Chapter Fourteen

I

That evening, Abraham’s Bosom was alive with the news that Pope John XXIV had abdicated his papacy in favour of Father Edward Mancini. Before a crowded chapel, Daniel explained his reasons, and officiated at the ceremony which saw Mancini, looking pallid yet serene, his hands and feet wrapped in heavily-bloodstained bandages, enthroned as Pope Simeon II.

Many charismata accompanied the Mass. Messages in tongues, prophetic utterances which confirmed Daniel’s decision as the will of heaven. The entire service was broadcast openly to the world, so that, wherever possible, the persecuted Church in all parts of Martinez’s kingdom might draw strength from the sight of its new Vicar of Christ.

Later that same night, President Christopher Martinez unleashed one of the heaviest bombardments of Britain since his war on the saints had begun. But immediately prior to the onslaught, the Man of Sin made a broadcast of his own.

Around midnight, Daniel’s wheelchair rolled into the command centre deep in the heart of Abraham’s Bosom.

“Jason?” he queried the reason for the wakeup call he had received a short time before.

The young analyst adjusted his headset as he hurried over to Daniel. “Director Monaghan,” he said breathlessly.

“Sir, you really need to look at this.”

Jason turned towards the large central screen and Daniel edged his chair forward with a whir of its electric motor. The director’s brow was furrowed as he found himself straight into the soulless eyes of Christopher Martinez. His finely-chiseled features dominated the huge screen, as well as the array of smaller monitors surrounding it.

“My fellow citizens of the world,” Martinez began, the camera pulling back as the global president spread his arms wide in a contrived expression of his will to embrace his listeners. “It is my wish to speak to you all this night in order that your hearts may not be troubled by the events you may have witnessed on your televisions. That you may not be afraid.”

Martinez paused, his handsome yet strangely hollow-looking face grim, his colourless eyes fixing the viewer with an otherworldly intensity. The aura of evil was such that Martinez might have been standing in the room instead of transmitting over a distance of several hundred miles.

“I speak to you especially, people of Britain,” Martinez went on, and Daniel shot Jason a glance.

“Who can hear this?”

Jason shrugged. “Anyone and everyone. If you’ve a receiver that works, it’s all you’ll see and hear. Somehow, Martinez has commandeered our entire internal broadcasting network. We’re trying our best to switch him off, but it will take some time.”

The softly accented voice of Christopher Martinez filled the room. “For so many months, I have hoped - no, longed - for the citizens of Great Britain to join our new community of peace and harmony.” He sighed deeply.

“Yet while I am convinced that many of you harbor this same desire, you are prevented from fulfilling this noble aim by your political, military and, above all, spiritual masters. It is their resolute stubbornness alone standing between you and the new global reality.”

Martinez hesitated, a shadow passing over his face, his eyes narrowing. His voice dropped an octave. “No doubt many of you will have witnessed the enthronement of Pope Simeon. But I say to you all: do not be deceived! The days of the Church are past, its deceit and lies revealed to all the world when I first stood before you at Strasbourg. Two thousand years of popes and priests brought nothing save strife and tyranny. Less than two years of my own presidency have seen the world brought together as one, united in my name. These facts speak for themselves.

“Do not doubt! Your Messiah has come! The prophecies of ancient times are all fulfilled in me! I am the bright and morning star, and in me will all the nations of the earth be blessed!”

Daniel swallowed at Martinez’s audacity, the glib bravado with which he identified himself with the true Christ. The president smiled, but he exuded no warmth. The sense of evil had become palpable, stifling.

“Come to me and receive your rest,” Martinez concluded, raising his hands as if in blessing. And Daniel gasped and clutched the armrests of his wheelchair at sight of the open wounds in the centre of Martinez’s palms, and the blood streaming down under the pristine white cuffs of his shirt.

II

The bombardment began less than an hour after Martinez’s broadcast. Abraham’s Bosom leapt into action as klaxon sirens resounded throughout the vast subterranean complex, their eerie wail haunting the length of every stark metallic passageway and corridor.

At the heart of the complex, Daniel struggled to coordinate the confusion of incoming intelligence, beamed in from various military installations and monitoring stations throughout Britain. He grieved inwardly for the desolation wreaked by the incessant wave of bombers and missiles; but outwardly, he maintained the cool air of efficiency that came from his days with the Central Intelligence Agency.

“Sir!” one of his analysts shouted over the hubbub. “Sir, we have an incoming transmission from General West at Airbase Zebra.”

Daniel spun his wheelchair round to face the wall-mounted screens. “Patch him through,” he demanded.

The satellite image which filled the screens by default was replaced after a few seconds with a static-laden picture which cleared every few moments to reveal the drawn countenance of General Avery West.

“...are under heavy bombardment...half...planes...runway....”

“Can’t we clean this up a little?” Daniel snapped. “Try to boost the signal?”

Someone complied and the static cleared somewhat, and the audio feed increased in clarity.

“I repeat, we are under heavy bombardment, with half of our planes hit before they could leave the runway.”

In the background could be heard the noise of the unrelenting attack on the general’s base of command, and Daniel angled the microphone of his headset closer to his dry lips.

“Avery!” he called. “Avery, you’ve done all you can! Now get out of there!”

Daniel repeated his order, but the screen was rapidly filling with interference once again.

“We’re losing the signal,” Jason explained, but Daniel balled up his fist and thumped the armrest of his wheelchair.

“Avery!” he cried. “Get out of there, dammit!”

But even before the last of the words was out of his mouth, the screen hissed to nothing but a blizzard of impenetrable static. For a few reflective moments, Daniel merely sat slumped in his wheelchair, head bowed, quietly mourning the general. Then he breathed deeply and sat straight, turning towards Jason.

“Mark it down. Airbase Zebra is compromised.”

III

For more than four hours, Britain bore the brunt of Martinez’s satanic fury. In one night, more destruction was visited upon her towns and cities than in all the previous months put together.

Equally, the military had not experienced such casualties since the start of the war. Indeed, the severity of the assault owed itself to the lethal precision with which Britain’s defences had been targeted. Airfields were decimated before even a single plane could lift off; anti-aircraft missile batteries were neutralised. Even the sea defences had been stretched to their limits. Several naval commanders reported attempts by enemy forces to beach landing craft filled with crack troops at various strategic points on the coast. Mercifully, none was successful.

At last, around dawn, the onslaught eased. In Abraham’s Bosom, Daniel wearily assessed the situation. Report after report came in, gradually building a horrifying picture of utter devastation. Towns and cities already scarred from months of conflict had faced their final dissolution, wiped from the map as if they had never existed at all.

Thousands were dead and injured, thousands more were homeless. Some kind of relief effort was called for, but the scale of the situation was simply overwhelming. The logistics of such an operation seemed totally beyond the capabilities even of Abraham’s Bosom. The disaster was hardly localised; north to south, east to west, the Britain lay in flames. Yet in the midst of his sense of helplessness, Daniel recalled an old Jewish proverb.

Something about how whoever saves one soul saves the whole world. All that they could do was try to help as many of the survivors as possible.

Daniel suddenly realised that the command centre had fallen silent and that all eyes were looking to him for instruction. He sighed heavily and turned to address the anxious band of technicians and analysts.

“Okay, we need a concerted effort here. Contact all the regional aid depots, see if any of them survived and what reserves they have. Jump to it! We need to know yesterday, people!”

The room began to buzz again with activity and Daniel allowed himself a moment of pride at the professionalism of his team. Behind him, he only just registered the hiss of compressed air as the elevator doors slid open. He rotated his chair to find Mancini hobbling awkwardly towards him. Daniel noted with concern how pale and gaunt the new pontiff looked.

“Edward,” Daniel greeted his old friend. “You really should be resting.”

But Mancini did not reply. His eyes were transfixed by the images on the screen. Of high-resolution satellite photographs showing palls of smoke rising from the funeral pyres of obliterated towns and cities.

“And so the dragon wages war upon the woman,” he murmured to himself. He turned his red-rimmed gaze on Daniel. “Take me to them.”

Daniel frowned. “Edward?”

“Without a shepherd, the sheep will scatter,” Mancini retorted feverishly. “Take me to them. I must feed Christ’s flock.”

Daniel shook his head, nonplussed by Mancini’s demand. “Edward,” he began, only to be interrupted by one of his technicians.

“Sir,” the young woman said. “Sorry, sir, but our computers have isolated an incoming encrypted transmission.”

“One second, Becky,” Daniel replied absently, holding up a hand. His focus remained on Mancini. “Edward, I must insist that you rest.”

“And I must insist that you listen to me, Daniel,” Mancini responded firmly. His eyes were at one and the same time filled with weariness and steely resolve. Daniel could not help but flinch beneath the determined stare. But then Mancini’s tone softened.

“Remember what you said to me before, Daniel? About the reason why you believed God had sent me here? You said that the Church required guidance and prophecy, but above all, love.” Mancini smiled warmly. “Let me give it to them, Daniel,” he whispered.

“Sir?” the technician interrupted again.

Daniel nodded slowly at Mancini. “Yes, Becky,” he answered thoughtfully. “I’m listening.”

“Sir, that transmission I mentioned was buried within a commercial radio broadcast. The senders claim to be The Sword of Shem.”

Daniel started at the information and spun through one-eighty, buzzing his chair over to the workstation of the young analyst. “The Sword of Shem,” he breathed. “Okay, my girl, spill.”

“The transcript reads as follows: ‘Major Sheridan alive and well. Suggested extraction point: Denoulle highway. Thirty-five civilians besides. Please advise.’”

“Mother of God!” Daniel chortled. “A bit of good news at last. Denoulle, eh? Never heard of it.”

In response, Becky called up a map of the northern coast of France which appeared on the overhead monitor. Highlighted in red was the dead straight line of the Denoulle highway.

“Thoughts, everyone,” Daniel invited, studying the cartography. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that looks plenty big enough for a Hercules transport to me.”

“Yes, sir,” Jason confirmed.

“And the locals? What kind of welcome should we expect?”

“Current intel suggests only limited defences.”

“But we don’t know for sure,” Daniel murmured, lost in thought. He exhaled loudly. “Still, what’s new?”

He looked across at Jason. “Okay, how soon could we get across there?”

Jason shrugged. “Two, three days at best,” he estimated. “Most of our transports are spoken for ferrying aid.”

“Of course, of course.” Daniel rubbed his chin, studying the map for a moment longer. “Becky, send a reply to our allies across the Channel. Standard encryption protocols. Advise them that we’ll be at Denoulle at dawn three days from today. Got that?”

“Right away, sir,” Becky snapped and immediately began to type out the message on her keyboard which lay half-buried in a sea of styrofoam coffee cups.

“And may the Lord smile favourably on our endeavour,” Daniel added softly.

IV

Mancini was still staring up at the screen array when Daniel rolled back towards him. The new pope looked down at the hum of Daniel’s chair and smiled.

“Well?” he enquired, and Daniel returned the smile, sighing.

“Edward, speaking as your friend, I can only warn against what you wish to do. You’re weak and in no fit state to travel, and I cannot ensure your safety. But - “ He broke off and clasped Mancini’s hand, pressing his lips to the Fisherman’s Ring. “But you are more than a friend now, Edward. And who am I to resist the will of the Almighty?

“A medical team is due to fly out to one of the worst hit areas in the next few hours. There will be a space reserved for you on the helicopter.”

Daniel gripped Mancini’s hand, staring unblinkingly into Mancini’s face. “But you will be accompanied by a personal bodyguard. I will at least insist on that.”

Visibly relaxing, Mancini nodded, wordlessly squeezing Daniel’s hands before turning and shambling back towards the elevator. Daniel watched him go, struck by his friend’s sudden physical frailty, and the sense of otherworldly power which belied this bodily weakness.