic.”

  A dozen others offered slightly less restrained agreement.

  The president lifted his hand. “Please. Shut up and sit down, Charles! All of you!”

  The man hesitated and sat. The room quieted.

  “The only way we’re going to make it through this is to focus on the problem. My blood has been drawn. I’ve tested positive for the Raison Strain. I have three weeks to live.”

  Smart man, Thomas thought. He’d effectively if only temporarily shut down the room.

  The president reached to one side, lifted a ream of paper, and stood it on end using both hands. “The news doesn’t get any better. The State Department received a second fax less than two hours ago. In it we have a very detailed and extensive demand. The New Allegiance, as they call themselves, will deliver an antivirus that would neutralize the threat of the Raison Strain. In exchange they have demanded, among other things, our key weapons systems. Their list is very specific, so specific that I’m surprised. It demands that the items be delivered to a destination of their choosing in fourteen days.”

  He lowered the paper with a gentle thump. “All of the nuclear powers have been given the same ultimatum. This, ladies and gentlemen, is not a group of schoolboys or some half-witted terrorists we’re dealing with. This is a highly organized group that has every intention of radically shifting the balance of world power in the next twenty-one days.”

  He stopped and scanned the room. They were in a freeze frame.

  A man in the front voiced the thought screaming through each of their minds. “That’s . . . that’s impossible.”

  The president didn’t respond.

  “Is that possible?” the man asked.

  Bob leaned over to Thomas. “Jack Spake, ranking Democrat,” he whispered.

  “Is what possible?”

  “Shipping our weapons in two weeks.”

  “We’re analyzing that now. But they’ve been . . . selective. They seem to have considered everything.”

  “And you’re telling us that with the brightest scientists and the best health-care professionals in the world, we have no way to deal with this virus?”

  The president deferred to his secretary of health. “Barbara?”

  “Naturally, we’re working on that.” Feedback squealed and she backed off before regaining the mike. “There are roughly three thousand virologists in our country qualified to work on a challenge of this magnitude, and we’re securing their, um, assistance as we speak. But you have to understand that we’re dealing with a mutation of a genetically engineered vaccine here—literally billions of DNA and RNA pairs. Unraveling an antivirus may take more time than we have. Raison Pharmaceutical, the creator of the vaccine from which the virus was adapted, is providing us with everything they have. Their information alone will take a week to sort through, even with the help of their own geneticists.
Unfortunately, their top geneticist in charge of the project has gone missing. We believe she has been kidnapped by these same terrorists.”

  The magnitude of the problem was beginning to settle in.

  A dozen questions erupted at once, and the president insisted on a semblance of order. Questions on the virus were fired in salvos and answered in fashion.

  What about other forms of treatment? How does the virus work? How fast does it spread? How long before people start dying?

  Barbara handled them all with a professionalism that Thomas found admirable. She showed them the same computer simulation that he’d seen in Bangkok, and when the screen went blue at the end, the questions came to a halt.

  “So basically, this . . . this thing isn’t going away, and we have no way to deal with it. In three weeks we’ll all be dead. There’s nothing . . . nothing at all that we can do. Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “No, Pete, we’re not saying that,” the president said. “We’re saying that we don’t know of any way to deal with it. Not yet.”

  To their right a man with black hair and a perfectly round face stood. “And what happens if we give in to their demands?”

  Bob leaned over. “Dwight Olsen. Senate majority leader. Hates the president.”

  The president deferred to the secretary of defense, Graham Meyers.

  “As we see it, giving in to their demands is out of the question,” Meyers said. “We don’t deal with terrorists. If we were to hand over the weapons systems they’ve demanded, the United States would be left defenseless. We assume that these people are working with at least one sovereign nation. In the space of three weeks, that nation would hold enough power to manipulate whomever it wishes through threat of force. They would essentially enslave the world.”

  “Having a military doesn’t give a nation control of the world,” Olsen said. “The USSR had a military and didn’t use it.”

  “The USSR had an opponent with as many nuclear weapons as they did. These people intend to disarm anyone with the will to deter them. You have to understand, they’re demanding the delivery systems, the nukes, even our aircraft carriers, for crying out loud! They may not immediately have the personnel to man a battle group, but if they have our delivery systems, they won’t need to. They’re also demanding evidence, very detailed I might add, that we have disabled all of our early warning systems and long-range radar. Like the president said, we’re not dealing with Boy Scouts here. They seem to know what they’re talking about.”