Ancient Origins: Books 4 - 6 (Ancient Origins Boxset Book 2)

by Robert Storey

  Some of those enduring the endless waiting sheltered in areas of shade, or wafted themselves cool with whatever came to hand. But despite these measures, all but a few glistened with a sheen of sweat as the sun beat down like a battering ram.

  Unseen by some, a convoy of vehicles drove down the street, preceded by motorbike outriders. Some onlookers pointed, others waved and a few even managed to cheer as the motorcade sped past.

  Helicopters circled above, black military aircraft enlisted to protect the VIPs below.

  The black luxury sedan at the centre of the procession glided along the road, those inside cocooned within an impenetrable air-conditioned shell of armour plate and bulletproof glass.

  An intersection ahead caused the vehicles to slow, and a passenger seat window in the sedan slid down as one of the occupants overrode the security system.

  The driver glanced round in concern. ‘Sir, you need to close that window, it’s not safe.’

  ‘Pull over,’ said a man, his powerful tone demanding obedience.

  ‘Sir, I…’ The driver swore as the rear door opened, forcing him to further slow the vehicle, which enabled the man to hop out.

  The entire motorcade came to a sudden halt in the middle of the road, as the VIP they were there to protect wandered unprotected towards the queue of people.

  John Henry glanced up as the helicopters employed to protect him sank lower in the sky, sharpshooters training their weapons on those they deemed the greatest threat. He shook his head at their zealous nature, as those on the sidewalk pointed at him and gaped in amazement, as if he was something more than human. More and more people rose to their feet as he drew closer, their excitement plain to see as weary faces lit up in his presence.

  The sound of sirens whooping, tyres screeching and shouts of alarm from behind fell on deaf ears as John Henry crouched down next to a small child who sat on the kerb next to an older sibling who’d fallen asleep against a tree.

  John held out a bottle of water to the infant, who must have been shy of four years old. ‘Thirsty?’

  Wide innocent eyes looked up into his. The girl nodded, her parched lips cracked and raw.

  As he lent forward to hand her the water, someone grasped his arm and he was hauled backwards. Armed men in full body armour swarmed around him, guns raised to ward off the onlookers who pressed forward for a look at the unfolding spectacle.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?!’ John shrugged off one of his bodyguards.

  ‘Sir, this area isn’t safe; you need to return to the vehicle.’

  ‘Not safe?’ John said in disbelief. ‘Of course it’s not safe. Nowhere is safe.’

  ‘Mr President,’ said a man in a suit, known to John as Special Agent in Charge Dante, ‘we need you back in the Beast. Agent Lopez is right, this area is not secure.’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s secure, I care about these people. And besides’ – John pointed above at the helicopters and then to a black van where a host of men with heavy armour and weaponry stood poised for action – ‘I think you’ve got me covered.’

  Dante went to say something else, but the president was in no mood for taking orders. ‘Dante, get your men to gather up all the water we have with us and hand it out to those most in need.’

  ‘Sir, Mr President, I don’t think that’s—’

  ‘I don’t care if you think it’s a good idea, agent,’ John said, growing angry, ‘that’s a direct order from your Commander in Chief, or are you disobeying the man you’re sworn to obey?’

  Dante’s rugged features turned grim. He shook his head. ‘No, sir.’ He touched his earpiece and gave out the relevant commands, and soon after the crowd swelled, as precious water was handed out to the frailest of Berkeley’s residents.

  With everything in hand, John crouched down and gave his bottle to the child, who returned his look with wide-eyed wonder. The girl’s brother, a few years her senior, gave John a nod of thanks, the adult mannerism belying his years.

  With his good deed done, John took a final look around. The queue of people – corralled back into line by his security detail – wound into the distance to his left and right, their clothing unwashed, hair unkempt and expressions weary. One meteor strike, he thought, and we’re on the brink of becoming a Third World country. He shook his head. It was time to make some changes now the impact winter had fallen short of predictions. When the asteroid AG5 had impacted two years before off the South African coastline, in 2040, he’d envisaged far worse. However, the miraculous resurrection of the world’s failing ecosystems and economies since the demise of the ensuing impact winter and all-encompassing dust cloud couldn’t be credited to the Global Meteor Response Council’s foresight, far from it. The world had needed a lucky break and it was one they needed to make full use of. But rather than hail the unexpected upturn in fortune as something positive, the GMRC had fallen short on its promises to loosen its grip on power. Resources remained scarce and rationing continued unabated. It was down to John to ensure the status quo was broken and the GMRC thrown out of the greatest nation on Earth. It was time for change, and it couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Waves lapped at the base of the eastern tower of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. The red-tinted orange paintwork of the renowned landmark glinted in the afternoon sun, which continued to bathe those beneath it in an unusually humid heat. The cloying air hung heavy across the bridge’s road deck, which had been cordoned off at either end to ensure the safety of those who now arrived at its central span.

  Crowds of pre-selected political supporters cheered and waved a variety of flags as the president’s motorcade drew to a halt beside them. The flashing lights of the police motorbikes and patrol cars pulsed and rotated, and the familiar sound of whooping sirens fell silent, as a team of Secret Service agents emerged from black SUVs to secure the surrounding area.

  ‘We’ve arrived, Mr President,’ the driver said through the intercom. He looked into the back seat, using his rear-view mirror. The president, however, had other things on his mind.

  ‘John,’ – her passionate kiss lingered on his lips – ‘we’re here.’

  John Henry felt a surge of frustration as his enjoyment faded. He opened his eyes to gaze at his new wife and wondered how one man could be so lucky. Her dark eyes, full of mystery, searched his face as she avoided eye contact. She kissed him again, but this time the kiss signalled an end to their embrace. He disengaged himself from her intoxicating hold, straightened his tie and made to get out of the vehicle.

  ‘Wait!’ Ashley grasped his arm and pulled him back.

  He lent in for another kiss, but she held him at bay before licking her finger and wiping away the smudge of lipstick at the edge of his mouth. Smoothing down his hair, she patted his chest. ‘You’re good to go.’

  He smiled and squeezed Ashley’s hand. ‘I love you, you know that, don’t you?’

  She nodded, but a flicker of pain crossed her features as if the comment was cause for concern.

  Unable to unravel the reason for her discomfort now, he turned away as the door behind him opened and a wall of noise washed over him like a wave.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States of America, JOHN … HARRISON … HENRY!!’

  John Henry stepped out of the limousine to tumultuous applause, waved to the crowd, then turned to help out the First Lady, or as he knew her, Ashley Harper-Henry.

  Ashley stood up next to him, her long, lustrous black hair framing high cheekbones and perfect olive skin, which gave away her South American roots.

  Without giving him time to think, his personal protection detail ushered him through the pre-planned route. He shook hands, kissed cheeks and hugged those he recognised from his presidential campaign.

  Having climbed up a flight of stairs, John found himself standing atop a newly constructed platform at the edge of the bridge, overlooking the Golden Gate strait from which the manmade structure took its name. A cool
wind blew in from the Pacific Ocean, the salty air ruffling Ashley’s hair and the bright red dress that rippled around her shapely figure.

  ‘Mr President, I heard you had an unexpected stop off on your way here.’

  John tore his eyes away from Ashley, who was already engrossed in a conversation with San Francisco’s Mayor, her laughter lighting up an already lively occasion.

  He looked back at the man who had spoken: Simon Roberts, the GMRC’s Californian representative.

  ‘It seems some cities are still lacking the necessities of life,’ John said, his expression hardening. ‘You know, those little things, like food and water.’

  Roberts gave a good impression of a man under stress. ‘There’s only so much water to go around,’ he said, his voice strained, ‘and food production is rebounding. The Directorate tells me—’

  ‘What they want you to hear,’ John said. ‘Do you even know the time frame for the lifting of rationing, or are you just making it up as you go along?’

  ‘Mr President, I assure you, the GMRC is doing everything it can to provide for the American people. The last administration worked closely with us to ensure the fastest possible resolution to GMRC sanctions; now that the dust cloud has dispersed, I have it on good authority that it will be weeks rather than months for a return to pre-impact service levels.’

  John grunted. ‘So you are just making it up as you go along.’

  A woman, a GMRC official, moved forward to whisper something into Roberts’ ear. He nodded and waved her away.

  John’s eyes narrowed as he considered the official and those around her: six suits and a unit of heavily armoured grey-clad GMRC soldiers, who prevented their wards from being lynched by the anti-GMRC crowd.

  Roberts, seeing his suspicion, stepped forward and held out a hand to direct John towards the edge of the bridge and away from the other VIPs. John stared at the proffered hand for a moment, and then led the way to the guardrail, with his presidential protection detail shadowing their every move.

  ‘So, Mr President,’ Roberts said, coming to stand next to him. He gazed out to sea. ‘Why have you brought us all here today?’

  John glanced back as he felt an arm slip around his waist.

  ‘Yes, Mr President,’ Ashley said, half-teasing, half-serious, ‘why have you brought us out here?’

  John pointed out to sea. ‘That’s why.’

  Ashley and Roberts looked in the direction he’d indicated. On the right-hand side of the strait, before the Pacific Ocean began, three large supertankers lurked in the waters of Bonita Cove.

  Roberts squinted against the glare of the sun and frowned. ‘Are those—’

  ‘Mr President, it’s time.’

  John gave a thumbs up to his National Security Advisor and excused himself from his wife and Simon Roberts, the GMRC man remaining puzzled as he glanced back at the ships moored two kilometres away.

  John made his way to a podium and his press secretary passed him a microphone, which he duly switched on.

  A feedback whistle crackled through the speaker system and John cleared his throat. ‘My fellow Americans,’ he said, noticing the various media cameras upon him. ‘We’re gathered here today for reasons yet to be disclosed. But the wait is finally over. As you know, my pledge to those who voted for me in last year’s election was to rid this country of those who would seek to do America and its citizens harm. So far I have been blocked at every turn by the Senate and unlawful international treaties, but …’ – John turned to look at Roberts, who’d rejoined his GMRC retinue – ‘… the Global Meteor Response Council can play its games; however, as President of the United States I have the power to bypass Congress and its subversive ways and issue an executive order, pushing through reforms and a Bill of Sovereignty.’

  John Henry considered the crowd before him, which had fallen silent. ‘As of now, the United States Government is reclaiming its right to autonomous administration of its resources, rights given away over twenty years ago by corporately corrupt politicians.’

  A few people cried out words of encouragement and the familiar chant that followed the new president around wherever he went picked up again.

  ‘John Henry, John Henry! JOHN HENRY!!’

  ‘As of today, the GMRC no longer controls our water, our food, our lives!’ John felt Ashley take his hand and he raised their arms aloft in union. ‘No longer will the GMRC starve our children. We are the United States of America, and we bow to no country, no organisation, no council! NO GMRC!!’

  The crowd cheered and John was handed a control console containing a big red button beneath a transparent cover.

  Flipping it open, he released his wife’s hand and held up the switch for everyone to see; he then turned to the ocean as Ashley held the microphone for him to speak into.

  ‘These ships,’ – he gestured at the vessels emblazoned with the GMRC logo – ‘represent everything that is wrong with the Global Meteor Response Council. Ships sent to redistribute our resources without democratic oversight. That stops NOW!’

  The president slammed his palm against the button and an instant later a massive detonation tore the sky asunder. A huge fireball ripped through the first supertanker, cleaving it in two. Seconds later the second tanker ignited, before the third also exploded with a thunderous roar. The onlookers stepped back, shaken by the power of the blasts, the noise deafening.

  Images on two big screens, erected nearby on the bridge, streamed close-up shots of the three craft as they slowly sank beneath the waves. Fires were doused as water cascaded over crippled decks and gushes of steam whooshed into the air.

  John Henry watched the carnage, savouring the sight as a charred, white GMRC emblem disappeared into the depths.

  People pointed and gasped. Hundreds of rats streamed up onto the deck of the second ship, which had fared slightly better than its two compatriots. The short-haired rodents scrambled overboard, fleeing the burning cauldron that their home had become. Throwing themselves into the sea, the tiny creatures swam for dear life, their eyes wide with terror.

  It wasn’t long before the prow of the rat-infested vessel finally sank out of sight and it joined its stricken fellows on the sea floor. But as the scene calmed, a scuffle broke out.

  John turned to see the GMRC representative being held back by Dante and another Secret Service agent.

  ‘Are you insane?!’ Simon Roberts pointed to where the ships had been moored; his ashen face was mirrored by those of his colleagues, except for the grey-clad GMRC soldiers who stood close by as an ever-present guard.

  John glanced at Ashley, who seemed as shocked as everyone else.

  ‘Insane?’ John said, grim-faced. ‘No. Pleased, or perhaps at peace would be more appropriate.’

  ‘You can’t just destroy GMRC property; tear up decades of diplomacy and binding treaties. It’s … it’s …’

  ‘It’s what?’ John said, basking in the man’s impotency.

  ‘It’s illegal, wrong, against every regulation we have!’

  ‘Every regulation you have,’ John said. ‘The United States now functions outside the GMRC’s jurisdiction.’

  ‘Do you know what you’ve just done?’ Roberts said, on the verge of a breakdown.

  John felt little sympathy for him. ‘Given the residents of San Francisco a brand new artificial reef?’

  ‘You’ve just signed this country’s death warrant. The GMRC is what’s holding this country together. The GMRC is embedded throughout the U.S. government. It employs twenty per cent of the population. You’ll cripple the economy, destabilise the whole world, through an act of idiocy.’

  ‘You’re wrong; now people won’t starve or die of thirst because of your draconian sanctions.’

  Roberts regained some of his composure. ‘You do not want to make an enemy of the Directorate, Mr President,’ he said, his face contorting into a frightened leer. ‘You have no idea of their power.’

  ‘Did you just threaten the president’s life, Mr Rober
ts?’ Ashley said, intervening. She glanced at Dante. ‘Isn’t such talk worthy of imprisonment?’

  As the Secret Service operative opened his mouth to speak, an armoured GMRC soldier moved in front of Simon Roberts, the lowered visor on the bodyguard’s helmet masking the man within.

  The presidential security detail surged closer, as they reacted to the threat.

  John grasped Dante’s arm and shook his head. The Secret Service man followed his leader’s gaze to where the crowd had turned ugly. People had witnessed the exchange and one wrong move would see the GMRC contingent torn limb from limb. And while John hated what they stood for, a bloodbath was the last thing he wanted. He glanced at the cameras, which were still broadcasting.

  ‘It was not a threat,’ Roberts said, also noticing the unrest, ‘merely an observation.’

  The GMRC soldier took a backwards step.

  ‘You may be in awe of the GMRC’s Directorate,’ John said. ‘Men and women who betray their own people in the name of planetary service, but I bow to no one.’ John turned away, paused and then looked back at the GMRC official. ‘The GMRC’s days in this country are numbered, and I cannot, and will not, let you continue to hurt those you’re meant to protect.’

  ♦

  As the President of the United States stalked away, Simon Roberts remained where he was, his eyes straying to the waters where the ships belonging to the all-powerful Global Meteor Response Council had slipped beneath the waves.

  ‘It’s not the GMRC whose days are numbered, Mr President,’ – Roberts’ eyes gleamed with exultation as he watched John waving to the crowds – ‘it’s yours.’

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  ‘What do you mean, he’s not coming? I need him here!’

  Ashley gave a shrug and turned to look out at the large stage from their vantage point in the VIP box.

  John scratched at his face as music pounded out through enormous speakers that had the privileged crowd in the small arena jumping in time to the beat.