‘The Station Commander and his party are walking across the grass to the Watch Tower. One-fifty is zero hour for the departure of the second wave. The minutes are being counted out. The engines of Macnamara’s aircraft are already roaring. The signal’s been given! They’re off! The aircraft is speeding smoothly down the runway. As it doubles its distance from its starting-place to the point of the V, the tow-rope suddenly becomes taut, and the glider slides forward. The aircraft has lifted. Now the glider is airborne too. Richard Cœur-de-Lion is on his way to France!
‘The next aircraft has already run out. It picks up its glider with equal smoothness. At the Watch Tower they are checking the timing. The aircraft are leaving to the split second at one-minute intervals. Several of the officers who were with the Station Commander have got into a car and are driving over to the Control Room. They are going upstairs and out on to the balcony. They are watching the procession of aircraft and gliders as they mount into the air. From the moment of General Gale’s departure to the last glider becoming airborne will take twenty-five minutes. The officers on the balcony are now looking at a great cluster of moving lights in the sky to the west. One of them just said: “That’s part of the American Airborne Division making for the base of the Cherbourg Peninsula. Good luck to them!” The sky is now alive with aircraft. The rest of the Sixth Airborne Division is being flown in from a dozen different airfields that all lie in Air Vice-Marshal Hollinghurst’s Command.’
Once again Zadok cut out the picture and spoke to Arkitl. The lever was thrown over, and the big retort on the instrument panel began to fill with red vapour again. Philip needed no telling that an additional voltage of the magno-electric current was about to be sent out to counteract the natural thinning of the cloud-bank which would otherwise have taken place before General Gale reached it. He turned and looked at Gloria.
At that second Coxitl walked into the room. It was the one thing that Philip had been so much afraid of—the unforeseen factor which might ruin everything. But it was too late to do anything about it. Without a word Gloria stood up, picked up her stool and began to walk with it towards the instrument panel.
Zadok’s glance left his team and followed her. ‘What is the matter? Where are you going?’ he called out in a surprised voice.
While his gaze was averted Philip had drawn his pistol. From the corner of his eye he saw Gloria falter and halt. He knew then that she was being held against her will by some swift hypnotic command sent out by Zadok. He squeezed the trigger of his automatic twice. There were two spurts of flame, and the two bullets hit Zadok in the middle of his emaciated body. The old Atzlantean coughed, his eyes bulged hideously, and he crumpled to the floor.
Gloria, as though released by a spring, bounded forward and began to run.
At the sound of the shots the old blind operator staggered up from his seat, and the screen instantly went black. Quetzl and Velig had leapt to their feet. The former dashed round the end of the table and flung himself upon Philip. They crashed to the floor together, but Philip was still clutching his gun.
While they were rolling over and over together he caught two sounds. One he had feared; it was the musical note of Coxitl’s silver whistle summoning his company of bearers. The other he was praying for; it was the crash of broken glass, and he knew that Gloria had succeeded in her share of their plan. With her heavy stool she had smashed the big retort that held the red vapour.
The thick-lipped Quetzl was on top of Philip and glaring down into his face. But knowing nothing of firearms the Atzlantean made a cardinal mistake. Instead of trying to get the gun away from Philip, he grasped him with both hands by the throat. For a moment Philip felt the awful pains of strangulation, but he lifted his gun, jammed it into Quetzl’s ribs and fired. The Atzlantean’s whole body jerked as though animated by an electric shock, then he suddenly went limp and slumped sideways.
Philip wriggled out from beneath him. He could see Gloria struggling gamely with Arkitl at the far end of the room. Normally he could not cover a dozen paces without the aid of his crutches, but the imperative necessity of reaching Gloria lent him both abnormal strength and resistance against pain. He had promised her the last bullet, and he was determined to spare her the horror of being taken alive. Scrambling to his feet he set off at a run towards her.
He had hardly covered half the distance before he felt himself checked. He faltered and could not force one foot in front of the other; his bad leg gave way under him, and he crashed to the floor. His brain seemed to be going numb, and he knew that Coxitl had stabbed him in the back with that terrible hypnotic force that the chief men among the Atzlanteans wielded with such devastating effect. And, even as he fell, he could hear Gloria calling to him:
‘Help, Boy! Oh, help, help!’
She was facing him and still struggling with Arkitl, but the Atzlantean’s body was now between them and covered most of hers, so Philip did not dare to risk his last remaining bullet. He knew, too, that his thoughts were swiftly becoming slow, vague and indeterminate. It was as though the room were growing larger and dimmer, the noises in it becoming more distant and himself beginning to float in space.
With a great effort he turned over on his back. The proud, cruel face of Coxitl was now right above him. The dark eyes in it pinned him to the floor. They were turning into the fiery pits he had seen before. For what seemed an age he forced his own eyelids slowly down and strove to lift his right hand, which still clutched the gun. It seemed to be twenty times its normal weight.
Then, for some unaccountable reason, there flashed into his bemused mind the last lines of the letter that the Canon had written to him just before he died. ‘From today I shall fly the flag of Saint George from the spire of the church, with the prayer that he may give you his special protection.’ Within a second his lips were framing an appeal they had never uttered before.
‘Saint George!’ he gasped. ‘Saint George!’
There was a blinding flash, a shattering report; his pistol, lifted now to within a few inches of his own head, had exploded. The bullet struck Coxitl under the chin. His face was smashed upwards as though struck from beneath with a great hammer, and he fell backwards, spurting blood.
Instantly, all Philip’s faculties were fully restored to him; but with sinking heart he realised that his last bullet was now spent. Rolling over, he staggered to his feet and lurched towards Gloria. Even as he did so, he was aware that behind him the room was full of Coxitl’s bearers.
In one glance he saw that Gloria had clawed open Arkitl’s face, but was now gripped firmly by him and being forced back, so that her hands could no longer reach his head. Hurling himself on them, Philip struck out with his left fist across Gloria’s shoulder. He caught the Atzlantean full between the eyes. Arkitl gasped and let go. As Gloria fell backwards Philip threw his left arm round her neck so that her chin was in the crook of his elbow. Lifting his right hand he brought the butt of the gun down with all his might on the crown of her head. He heard her skull crack, yet he hit her again and again, and he was still hitting her as a dozen strong hands grabbed at and seized him.
As they dragged him away, she fell to the floor, and he caught one glimpse of her face. The bright blue eyes were wide and staring. He laughed then, because he knew that she was dead, and that he had saved her from the final torment.
All that followed seemed like a nightmare. He was pulled, pushed, hustled out of the room, up the ramp and along the gloomy tunnels. Before he even had time to collect his thoughts he was hauled into the Temple of the False Sun. Once more he caught a fleeting glimpse of the great truncated pyramid in the vast cavern. The baleful red glow of the fiery ball that seemed to hang suspended in mid-air coloured everything about him. The hidden gong gave out one deep boom. The horrible crowd of stinking, self-mutilated priests came surging up out of the red twilight. They tore him from the bearers and thrust him up the great flight of steps. Sharp-nailed hands grabbed and clawed at him from all directions. He was barely con
scious when he reached the summit, and they flung him face upward on the great altar stone of basalt. He glimpsed the High Priest towering above him, the obsidian knife clutched in his right hand. It descended with a thud between Philip’s breast-bones, and ripped its way down to his stomach. His body was one frightful searing pain. He screamed aloud. Then he seemed no longer to be spreadeagled on the altar.
He was above it and looking down on his own body. He saw the High Priest tear out his heart and bite at it, yet he felt no more pain. A moment later the priests were tearing the carcass that had once been Philip Vaudell limb from limb, and smearing themselves with its still warm blood.
But Philip’s eyes were no longer dazzled by the red glare of the False Sun. They were bathed in the refreshing darkness of the night sky beyond the Mountain. He knew that he was travelling swiftly, faster than the fastest plane, over land and over sea towards Europe.
In earthly time barely twenty minutes had elasped between the moment that he had shot Zadok and the moment that the High Priest of Shaitan had torn out his heart. By half past two he was above the Bay of Biscay; but here he seemed to come up against a great wall of blackness that as he advanced dissolved into a mass of screaming, evil figures that drove him back.
Swerving like an aircraft that is attacked by flak he sped out into the Atlantic, and came in again across the Cornish coast. Instinctively, he made for Southampton and from there struck out across the Channel.
He could see now with the eyes of the spirit as well as with those of the flesh. More than halfway across the Channel he sighted the Allied Armada. There were countless ships in line upon line, with all lights out, heading for the Normandy coast. But there were other ships that he could see as well: frigates and men-o’-war, dreadnoughts, galleons and caravels. Squadron upon squadron of them were sailing in front of and to either side of the physical Armada. The shade of Victory had left Portsmouth hard. Sir Richard Grenville’s Revenge, the Golden Hind, the first Royal Sovereign, the White Ship, the little, high-decked floating castle that had carried Henry V to Agincourt, all were there. And there were others that flew the Stars and Stripes of the United States and the Fleur-de-Lys of France.
A moment later Philip caught the roar of aircraft engines. To right and left and before him they were streaming in, and they, too, had their shadow escorts; strange, old-fashioned biplanes that had fought in France and Flanders during the First World War, Gladiators that had taken their toll of the Luftwaffe in the azure skies of Greece and Africa, early Hurricanes, Spitfires and Blenheims that had held Britain for the British when Britain stood alone.
Moving faster than the fastest plane, he caught up with a string of glider-towing aircraft ahead. He knew at once that it was the spearhead of the 6th Airborne Division’s second wave. Streaking forward by a single impulse of his will, he reached the head of the line. Macnamara was still leading, but right in front was a dense bank of cloud.
For a moment Philip’s heart sank. Had he failed after all? Then, as he watched, the cloud lifted as though some giant hand had brushed it aside, and he heard the voice that he had held dearest in all the world say:
‘ ’Tis a marvellous part we were given to play, Boy; and it’s proud I am to have earned the right to see the finish.’
Gloria was there beside him, laughing and smiling into his face. But he had hardly cast an arm about her when the coast of France rose up below them, and battle was joined.
With a howl beyond that of any tempest a vast concourse of black and evil figures descended upon them from the upper air. All unconscious of the spectral battle now raging, the crews of the gliders were still cracking jokes as they made their last preparations before going down. Yet, in the dark night outside their flimsy structures, countless horrible, bat-winged things strove to foul their engines, snap their stays, fray the tow-ropes and bring the gliders down.
But Philip and Gloria were alone no longer. A great host of known and unknown figures flew beside them, each armed, as they now found themselves to be, with a flaming sword.
For what seemed endless time they battled with the dark, satanic legions, driving them back and back as the planes flew on. Then at last they heard the order given: ‘Cast off!’ Macnamara’s aircraft drew away. There came a sudden eerie silence as General Gale’s glider hovered above the River Orne. Slowly it went down and down while the battle overhead continued in all its fury.
With aching arms they slashed and slashed at the evil faces which still beset them, till it seemed that they could wield their weapons no more. Yet they kept on.
Dawn came, and with it a slight lull; just enough time for them to survey the scene below. The three big, widely separated fields that had been chosen weeks before as the dropping zones of the 6th British Airborne Division were now like three flypapers upon which clouds of white flying-ants had settled; barely half a dozen had come down outside their concentration points. But for the tragic loss of the four that had snapped their towing-ropes in the first flight, it was now clear that this brilliant operation had proved a hundred per cent success. In the neighbourhood of each dropping zone scores of little figures were carrying boxes of ammunition and supplies into the nearby woods, and busily digging in the anti-tank guns. Both the vital bridges were intact and now under guard. On one there was a busy group running out telephone wires and establishing the Divisional Headquarters. In its midst a splendid figure wearing light grey jodhpurs now bestrode a newly requisitioned milk-white horse. General Gale had captured his first objectives, and the vital flank of the Allied Armies was secure.
Turning, they looked back along the beaches. A choppy sea was creaming angrily upon them, but for mile upon mile hundreds of landing-craft were nosing in towards the shore, while further out scores of warships flashed and flickered under palls of drifting smoke, as their guns pounded the redoubts in Hitler’s vaunted Atlantic Wall.
There came a roar like the approach of the vortex of a cyclone, and the unseen battle in mid-air was on again. The Powers of Darkness had thrown in their last reserves. For a few moments everything was one hell-torn screaming confusion, then the attack of the satanic legions began to slacken. Suddenly, they gave and broke. A great shout of triumph went up from the Shining Host above, and at that moment down below, amidst the spatter of machine-gun fire and the crashing of mortars, thousands upon thousands of British and American soldiers threw themselves into the surf. Cheering and shouting as they plunged through the shallow water, the Armies of Liberation came up out of the sea on to the shores of France.
It was only then that Gloria and Philip were at last able to withdraw their gaze and smile into each other’s eyes.
They were still doing so when they heard a well-remembered voice behind them and turning, saw the Canon.
‘It isn’t finished yet,’ he said; ‘but now that our flank is protected they’ll never be able to drive us off the beaches. Hitler is caught between the Soviet Sickle and the Sword of the Western Allies, so this day’s work is the beginning of the end for the Germans. Come with me now, and I will lead you to the Garden of Eternal Peace, warmed by the sun of Fulfilment and watered by the river of Contentment, where all things are understood, and Love sings litanies down the wind of Time.’
A Note on the Author
DENNIS WHEATLEY
Dennis Wheatley (1897 – 1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world’s best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s.
Wheatley was the eldest of three children, and his parents were the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College, London. In 1919 he assumed management of the family wine business but in 1931, after a decline in business due to the depression, he began writing.
His first book, The Forbidden Territory, became a bestseller overnight, and since then his books have sold over 50 million copies worldwide. During the 1960s, his publishers sold one
million copies of Wheatley titles per year, and his Gregory Sallust series was one of the main inspirations for Ian Fleming’s James Bond stories.
During the Second World War, Wheatley was a member of the London Controlling Section, which secretly coordinated strategic military deception and cover plans. His literary talents gained him employment with planning staffs for the War Office. He wrote numerous papers for the War Office, including suggestions for dealing with a German invasion of Britain Dennis. Wheatley died on 11th November 1977. During his life he wrote over 70 books and sold over 50 million copies.
Discover books by Dennis Wheatley published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/DennisWheatley
Duke de Richleau
The Forbidden Territory
The Devil Rides Out
The Golden Spaniard
Three Inquisitive People
Strange Conflict
Codeword Golden Fleece
The Second Seal
The Prisoner in the Mask
Vendetta in Spain
Dangerous Inheritance
Gateway to Hell
Gregory Sallust
Black August
Contraband
The Scarlet Impostor
Faked Passports
The Black Baroness
V for Vengeance
Come into My Parlour
The Island Where Time Stands Still
Traitors' Gate
They Used Dark Forces
The White Witch of the South Seas
Julian Day
The Quest of Julian Day
The Sword of Fate
Bill for the Use of a Body
Roger Brook
The Launching of Roger Brook
The Shadow of Tyburn Tree
The Rising Storm
The Man Who Killed the King
The Dark Secret of Josephine
The Man who Missed the War Page 43
