Waited for the captain to tell them what to do.
Captain Mendez was an experienced captain. Not of a ship like this, of course—no one was. But she had years of training handling other vessels, and crews this size and even larger. She was quiet and competent and very much by-the-books. He knew that, once she had taken time to collect herself, she would regain control and restore order.
So Demming waited.
The seconds seemed to stretch on. The cacophony did not diminish. If anything, it grew in volume and diversity as more of his shipmates found their voice. There was thrashing as many wrestled with their harnesses, and banging throughout the Remora indicated that at least some had already worked their way free, though to what end Demming could not imagine.
He was content to sit and await orders.
Until he heard the one thing he had feared the most.
It began as a whisper. Rapidly it grew into a wail, a single ululation that sound spread into words.
Words that chilled him to the very soul.
“Oh, great wave!” were the words that struck terror into his heart and blood. “Great wave, we’re lost! We’ve been consumed by the abyss! Our souls will be devoured by the darkness!”
All other sounds on the foredeck ceased, then, as every officer turned to stare at the command chair—and their tall, blond captain, who curled up in it, sobbing and crying out in despair.
A NEW SERIES FROM CROSSROAD PRESS
O. C. L. T.
There are incidents and emergencies in the world that defy logical explanation, events that could be defined as supernatural, extraterrestrial, or simply otherworldly. Standard laws do not allow for such instances, nor are most officials or authorities trained to handle them. In recognition of these fact, one organization has been created that can. Assembled by a loose international coalition, their mission is to deal with these situations using diplomacy, guile, force, and strategy as necessary. They shield the rest of the world from their own actions, and clean up the messes left in their wake. They are our protection, our guide, our sword, and our voice, all rolled into one.
They are O.C.L.T.
The following is Chapter One of the first full-length O. C. L. T. novel – The Parting by David Niall Wilson. Other works in this series include original novellas by Aaron Rosenberg and David Niall Wilson. Watch for these titles and many more at http://www.crossroadpress.com
From The Parting by David Niall Wilson
I
In a low bunker in the desert near the border of Jordan and the Dead Sea, a dozen men have gathered. They arrived over a period of hours, none too close to the other to avoid being seen together. They were not men given to solitary excursions, but each had left comrades and security behind in the interest of security. They were robed, and their faces were covered against the whipping desert sand. Far above, the moon shone pale and cloaked in clouds.
Salt clusters along the bank of the water glimmered oddly, almost glowing in the dim light. The water was as flat and lifeless as a sheet of glass. None of the twelve even glanced at it, though the last of them stopped and gazed directly across the surface toward Jerusalem. He stood there for only a moment, and then passed between the two squat, expressionless guards stationed outside the door. The two were associated with none of the twelve. They were carefully vetted mercenaries without affiliation. They did now know who they guarded, or why, and they didn't care, as long as they were paid well, and on time.
Inside the building was a single long room. There was a small kitchenette, and a bathroom, but these were sealed. The room was centered by a long rectangular table set very low to the ground. The twelve gathered around it. There were drinks, but for the most part they were ignored. The room was lit by a single lamp on the table, as if those present weren't even comfortable knowing one another, let alone getting a good look.
When they were all seated, the man at the head of the table leaned back, glanced around at the others, and shook his head.
"We represent," he began, "an incredible gathering of power. The resources we command should be able to move mountains –with or without faith. We can, and have, bought kings and ambassadors."
"And for all of that," one of those to his left growled, "we have failed once again at the one task we must accomplish before all others."
There were mumbles of agreement all around. None of those gathered was happy, and each secretly blamed the others for their failure. They were not men accustomed to failure, or the denial of their desires. They dealt in blood, fortunes, and power. The one thing they shared – the one central binding power – was the passion of their faith. They were from a variety of nationalities, but theirs was a common enemy and a holy cause.
"Sometimes," the man who'd first spoken continued, "I feel as if we have lost our way. Allah places more obstacles in our way than he removes, and despite our unwavering loyalty, the Holy City is yet in the hands of the unclean. They have proclaimed themselves God's People to the world. What have we been proclaimed?"
"Killers," one of the others said.
"Terrorists," a third cut in. "They say that we care about nothing but the shedding of innocent blood. No matter that our beliefs are those of our fathers, and our father's fathers. No matter that the blasphemy of our most Holy City being handed by Western dogs to the unclean cuts us to the very soul."
He slammed his fist on the table. As sturdy as it was, the glasses and lamp jumped. Still, none of them rose. Their passion simmered, but it did not boil over. Nothing that had been said was new. Theirs was an old hatred, and it burned slowly, but with great heat. It was fueled by frustration and the futility of their efforts.
"There must be a way," the first man spoke again. "Allah will lead show us that way."
The grim semi-silence of the gathering was broken by a peal of rich, feminine laughter. They spun as a single unit, drawing blades, and guns and diving back from the table with cries of surprise. They were leaders, but each of them had earned their position through years in the field. None of them was privileged by birth, and if they'd been compromised, every man of them would fight to the death.
There was no invading force. There was only a lone woman, swathed from head to foot in traditional robes of an Arab woman. Her head was swathed in a dark Hijab, covering all but her face. It was a remarkable face. Despite the dim light, her eyes glittered, and the grim line of her mouth was bent in a scornful frown. She stood with her arms crossed in front of her, glaring down at them as if she belonged –as if her presence did not break every law of their faith. As if all their security was so much dust in the desert.
"So," she said at last. "You have come to wallow in your defeat. How clever of you. How proud you must be. Allah would be pleased."
The first of the men back to his feet closed on her, his dagger raised.
The woman cocked her head and watched him, making no move to retreat.
"Who are you?" he asked. "How do you come here?"
"I came on the wind," she replied. "I come because you have called me. I come – because you have failed."
"You will not leave this place alive," the man said.
"I will," she said. "I will leave as I came, and I will leave with your promise, and your aid. You may call me Amunet."
The man closed on her quickly. He was not in the mood for idle chatter. He drove the dagger straight at her heart, but she only smiled. She spoke a single word – a word none of them heard clearly, and that none of them would have understood had they heard it.
The dagger shimmered and lost its rigidity. It coiled and turned back on itself, writhed and squirmed in the man's grip. He screamed, and tried to release it, but – now a serpent – it had coiled back around his wrist and moved up his arm toward his face. It was fast, and he staggered back, crashing into the table and falling across it, reaching to grab the snake behind its head and prevent it from reaching his face.
Two of the others ran to his side. One gripped the serpent behind its head, and the other dragged it free
of his wrist. They held it – and then – with a cry of his own, the man gripping the neck cried out and backed away. His hand dripped blood, and he stared in shock.
The dagger fell to the floor between them. The twelve turned and stared. Amunet gazed back at them, unperturbed.
"You will listen to me," she said. "You will help me, and I will help you. Though I am certain that my words are wasted, I will tell you this – there is nothing you can do to prevent it."
"Sorceress!" one of the men cried. "Allah protect us!"
Despite what they'd just witnessed, these were hard men. They were not going to be taken down by a simple illusion, and they were unused to being spoken to as lackeys- or for that matter, by women whom they had not addressed first. The frustration of their recent endeavors, coupled with the ignominy of the situation was too much. They spread out and moved in quickly. They did not speak, they acted, but the woman, Amunet, did not back away. She raised both of her hands and spoke in clear, cutting tones.
Again, her words were lost to them. She seemed to speak in tongues, though now and then a phrase made the ghost of sense. The already dim light darkened, and there was a rising wail from outside the building. They ignored it. Before any of them could reach where the woman stood, the wailing was joined by twin screams.
They hesitated and turned toward the single door. There were no further screams, but the wail had grown to a roar, as if the desert had lifted up to sweep them away.
"What is it?" one of them cried. "What is happening?"
"Sandstorm!" another yelled. "It must be a storm. What else could…"
The door slammed inward as if struck by a huge hammer. It crashed open and hit the wall so hard the stout wood cracked. A dark cloud roared through and spread like smoke. The wail they'd heard was now a droning, pulsing wall of sound. Before they could even back away, the wall of locusts struck them. They were driven back, pounded into the walls, covered head to foot in biting, buzzing death. They screamed, and as they did, their mouths were filled. They tumbled back, scrambled for cover that did not exist, and through it all, Amunet stood, untouched, unmoving.
When the twelve were down, covered and helpless, crawling with her plague, she clapped her hands and shouted a single word.
In that second, there was absolute silence. The locusts had vanished. The door swung loose on its hinges. The light flickered once, threatened to go out, and then grew steady once more. Amunet walked to the table and straightened it. The twelve scuttled back against the walls, watching her in terror-stricken awe. She met their gaze, not smiling, not angry. When she saw they would not speak again, she nodded very slightly.
"Now," she said, "you will listen. There is work to be done, and if you hope to know the glory of your vision, you will act swiftly and exactly as I command. You have prayed, and you have maintained your faith. I am here. Your ancestors, long ago, faced off with the Hebrew sorcerer Moses – and their hearts were weak. Mine is strong, and I offer that strength to you. In exchange, you will bring me what I need. The Holy land will grow strong – you will be great in the eyes of Allah, and of the world. I will have what is mine."
One by one, the men rose from where they'd fallen. They checked themselves for dangers that were not there. One of them walked to the door and, after glancing out to see that the two guards lay dead in the sand, closed it as well as he could. They righted the chairs and returned to their seats. When they were ready, Amunet began to speak, and they listened very carefully. They listened long into the night, and then, when she was finished, they dispersed as randomly and as quietly as they'd arrived.
When she was alone in the room, Amunet finally allowed her lip to curl in a dark, enigmatic smile. She turned out the lamp, and as the light drained from the room – she was gone.
Case of the Claw Page 23
