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

by Robert Storey

  Lights blazed on and when John managed to focus he saw he was inside a spherical auditorium, the car he sat in perched atop a small platform suspended twenty feet from the floor. Up above, behind a glass window, four people – two men and two women – looked down at him.

  A man in his sixties, who sported a greying beard and glasses, held a microphone to his mouth. ‘What you decide now will seal the fate of billions,’ he said, holding John’s gaze, ‘so my question is: will you help us, Mr President? Will you help us save the world?’

  ♦

  John shook his head and wondered, does this person really expect me to say yes? He continued to search the faces of the four people that had exposed their identities to him. He frowned when he looked at the smaller of the two women. She was the spitting image of the presenter in the video he’d been shown previously; Jessica Klein, the now disgraced BBC newsreader. He’d watched her broadcasts when she’d launched a verbal tirade on the GMRC two years before, and he now realised she wasn’t just a look-alike, it was her.

  As their eyes met he could tell that she’d noticed his recognition.

  ‘Well, Mr President?’ said the man with the microphone. He was short of stature, but projected power like no man John had ever met.

  John looked at him anew. ‘You’re either all very brave, showing yourselves to me, or very stupid. Whoever you are,’ he said, addressing the spokesman, ‘you don’t strike me as insane, but that’s what you are if you think to convince me of one of the craziest things I’ve ever heard.’

  Strangely the man smiled. ‘I didn’t expect you to say yes, Mr President. If I was in your shoes I would say the same thing.’

  John was getting an uneasy feeling, he was starting to like this man, which was disturbing in itself, but what was worse, was the assured authenticity that poured out of him in waves. John remembered what this person had done to Dante, how close he’d come to killing Ashley, and John himself, and his fury quashed the feelings like a bug.

  ‘The GMRC’s Tenth Protocol will have been activated, Mr President,’ the man continued, ‘the final surface evacuation has begun. In the coming days and weeks, you will begin to notice the signs. The GMRC will do its best to cover it up, but you may hear talk of people going missing, of fake artwork found in major museums, or sightings of a strange light in the sky. But the most obvious sign will be the drying up of resources. Stockpiles of food, metals, plastics, fuels and something I know is close to your heart, fresh water. Those that have relocated to the underground bases will siphon off the remaining assets of the United States before it’s too late. If you think your problems have just begun, you’re wrong; soon there will be no problems left as this country will be no more.’

  Are they going to release me? John thought, amazed. After all they’ve done to get me here? You’re not free yet, John, he told himself. ‘If what you say is true, I won’t have to wait to find out, I can secure our resources and have the skies scoured for this imaginary asteroid.’

  ‘And what do you think the GMRC will do when they know that you know, Mr President?’

  John said nothing.

  ‘The GMRC will seek to suppress your actions,’ the man said, ‘and if they can’t, your life will become forfeit. Assassination of a president is easy when you know there’ll be no recriminations. Take heed, Mr President, trust no one.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ John said, remaining calm, ‘how can you expect me to initiate a nuclear strike without the GMRC knowing about it?’

  ‘In two weeks’ time at Camp David you’ll be hosting the Chinese and EU leaders at a conference to discuss the GMRC’s global mandate—’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ John said, disturbed by his knowledge. The conference had only just been finalised and was still to be made public.

  ‘—by the time it comes to that meeting,’ the man continued, ‘world and national events will have convinced you all is not as it seems, and that what we have just told you is coming to pass. At that time you can either choose to remain in the dark, or embrace reality.’

  A small green light flashed on the side of John’s handcuffs, a latch clicked open and the restraints fell to the floor with a metallic clank.

  John looked down in surprise.

  ‘We’ve alerted the Secret Service to your whereabouts, Mr President, they’ll be with you soon.’

  John freed himself from the ropes and stood up, rubbing at his wrists to ease their discomfort. ‘And what happens at Camp David?’

  ‘We’ll come to you.’

  ‘And after my predicted epiphany, I’ll then do exactly as you say, is that what you think? I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘You can call me Professor.’

  ‘Tell me then, Professor, what happens after we’ve saved this country from your so-called asteroid threat? What then?’

  ‘That will be up to you, Mr President.’

  A loud bang made John turn.

  Armed men came swarming in through a door in the auditorium and relief washed over him as he recognised his protection detail.

  He looked back up to see his abductors walking away from the window. Knowing his team wouldn’t get there in time, John gauged the distance to a nearby staircase and jumped across from his elevated position. Landing with a clang, he hauled himself over the railing, gained his footing and ran up the steps to burst into the room.

  He looked around in confusion. It was empty, and there was no other exit, save for the door he’d entered by. He looked up at the ceiling where a holographic device projected the image of another room onto the laminated window.

  The image died, and John found himself standing in a bare room filled with silence.

  ‘The future is on your hands, John Henry,’ a voice said from the ether, the voice of the other man who’d spoken previously. ‘Your nation has never been in greater need, and you, perhaps the last ever President of the United States of America,’ – the lights in the room blinked out, plunging John into darkness – ‘are its only hope.’

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  John Harrison Henry found himself sitting outside an abandoned theme park, surrounded by Secret Service agents and a host of police officers who continued to scour the area for signs of the terrorists who’d kidnapped him. So far nothing had been found and John was yet to share his recent experience in any detail. Not that he was thinking of holding anything back; he would tell his advisors and agents everything that had happened. Why shouldn’t I? he thought. I have nothing to hide. Except, despite what he knew to be the case, the whole ordeal had left him with a strange sense of detachment. Nothing made sense. Why kidnap him to tell him a story worthy of the world’s most paranoid mind and then let him go? What was the reason behind their madness? Was it a threat against his life? Would they turn up at Camp David and finish the job? And why would a disgraced newsreader be party to such an undertaking? Jessica Klein was known to mix with terrorists, he told himself, she was caught taking bribes from a notorious group to discredit the GMRC. A worthy cause, he knew, but she wasn’t to be trusted, especially when she’d aided the assault that had killed a host of government agents.

  His thoughts turned to Dante, his lead agent, who had become a close friend during their short time together. John had been informed he was in a stable condition in San Francisco’s UCSF Medical Center, where Ashley remained by his side. Dante had no immediate family to call upon in his time of need, so it was up to his friends to fill the void. John’s fury at those who had put him there returned. An image of the terrorists’ ringleader, the self-anointed ‘Professor’, appeared in his mind’s eye. The title was an appropriate one. The man was well-spoken, a confident speaker, and couldn’t have looked more like an academic if he’d tried. The question was: what did he want?

  There was, of course, one possibility John hadn’t considered; that the GMRC was trying to intimidate and confuse him. That this was some elaborate plan to nullify and destabilise his plans to expel the GMRC from the United Sta
tes. But why would they use GMRC drones? From what John had gleaned from garbled reports, the GMRC had already denounced the attack and had been helping the nation’s authorities to find John and his attackers.

  Perhaps they were telling the truth, then, he thought, a wry smile at the prospect vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

  What am I missing? he wondered, the question repeating over and over in his mind, as he gazed up at a drone which hovered overhead … what am I missing?

  ♦

  As the President of the United States pondered the elusive answer to his question, the chatter of police radios continued to pervade the scene around him.

  Nearby, a drone operator manoeuvred his UAV higher, the in-built camera centred on the Commander in Chief, who sat on the tailgate of a black SUV, deep in thought.

  Drifting on a warm breeze, the noise of helicopters, sirens and encrypted communications merged with other frequencies beamed around the world by ubiquitous antennas and satellite relays.

  Up and up the drone soared, flying through these invisible signals, the city of San Francisco falling away below as the winds grew stronger. Any receiver in the vicinity of this small aerial craft would have picked up these hidden messages which flowed around it, heading out unimpeded into space, and if someone was tuning in this is what they would have heard:

  ‘… word has it the new president, the controversial John Henry, has a surprise in store during his whistle-stop tour of the West Coast. What that might be is anyone’s guess, but whatever it is, we’ve been told it will be spectacular …’

  Heading north along the coast towards Canada, another radio signal intersected the first:

  ‘… education is the key to salvation. The Lord’s word is our saviour. Never forget, we are all God’s children. You think you have a choice when, where and to whom you’re born? Think again …’

  Forty thousand feet up, a passenger plane skimmed the upper atmosphere as a transmission came through:

  ‘BW-285, be advised, meteorite dust particulates in this region are category C. Descend to twenty-five thousand feet to avoid engine failure.’

  ‘Thank you, WCA, descending to twenty-five thousand feet, as instructed.’

  The pilot dialled the new altitude into the navigation computer, while his last transmission continued its journey up into the beyond.

  Dark storm clouds roiled and the air turned colder, its icy grasp biting sharp. Rain beat down and lightning flickered and flashed. Thunder rumbled and a tempest brewed high above the Alaskan land mass. Higher still, the heavens parted. Sunlight bathed the Earth below and reflected off a tiny mirrored oval structure which glided overhead through the black void of space. NASA’s Deep Space Detection Array continued its never-ending survey of the universe. However, its primary focus was not one, two, or even three asteroids, but four, their distant bulks strung out into the depths of the solar system, with two more being tracked even further out.

  These tiny specks, minuscule in relation to the vastness they traversed, but still large in their own right, sped onwards through time and space, their destination unchanged … a destination called Earth.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  GMRC Intelligence Division.

  Washington D.C., USA.

  ‘Who does he think he is?!’

  ‘The President of the United States?’

  Malcolm Joiner, Director of U.S. and GMRC Intelligence, glared through his glasses at the man opposite him. ‘He declares war on the GMRC, threatens our expulsion, and then blows up three of our ships!’

  ‘We don’t need them anymore,’ Agent Myers said, remaining unruffled by his superior’s fury.

  ‘What?!’

  ‘I’ve been told they were decommissioned months back.’

  ‘I don’t care if they were decommissioned twenty years ago, they’re GMRC property.’ Joiner stood up and moved away from the desk in his oversized office. ‘We can’t have sovereign leaders openly rebelling against us; it’ll give other nations ideas.’

  Myers sat down on the edge of the desk, ignoring his director’s look of annoyance as he did so. ‘We always knew he was going to be a problem, and besides, isn’t this all irrelevant? The Tenth Protocol has been activated and soon the United States – above the surface, anyway – will be—’

  ‘In ruins,’ Joiner said, staring out of his office window at his nation’s seat of power. The great dome of Capitol Hill rose above the surrounding trees and buildings like a beacon of hope in an uncivilised world. Order from chaos, Joiner thought, knowing full well such order had a price, a price that men like him must pay. It fell to them to herd the weak-minded cattle that seemingly plagued the world over. He wondered why life bothered with such pathetic souls. Why create such human waste?

  It’s so you can see how much better you are, he told himself, why else? He smiled at the truth of it. His eyes drifted to the Washington Monument, the top of the towering obelisk level with Joiner’s distant vantage point from inside the GMRC skyscraper he currently called home. The office building defied the Height of Buildings Act, designed to protect Washington D.C.’s character and well-known views. Many years ago, Joiner’s fondness for architecture had prompted him to take a hand in sanctioning the planning permission. He’d known then, as he knew now, laws were meant to be broken; it had also served notice to those in the U.S. Government that Joiner’s position within the GMRC Directorate gave him powers they could only dream of. It was a lesson the administration of the day had found hard to stomach, but stomach it they had. Joiner smiled again as he remembered the delight of such past pleasures. Oh, how they suffered, Joiner thought, knowing if there was one thing sweeter than knowing he was superior to everyone else, it was when he crushed those who thought likewise.

  ‘Our withdrawal from the surface is not complete,’ Joiner said. ‘Until the transition has been made, we must maintain control.’ He looked down at the people milling about below, tourists, civil servants, local residents; most, if not all, would not survive the month. It was a comforting thought, millions of pointless lives no longer in need of coddling. As far as Joiner was concerned the future couldn’t come soon enough.

  Myers joined him at the window and looked up at the sky. ‘Shouldn’t we be relocating to USSB Sanctuary?’

  Joiner followed his gaze, but there was no sign of the asteroid; not yet, anyway. ‘There are some things I need to take care of.’ He frowned. The view of blue skies was a reminder that the cover of darkness had gone. Without the dust cloud and accompanying impact winter, the final withdrawal from the surface was no longer a formality. And Joiner had grown used to the unending black that had merged day into night. At first the perpetual gloom had depressed him, but he’d soon come to appreciate it for what it was, a tool to be utilised much like everything – and everyone – else. Light always had a tendency to expose that which the GMRC wanted to conceal, and it made him feel safe knowing that such transparency would soon be at an end.

  ‘Things?’ Myers said, curious. ‘What things?’

  ‘Computer, lock my office door and stream video file, kilo five eight two.’

  The form of a woman wearing an austere grey ensemble appeared on the nearby wallscreen. ‘Of course, Director, video is now playing.’

  Hidden bolts clicked into position, locking the room’s entrance, and the office windows turned opaque. The artificial intelligence faded from view as an image replaced its avatar, the scene from a baseball stadium stretching around the office walls and onto the windows like a living dream.

  Joiner turned round to study the footage he’d seen countless times: black GMRC helicopters landed on the field of play and Joiner watched himself disembark from his aerial limousine, much to the anger of the crowd, who’d witnessed their baseball match interrupted in the rudest of fashions.

  GMRC operatives corralled the hostile sports fans back into the stands, making room for their leader and the man he’d gone to see, the man standing next to him now, Agent Myers. As the two men
viewed their former selves conversing, some time passed before a man could be seen running through the crowd behind them, pursued by armed intelligence agents. Seconds later the fugitive vaulted over a railing, onto the grass, and sprinted into the centre of the pitch, where he was encircled by wary, gun-toting agents. Speaking into a device, the man raised his arms in the air, shouted something, and then disappeared in an explosion that rocked the stadium.

  ‘Pause,’ Joiner said. ‘Rewind and replay segment ninety-two.’

  The video rewound and resumed just as the suicide bomber put his hands in the air and shouted, ‘EGO SUM REX GLORIAE!!’

  ‘Pause playback,’ Joiner said, and walked up to the now static image of the man just before he blew himself up.

  ‘You’ve found out who he works for?’ Myers said.

  ‘Ego sum Rex Gloriae,’ Joiner said, pointing at the man. ‘Latin for I am king of glory. It didn’t take me long to find out where such an obscure phrase originated. But it took me much longer to find out what it represented and who he worked for, or should that be, what he believed in.’ Joiner remained studying the frozen image of the man’s face, the bulging eyes and manic expression, not showing fear for what he was about to undertake, but something verging on ecstasy.

  Myers was intrigued. ‘And what did you find?’ he said, when his director failed to continue.

  ‘That he was a fanatic, as I first assumed, and yet one not seen for hundreds of years.’ Joiner waved his hand over a control panel and the image changed to an outside view of the building, making it seem like they were surrounded by windows. He moved back to his desk and sat down. ‘The group he belongs to is an obscure religious sect, or perhaps secret society is more accurate, that existed for a short time in the late sixteen hundreds before being disbanded by the Roman Inquisition. Their leader, one Agostino Gabrino, became known for disrupting religious ceremonies while wielding a sword and yelling Ego sum Rex Gloriae. He was labelled a madman and confined to a mental institution, or what served as one in the seventeenth century. Those that took up arms in his name called themselves the Knights of the Apocalypse.’