“Yes sir, so I see. A medical professional, indeed.” Claxton commented. But being a seasoned and well compensated professional, he wasn’t about to allow his personal condemnation or suspicions of this so called nurse’s credentials to produce any discord with his client. “Sir, I’ve been instructed to notify you of our estimated time of arrival. Barring unforeseen circumstances, we should arrive at your destination in approximately one hour and 35 minutes. At your disposal, we offer a fully stocked bar, phone and video player with unlimited access to a satellite library of high-definition films.” He cast a contemptuous glance towards the “nurse” and added, “Films of all ratings to satisfy your every desire.”
She sneered back with disdain, and slid her hand further up her employer’s thigh.
Sniffing with disapproval, unwilling to comment further, Claxton looked ahead and finished his obligatory speech. “Should you require anything further, do notify me by depressing the red button on the center console.”
The dark divider rose, allowing Claxton to concentrate on his driving as he steered south. The vestiges of urban Britannia melted away, replaced by a soothing green landscape of rolling fields, dotted here and there with modest country homes and the occasional herd of sheep. “Nurse, indeed,” Claxton scoffed, both of his gloved hands tightening around the wheel. “And I’m bloody King Charles.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Watching as his new arrival, Thomas Jefferson Franklin, sat on the thin, military-issue green blanket of his neatly made bed while lacing up his boots, Lieutenant Randolph Armbruster stood at the entrance to the barracks. Hands on hips, shaking his head, he thought, what did I do to get saddled with this wealthy American vigilante? It’ll be my ass for sure if even the smallest misfortune should befall the bugger. Why couldn’t this Yank have stayed home and left the business of apprehending his old classmate to us? He’s a nuisance, that’s what he is, an inconvenience and a royal nuisance.
Trying to decide how he should handle this greeting, Armbruster watched the lone figure, one solitary man in a room housing 20 double-tiered bunks.
~~~
Thomas felt the unsettling sensation of being observed and tugged on his boot strings, tying a knot before turning to see Armbruster. He stood at attention and waited for the officer who stared at him from the doorway. The look on the lieutenant’s face contained the same elements he had seen on the face of every officer he had encountered. They were judgmental, offended by any special treatment they assumed he received or might request. Maybe, Thomas thought, they’re a bit jealous.
~~~
“Franklin,” the air crackled with the purpose and tension in the lieutenant’s voice. He came forward with slow, deliberate steps. Passing between the first row of bunks, he said, “I want to be certain that you understand the precarious dynamics of the situation here. I’m not one to mince words. I’ve rather a blunt approach, you see, or so I’ve been told. So here it is, straight out. You’re not special. Do you understand? We’re not shooting an action film entitled Gallant Soldiers of the Sahara, or some such nonsense. This is real. Real bullets, real blood. Life and death real. No special effects.
“You’re joining a fine group of men who know their job. As long as you do yours, you’ll be fine. Frankly, your commanding officer and I view you as an unwarranted liability, a pariah if you will, that threatens to unravel the very fabric of a tightly knit group.
“Think of us as tailors who are protective of what we have so painstakingly stitched together. We simply wish to make sure that this new thread, meaning you, is of sufficient strength and that it properly matches, rather than clashes with previously introduced materials. Do I make myself clear?”
Remaining at attention, Thomas replied, “Yes, sir.” He glanced down for a moment, prompting Armbruster to raise his voice.
“Listen to me Franklin. This operation is not being directed by you, nor has it been put together to protect and coddle you while we avenge your mummy and daddy and recover your significant other. The U.N. Peacekeeping forces work under the auspices of both involved countries in hopes of avoiding a major confrontation. Our intent is to avoid conflict. The unit you join may find itself in harm’s way, but keep in mind we are there to neutralize a terrorist threat to the free world, not to wage war against your personal enemy.
“Again, this is not ‘the Thomas Franklin revenge brigade,’ nor is it the ‘Let’s make Thomas a hero,’ effort, so he can get elected to some cushy governmental seat back in the colonies and make millions from bribes and kickbacks for the next decade or two.
“There, I believe that ought to cover what needs to be said, for now. Do make yourself as unimposing and unobtrusive as possible, won’t you? The less I hear from you, or about you, the better. Sadly, if you do your job, we probably won’t find sufficient grounds to ship you back to the United States. On the brighter side, it would mean that you and I may have no further cause for discourse. Do we have an accord?”
Franklin answered without hesitation. “Yes sir. We do, sir.”
Armbruster paused, his taut face painted with mistrust, mingled with a touch of loathing. He waved a dismissive hand in the air, and added, “Carry on.” The lieutenant wheeled about and marched back up the aisle between the bunks.
Reaching the door, he turned to offer a final comment. “If I were you, I’d get a good night’s rest. The platoon ships out at 0700 hours tomorrow. I daresay you’ve quite a treat in store. Come this time tomorrow night, after a ride in one of our whirlybirds, you’ll be on board the HMS Prince of Wales, the world’s largest, most-advanced aircraft carrier.”
~~~
After administering another sedative and making sure that Jeanne remained incapacitated, Horus left her in the care of his paid, “medical professional,” and acquiesced to the repeated requests of his hosts, the three lector priests that had informed him of his true identity and origin, with whom he’d conferred many times during his last year at MIT.
Despite the fact that he walked with difficulty, even when aided by a cane, the eldest of the three seemed eager to escort their young guest to the cellar below the modest English cottage where a special surprise awaited. Kherep-isfet opened the heavy wooden door and, holding an oil lantern aloft, hobbled downward into the dark, his tapping cane echoing against the cool stone walls. Far below, the squeak of a startled rat welcomed the four men.
Trailing a respectful distance behind were three young women dressed in sheer white linen, carrying the necessities for the bathing ritual of the Falcon God. One carried towels. The second held a basket filled with scented soaps and oils. The third brought ceremonial attire, including an elegant, red cloth headpiece, called a nemes.
Descending further into the bowels of the English countryside, the nostrils of Egypt’s messiah flared as he sniffed the damp air and exclaimed in amazement, “My nose tells me that I am already back in Egypt, near the banks of the Nile. By what magic is it that the very fragrance of the Nile permeates this cellar?”
The third and youngest of the priests in front of Horus turned his head briefly. “What you smell, Lord Falcon, is fresh earth imported from the banks of the Nile, moistened by the holy waters of the river that gives life to the desert.”
Rounding a long, final curve, the sandaled feet of the eldest lector priest stepped from the last roughhewn step onto the earthen cellar floor, where once again a massive wooden door barred their way. The old man set his lantern down, propped his cane against the wall and held up a hand indicating this would take a moment. He took a large, black iron key from the bag he carried over his shoulder, inserted it into the iron lock’s keyhole, turned it and grunted as he pushed.
Creaking in protest on its dry, rusty hinges, the door swung open to reveal a large chamber. The gleam of gold twinkled in the dim light provided by gas lamps hanging from massive wooden beams.
In the center of the room, rising ten feet from the dirt floor, gilded statues of Osiris, Isis, and Thoth stood guard behind three re
ctangular ceremonial tables, measuring five feet long, three feet wide, and three feet high. Upon the first table, Horus saw a flotilla of carved, wooden figures — a miniature Navy, including battle cruisers, destroyers, aircraft carriers and even submarines.
Upon the second table, a wing unit of tiny military aircraft taxied on runways, arranged in squadrons of fighters, bombers, and helicopters. With artistry that would earn a nod of admiration from the skilled craftsmen who created the Faberge Eggs for Czar Nicholas of pre-revolutionary Russia, the minutely detailed wings and fuselage of the tiny aircraft were engraved with the Eye of Horus. The 5,000 year old magic symbol would be the insignia Egypt would display during its effort to again become the dominant nation among world superpowers.
Draped over the third table was a royal robe of blue and red with the embroidered figure of Nekhbet, the matriarchal vulture. To the side of the three tables, recessed into the floor of the basement was a breathtaking pond, lined with finely sanded and polished quartz and deep blue lapis lazuli, surrounded by at least fifty white, scented candles. Behind the pond, a prolific bed of lotus flowers stretched upward in full bloom. Measuring 12 feet long and seven feet wide, large and deep enough to serve as a small wading pool, this was where the priests intended Horus to take the next significant step in his training and education.
Standing by the pool, hands on his hips, Horus appreciated the work that had gone into the preparation of this room, but he didn’t know its purpose.
Winded from the long descent, yet keen to begin, Kherep-isfet waved his ivory walking cane and broke the silence. “My Lord, if you will disrobe we may begin.” Behind the priest one of the three maidens lit sticks of incense and poured red wine from a golden jar into four gleaming silver goblets while the other two picked up musical instruments. One blew softly on a flute while the other strummed rhythmically on a lyre, creating a tranquil atmosphere for the ceremony at hand. After pouring the wine, the first maiden began to hum, harmonizing with the notes of the lyre and flute.
The musicians paused, their eyes drawn to the living, breathing sculpture of masculine perfection standing naked in front of them as Horus tossed aside his garments and stepped down into the pool. Warm and inviting, the water caused him to smile and express his surprise and satisfaction. “To whom do I owe my gratitude for this most unexpected and comforting gift?”
Kherep-isfet bowed and replied, “My Lord, it is the least we could do in recognition of the hardships you have endured. Please,” the priest motioned, “immerse yourself; let the sacred waters bathe away the fatigue and worries that beset you.”
Aware of weariness to the bone, Horus sank into the waters. He felt as if his very soul were being revitalized. The voice of the maiden who previously had hummed demurely, blending with the lyre and flute, now broke into full throated song with words of love and praise for the born again messiah.
“Aset smiles upon thee; thou art blessed in her eyes. Osiris shall support thee; thou shalt rule the very skies. Thoth has made the magic and thou shalt rule the land. All nations bow before thee, resurrected god and man.”
Floating on his back, the combination of the holy waters and the song of praise soothed Horus, washing over him, cleansing him, baptizing him.
The eldest priest limped to the edge of the pool, exerting additional pressure on his cane with each painful step and addressed the future pharaoh. “Free your mind of inner doubts and dissension, Lord Falcon. Focus upon what I say and the lessons that you have yet to learn. We have positioned ourselves here, far from our native soil, so that you might have a place of solace, a place to learn, a place to take the next step in your development, far from the hardened heart and suspicious eyes of the vizier.”
Horus ceased floating and rose up in the waters, surprised. “You know of the tension that exists between the vizier and —”
“My Lord, we have waited so long for this day; for your rebirth. We could not sit idly by and see the potential fulfillment of the ancient prophecies thrown aside. This day we shall invoke the powers of Osiris for your protection. This day you will learn how to bond with your eternal twin whose name you carry, and how to wield the power of your father against your enemies, be they on land, in the skies, or on the sea.”
Horus prepared to step out of the pool, but was waved back by the eldest priest who said, “Stay where you are Lord Falcon. Within the pool where you now stand you will learn how to defeat a naval attack such as might be launched against Egypt.” Kherep-isfet turned and clapped his hands twice, summoning the females who gathered soap and an assortment of the wooden naval vessels from the first table and placed them in the pond. Looking as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or to complain, Horus stood, dripping, in the pool’s center, amused by the tiny ships that bobbed about his knees, but even more amused by the young women who, as they began to bathe him, struggled mightily to refrain from staring at, or spending too much time cleansing certain features of the young Adonis’s anatomy.
For a fleeting moment Horus recalled the type of wit displayed by his former friend and next door neighbor. “What, no rubber duckie?” He protested. His face revealed a hint of amusement which gave way to mild annoyance. “I know you mean well, and I can see that you have gone to much trouble in preparation of this chamber, but I must admit that I do not understand the significance of these...” he paused, gesturing at the wooden ships, “these children’s toys.”
Walking forward to stand beside Kherep-isfet, the second priest, Ra-Amunhotep, waved the females aside. His voice was not tinged with impatience, nor did he sound offended. “You perceive them as toys, Lord Falcon, because you have not yet studied the ancient Egyptian art of transcorporeal telekinesis. Your father, Osiris, and your genetic predecessor, the original Horus, were both masters.
The features on Horus’s face rearranged from annoyance to incomprehension. “I am familiar with the concept of telekinesis, but I have not heard of transcorporeal telekinesis. Would you explain what it is and how it has something to do with me?”
“Are you familiar with Voodoo, Lord Falcon?”
Horus replied, “An ancient religion, still practiced to this day on the island of Haiti and in certain sections of Georgia and Louisiana in the United States. Voodoo originated in Northern Africa before Egypt’s initial rise to glory.
“So that we do not waste your time, please continue with what you know about this practice.”
“I have been told many of the principles employed in the casting of Voodoo spells were studied and improved by Egyptian magicians. Long before the concept of a molecule or an atom, those that practiced Voodoo believed that we were all connected. Through that connection we can affect other living things or even inanimate objects in a positive or negative way. The premise that on a molecular level we are all connected, and that for every action there is a similar reaction, is consistent with what I learned during my studies of nuclear physics and molecular biology at M.I.T.
Ra-Amunhotep bowed, turned to the maidens and nodded, and then turned back to face the Falcon once again. All three of the priests beamed with anticipation. From the first table, the female who played the lyre picked up a small, black, plastic device that looked as if it could be a remote control unit and pointed it at the rock wall behind her. Immediately the grating, grinding, noise of stone sliding against stone was heard as a large, rectangular portion of the smooth limestone separated from the wall, slid out, and then moved horizontally until revealed behind it was a magnificent ten-foot wide screen.
Now the third priest, Ikhernofret, came forward to stand by the other two and said, “Upon this screen,” he pointed, “you appeared during our frequent video conferences, Lord Falcon.” The scene that materialized upon the screen was that of a group of warships observed by a powerful, hi-definition zoom lens mounted on a Russian launched, Egyptian military satellite. Ikhernofret continued, “What you see here, Lord Falcon, is a British Naval exercise in the Mediterranean. We will attack the largest of the vessels.” H
e paused, stroking his chin for a moment.
Horus stared in wonder, asking himself if these men had lost their minds, or if they really intended to do, or even could do, what had just been suggested.
Kherep-isfet pointed to the largest of all the ships, an aircraft carrier, and exclaimed in his high, crackly voice, “I think that would be a fine example of the power wielded by Osiris. Besides,” he closed his eyes and paused for a moment, nodding with approval before reopening them. “I sense something intriguing about the ship’s captain.” He turned to look at the other two priests and asked, “What say you?” Their heads bobbed in eager agreement.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The HMS Prince of Wales, the pride of the British Royal Navy, neared the end of Operation Thunder and Lightning, a week long training exercise for a portion of the royal fleet. Propelled by four monstrous, advanced cycle gas turbine engines, the mighty vessel cut through the warm, azure waters of the Mediterranean.
Running on natural gas rather than nuclear energy, the ship boasted an unrefueled range of 10,000 nautical miles. Carrying 48 F-35s, four airborne early warning aircraft, and six support/anti-submarine helicopters, the vessel operated with a surprisingly small crew of 600. That afternoon most were at their stations, the majority of which were computer terminals due to the high level of automation integrated into the ship’s systems.
In the privacy of his quarters, in his 32nd year of service to the Royal Navy, 53 year old Captain Robert Falcon Scott dabbed with a linen napkin at his classic, white handlebar mustache after finishing the last bite of his shepherd’s pie. He glanced across the room to a spot on the wall above his desk. Centered between two portholes, a portrait of the explorer after whom he was named gazed down from a fine wooden frame, trimmed with antiqued brass on its four corners.
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