Sometimes you must do what is required.”
Sir Winston Churchill
“A time to love, and a time to hate, a
time of war, and a time of peace.”
Ecclesiastes 3:8
CHAPTER 8
007
MI6 HEADQUARTERS, VAUXHALL CROSS, LONDON
eter arrives with Colonel Bradley at the MI6 building, River House, in Vauxhall Cross, London in a blacked-out Range Rover. The official name for MI6 is the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), but everyone at Hereford refers to it as 6. Peter hasn’t been told what the meeting is about, and when he asks his Colonel, he just smiles at him. ‘You will see.’
On the way down from Hereford, he has asked about his father. ‘It’s classified,’ was the curt reply. Peter felt miffed; he would have to use some leverage.
They go through airport-style scanners and a body search. Their SAS IDs are checked against a database, the smart-looking security guard checking their faces. ‘Sorry about the extra checks gentlemen. You are clear to proceed.’ Peter has heard a rumour that they had nearly let in a terrorist the previous week, who had explosives on him. It never got into the papers, of course, it would be too embarrassing. They are escorted into a lift which goes down to the lower levels of the building. Peter glances at their black-suited and silent escort—definitely ex-military, probably Special Forces.
Silent man.
He remembers the James Bond movies, with a suave debonair 007 driving an Aston Martin. If only the public knew the truth, it is people like him—battle-hardened SAS soldiers who have been recruited by MI6 to do their dirty work. Civvies are simply not up to the job of being a secret agent—not the 007 kind anyway. No going to casinos in tuxedos, but spending hours, days, holed up in a dingy room, eating unhealthy food, monitoring suspects, gathering intelligence. When in the field taking enough Imodium to constipate an elephant—an SAS operative must leave no trace of their presence there. No DNA evidence, smelling like a tramp. Boredom. Then moments of extreme danger and adrenaline.
And extreme violence.
Kill or be killed.
The lift opens, and they are escorted into a huge white room, which is empty except for a large rectangular glass room in the centre. It seems out of place. From a hundred yards away Peter can see someone sitting at a table in the glass room. Mid-forties. Posh looking. Pinstriped suit, combed back hair, old school. Their footsteps echo as they walk in silence towards the sterile looking glass room.
Silent Man punches a code into a panel, and the door slides open. The man sitting opposite them beckons them to sit down. Peter can see a perfectly ironed shirt with a motif, hand-made. Expensive. Gold cufflinks, old school tie—bet he went to Eton, but there is a hardness about him—as if he has seen military service. He has a scar on his left cheek.
His face cracks open as he smiles, ‘Ah welcome Colonel Bradley and Sergeant Morgan. I am Nigel Goldbroom. Peter—can I call you Peter?’ as he looks at Peter, questions in his eyes. Peter takes an instant liking to him, he seems genuine, not a bureaucrat.
Not a politician.
‘Yes, Sir Nigel, I just wondered why I was brought here?’ Peter asked.
Colonel Bradley and Sir Nigel smile, as the SIS Chief leans forward.
‘Myself and the Colonel were thinking of entering you into the Olympics young man!’ Colonel Bradley sniggered, and his blue eyes sparkled.
‘But then you wouldn’t be secret anymore would you?’
Sir Nigel looks at some papers on his desk.
‘You did the 65k endurance in three hours, a record unlikely to be beaten. The strength of ten men, super hearing, and vision. Everyone’s talking about you, Peter. And clever, a degree in languages, including Arabic. You can be a great asset to us. I have agreed with the Colonel here that you can work for us occasionally. Is that ok with you?’
‘Sir Nigel, I like you—you seem genuine, so I will say yes.’ Then Peter adds, ‘As long as Vinnie works with me. That’s my only condition.’
‘Ah yes but he doesn’t have your abilities.’
‘He’s my wingman, I don’t do missions without him.’ Sir Nigel looks through his papers again.
‘Corporal Vinnie Carson, of questionable character, rebellious, father a suspected gangster. Ok but you must vouch for his behaviour.’
‘Could provide useful intel—his father I mean,’ suggests Colonel Bradley brushing back his silver hair,’ raising his eyebrows.
‘On London terror suspects. Mmm,’ Sir Nigel rubs his chin.
‘Me and Vinnie are a team,’ prompts Peter.
‘OK agreed,’ smiles Sir Nigel who now leans forward, a worried look on his face.
Peter’s demeanour becomes intense as he stares at Bradley, then at Sir Nigel, ‘One more thing. I want to find out what happened to my father. And no bullshit.’
‘That’s classified,’ replies Colonel Bradley. Sir Nigel looks sympathetically at Peter. ‘Peter, I wish I could help you, but as the good colonel said, it’s classified.’
‘Maybe I will go and work for the Yanks then,’ says Peter, arms folded, the muscles bulging in his smart sergeants uniform, knowing that will set the cat among the pigeons. Leverage. They thought they could keep it secret – but he knows the CIA are looking to hire him.
Sir Nigel gives the colonel a panicked look.
‘Peter, please be reasonable. Look, as soon as you get back from the mission, we will have a chat. Promise.’
‘What mission?’ asks Peter, his blue intelligent eyes blazing.
‘This is a secure room, a sealed room, sound and bug-proof, for what we are about to discuss is above top secret. There will be no record of our conversation.’ Sir Nigel drinks some water, clears his throat, then continues.
‘Thing is Peter, we have a problem here at the Intelligence Service. A serious problem. We think we have a mole in our organization. A rat. We have a few suspects but nothing concrete. We suspect they are working for the other side. With the terrorists. In Yemen. We are not sure if its Al Qaeda or some or other terrorist group. They have kidnapped the ambassador to Saudi Arabia. It’s a black operation, no-one will hear about it. You will receive a full briefing when you get there. The thing is—and this is the important bit—I have arranged for all the suspects to go with you as MI6 liaisons with your SAS team, which you will be leading. Keep an eye on them. There’s Saunders, Ponsonby, and Ahmed. Here’s a file on each of them. Read it then give back to me. It cannot go outside of this room.’
Peter reads through the two-page report on each suspect. They all appear to be clean—good service records, no suspicious activities. Ahmed is a Muslim, but Peter will not hold that against him. He knows many good Muslims himself—hardworking and good family men. Saunders is from South Africa. Ex-military, a Christian, church-going. Immaculate record. Another good family man. Ponsonby. Single. Went to Eton.
‘Did you go to Eton with Ponsonby Sir?’ asks Peter. Sir Nigel, surprised at Peter’s perception leans forward, ‘Yes he’s a good man. He was my roommate.’ Peter looks Sir Nigel in the eye. There is a look of sadness in it, then it is gone.
‘Sir Nigel, let me be frank, these missions are dangerous enough, without rats in the pack. I need to trust people. I trust my men implicitly. It’s a dangerous variable.’
‘I understand Peter, but we want you to find out who the rat is.’
They sit silent for a while.
‘Thing is Peter, I don’t trust anyone,’ Sir Nigel said unhappily.
‘Here is my personal number, it’s a secure line.’ Sir Nigel looks desperate, as he hands Peter a card.
‘I have one more condition,’ asks a poker-faced Peter.
‘Yes…what is it?’ asks a desperate-looking Sir Nigel.
‘I want brown leather trim on my DB9 please.’
Colonel Bradley and Sir Nigel nearly fall off their chairs as they laugh. ‘Excellent, excellent, priceless Peter. I will enjoy working with you,’ laughs Sir Nigel, ‘brown leather trim,’ he chortles—then his face became serious again.
As they come out of the MI6 building into the fresh air, Peter thinks he will enjoy working with Sir Nigel.
The Range Rover with blacked out windows pulls up outside.
‘You are going directly to RAF Lyneham and flying out tonight. Good luck Peter. I don’t have to tell you how important this mission is,’ says Colonel Bradley as he shakes Peter’s hand.
CHAPTER 9
YEMEN
eter and Vinnie are sitting in a bone-shaking C130 Hercules military transport with five other men from A Squadron of the SAS. It is a rushed operation—only twenty-four hours’ notice—and it shows. It was supposed to be two four-man teams, but one operative was pulled at the last minute. No explanation. The planning?
What planning? Peter and Vinnie have had no time to do their normal triple checks on their kit, as they normally do, apart from anything else. They have prepped their mission at the hangar back at the British base in Qatar - RAF Al Udeid, which is used to support military operations in the Middle East.
Peter’s mind races at a million miles per hour: not enough time to check their weapons (an M16 M203 with grenade launcher), ammunition, radios, maps, survival kit, food. Not enough time to beg, borrow and raid the stores for all the kit they need. Not enough time to get some food down their necks before the early evening flight. Something is bound to have been missed in the rush. He likes attention to detail, but he supposes time is of the essence. And last but not least, flaky MI6 liaisons.
A rat in the pack.
‘I cannot fight on an empty stomach,’ Vinnie keeps complaining.
Peter feels uncomfortable, in the noisy, cold C130—a flying box basically. No first-class loungers, no champagne and steak dinner, and certainly no pretty stewardesses. Peter wishes he was back home, but he is here, and he has to make the best of it, for his men. But he has that uneasy feeling in his gut again.
The noisy C130 hits some turbulence; Vinnie winces and whispers to Peter about his sore arse. Vinnie is not a good flyer. Peter is busy looking at the map again…remembering the rushed briefing by the CO. A young, fresh looking MI6 man, a short, thin officer type with a posh accent called Ponsonby.
One of the suspects.
Peter and Vinnie took an instant dislike to him and nicknamed him Pencilneck. He has no military experience—seen no action, has no idea what it’s like out in the field. Ahmed and Saunders are there, but they keep themselves busy, avoiding the SAS men, avoiding their gaze, then looking at Ponsonby. Peter thinks there is an agenda here, and he doesn’t like it.
Not one bit.
Pencilneck begins the briefing. ‘Chaps, some terrorists, probably Al Qaeda, are holding the Saudi ambassador to Yemen, possibly in a group of villages on the edge of the Rubʿ al-Khali desert. The villages are near Thamud in north-eastern Yemen. We don’t know the ambassador’s exact location, but we think it’s here.’ Pencilneck points to a map on a board. ‘We suspect there are least four terrorists, but there may be as many as twenty.’
Peter quickly calculates that it’s a thousand square miles of territory. Not enough intel he thinks, how can they plan their mission? Pencilneck continued.
‘He was kidnapped some twenty-four hours ago. Their demands are that we release ten Al Qaeda terrorists being held in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. We, of course, do not negotiate with terrorists. The Saudi government wants to keep this quiet, and there is a news blackout, so this has been classified as a black ops mission, no one will ever hear of it. So if you get in trouble, you know the score.’
The assembled men winced; if things go pear shaped they will leave us with our dicks hanging out, thinks Peter.
‘Mission code name is Desert Fox One which will be commanded by Sergeant Morgan. Wheels up in minus 30.’
Pencilneck gives a false smile at this point, trying to look confident, and receives dagger looks from the seven-man SAS team, particularly Vinnie. ‘If we don’t make it back I’m going to kill him,’ Vinnie whispers.
‘Vinnie, if we don’t make it back…never mind,’ Peter reassures Vinnie, ‘I will make sure we get back.’ Peter stands up to address Pencilneck.
‘Target appreciation. We need more intel. Number of terrorists, photographs, weapons. We need a precise location of our target; our men are at risk without more information. This is not how we work. We also need to formulate an immediate action plan, in case we get into trouble, besides this is a black op, we don’t want to be left with our dicks hanging out.’
His fellow SAS men admire Peter for his directness with the Rupert . They like him because he doesn’t stand for any nonsense from officers, and this has made him some enemies. Pencilneck looks with disdain at Peter as if to say, ‘Impudent fool.’
‘We will provide further intelligence as we get it, Sergeant Morgan. Dismissed.’
Out on the tarmac, Peter is chatting to the C130 pilot. He is nicknamed “Kojak” because he has a bald head and wears dark glasses, just like Telly Savalas. He looks worried.
‘Pete laddy, I’ve had no weather reports for Christ’s sake. I canna fly without up-to-date weather!’ says Kojak with a deep Scottish accent. Peter looks ready to kill as he speaks to his Scottish pilot, ‘We got fuck all on target appreciation. I don’t like this mission Kojak I don’t mind telling you, too many variables.’ Kojak nods.
At that moment Pencilneck strolls up, eyes squinting in the bright sunshine. ‘We need wheels up in twenty minutes.’
Kojak looks Pencilneck straight in the eye. ‘I canna fly without weather reports laddy, I’m responsible for these men, I need the METAR report before I fly!’
‘You will fly in twenty, and that’s official,’ is his reply, then adds, ‘Besides, there’s little chance of bad weather this time of year, particularly over the desert.’
Kojak shakes his head, muttering, as he strolls off to his C130 to make final checks. Peter looks at Pencilneck and swears that if this mission goes to rat-shit, he will do him himself. In military missions, especially the high-risk missions the Special Air Service carry out, any small error can soon escalate out of control. Men die. That’s why preparation is the key. Men’s lives depend on it.
Peter is responsible for these men. They are his brothers. Brothers in arms. Pencilneck looks at the fearsome presence of Peter,: bald-headed, blue-eyed, six-foot frame, built like Bruce Lee, the SAS man who is called “Bulletproof.” He has read his personnel record, and it is impressive, if insubordinate, but then again the SAS does not recruit “yes” men but operates a system of democracy, where each man can have his say, even if it contradicts a superior officer. Each SAS man is an elite soldier, qualified to have his say, at any planning meeting.
He gives that false smile again and goes to shake Peter’s hand, but Peter just looks at him, eyes burning.
CHAPTER 10
HALO DROP
eter looked at Pencilneck in silence, with his thousand-yard stare, keeping his counsel. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like Vinnie, but he would ensure justice was done if required. It would be a HALO drop—high altitude, low opening—for secrecy and stealth so they could land quietly and surprise the terrorists. They would be flying at 30,000 feet.
On the C130, Peter looked across at Sebastian. He was rough looking, had a lived-in face, looked foul, but felt fair. He was a Geordie and had an earthy Geordie accent. He had turned religious, was reading a Bible, and had a nervous twitch. Peter was a bit worried about him, Sebastian had been showing signs of stress recently. Understandable, but that was the job they did, that was the discipline.
They were in the life and death business. Peter and Vinnie both liked him and looked to him for spiritual guidance and advice like a father figure. He would often read quotes from the Bible, and Peter would listen, trying to squeeze out an ounce of wisdom to explain what they did.
Peter looked at the other members of his team, all oddballs, all super fit, all with a touch of that resourceful fighting spirit: Baz, Mad Mike, Des, and Artie. He had forgiven Des and Artie their insults about his mother at RTI. Their maturity and experience would be useful on this mission.
On top of their flying suits, they had oxygen lines, and strapped to each of their backs was the BT80 Special Forces parachute. By necessity the straps were very tight, the last thing you need is a loose strap at 10,000 feet.
Peter recalled with humour, back at the RAF base on the ground, how Vinnie, with help from a parachute dispatcher, had put his para-pack on in a hurry and had trapped one of his nuts inside the strap. Peter, Sebastian and the dispatcher all rushed to adjust the strap and free his trapped nut. They all had a good laugh about it afterwards, but at the time, it was serious. Peter had never seen Vinnie look so relieved.
On their fronts were strapped their Bergen’s with the kit and an M16 strapped to their sides. They wore their helmets and breathing apparatus getting ready for the jump.
As they sat in the C130 checking their oxygen masks and lines, and making sure the parachute straps were okay, they felt a shudder as they hit another bit of turbulence. Vinnie swore again.
Then another shudder.
The noise inside the C130 was deafening and it was difficult to talk, so he could just about hear Kojak’s announcement that they were hitting turbulence.
‘No shit Sherlock’ thought Peter. The turbulence was even making Peter uncomfortable, and Vinnie, who didn’t fly well, was cursing every other second. Peter suddenly realised—they had just started the pre-breathing period before the jump, they needed to breathe 100% oxygen in order to flush nitrogen from their bloodstream, to prevent the risk of hypoxia and falling unconscious during the jump. But only for five minutes.
What if they had to jump now?
This mission was fucked up already.
Peter could hear thunder. Then he caught a flash of lightning. He couldn’t see it but he could feel and hear it. The hairs on his body stood on end under his suit with static electricity. His sixth sense told him they were in danger, he had that feeling in the pit of his stomach. His warrior instinct, his Caius nature kicked in.
He would have to act soon.
He looked at Vinnie. Then he felt the C130 get hit by a lightning strike. The plane lurched. As Kojak struggled with the C130 controls, he heroically righted the plane, but both port engines were now on fire. The C130 is as tough as old boots, and he had flown many times in bad weather, but this was different.
They were flying into hell.
Kojak shut down both port engines and was now flying on just two starboard engines. He adjusted his flaps in a desperate attempt to keep the plane flying through the storm and driving rain.
Peter could smell smoke.
‘Fuck!’ he said through gritted teeth.
The C130 lurched to the left this time, and Vinnie took off his oxygen mask just in time, as he threw up onto the floor. The plane shuddered again. Then it lurched to the right.
Then suddenly it dropped a hundred feet in a few seconds, in a freefall, then it came upward sharply. Harnesses broke as some of the men landed in various positions on the floor, bruised and battered. The Jumpmaster lay on the floor, injured. It couldn’t get any worse thought Peter.
But it did.
‘Starboard engine out!’ screamed Kojak. They were now flying on one engine. The SAS men, hard as nails, now looked nervous and looked to Peter as their natural leader. He read their minds.
He was responsible for these men, he trained with them, ate with them, drank with them, fought battles with them—they were like his brothers.
Then the C130 was hit by a lightning strike again, near the cockpit, and a fire started. Most of the instruments went dark, as Kojak grabbed the controls, hanging on for dear life, while the co-pilot struggled with a fire extinguisher, smoke filling the cockpit. They put oxygen masks on as Kojak glanced back, mindful of the men he was carrying.
‘We might need to jump!’ shouted Peter to the men and pointed to the tailgate of the C130. But it was closed. He had to talk to Kojak. He got up and grabbed the headset from the unconscious jumpmaster.
‘Kojak, release the tailgate, we need to jump now – before it’s too late!’
‘Releasing!’ shouted Kojak. Then Peter had an afterthought.
‘Where are we?’ shouted Peter above the noise around him.
‘In the desert, Empty Quarter, near the border with Yemen, about two hundred miles from target!’
Peter hesitated, ‘Empty Quarter. Shit—middle of nowhere!’
Then he saw flames and smoke coming from the cockpit. The tailgate was not moving.
‘Kojak, the tailgate!’ Peter shouted at the top of his voice.
Kojak tried the tailgate switch again. He burnt his hand as the fire spread in the cockpit.
But the tailgate would not move.
Peter stood up and walked awkwardly to the tailgate. If he couldn’t move it they were all dead. He knew his own strength, the strength of ten men, but was it enough?
He grabbed the tailgate as high as possible to get maximum leverage and pushed down with all his might. He could hear the tail-gate creaking under the strain – but it didn’t move. He pushed down again, like a bull – this time it moved an inch, creaking, and complaining.
He had some leverage now. Two inches, then a foot. Then it gave way and came down revealing the blackness of the night. Lightning streaks illuminating storm clouds.
He nodded to the team, and they checked their helmets, breathing apparatus and suits, then followed Peter to the edge of the tailgate ramp.
He stood there looking out into oblivion.
Out into darkness, into the maelstrom of the storm. He looked at Vinnie.
‘Follow me!’ he shouted.
And then he walked out from the tailgate and launched himself into the air, closely followed by Vinnie and the rest of the team. Visibility was non-existent, as he went through cloud, through rain, through the inky darkness. Flashes of light lit the clouds from the lightning. He would wait until he was through the storm before opening his parachute. It grew less windy, and the clouds started to clear, the thunder became less loud as he plummeted through the air. He thought he spotted Vinnie, but it was too dark to tell. He looked at his Day-Glo altimeter: 20,000 feet. Then the oxygen system packed in, nothing was coming through. His heart raced as he gulped for air.
Nothing.
He tore off the mask and gulped in the air as it rushed by him. But the air was thin. He needed to get to 10,000 feet, where there was oxygen. His heart was racing as he looked at his altimeter again.
Eighteen thousand feet. He needed to calm his breathing and slow his heart rate.
Seventeen thousand feet. His heart slowed as he speeded through the inky darkness, which was now strangely quiet.
The storm had passed. He felt faint and blacked out for a second.
CHAPTER 21
ANCIENT DISCOVERY
IRAQI DESERT
In Iraq, which was once known as Sumer, an aging, bearded archaeologist, Professor Picard, excavates under a rock statue of an ancient Sumerian goddess. The perfectly preserved goddess wears a headdress, she is naked, her breasts prominent. In her hands, she holds what looks like an ankh, she has wings like an angel, and her feet are claws. On either side of her are two owls. Next to the goddess is another statue that has a sword, and jagged teeth with the face of a skeleton, and it has wings. He smiles and nods to himself.
‘This is the one,’ then looks at his skinny, bespectacled, male undergraduate assistant.
‘Sumer was the first civilization you know. But there is a mystery: how did they go from mud hut dwelling fisher folk to pyramid building mathematicians, and so quickly? That is what I hope to find out, mon ami.’
‘If anyone can find out you can, professor,’ replies the sweating assistant. His reputation is legendary. PhDs in archaeology, anthropology, philology, biochemistry, physics, mathematics, and electronics. President of Mensa, consulted by world leaders. Eccentric, but his intellect is unparalleled.
Under the blistering hot sun, the professor uses a brush to wipe away the dust, revealing a stone slab. Then he uses a handkerchief to wipe away the sweat and dust from his face. As the hot desert sun beats down on his back, the professor takes a swig from his water bottle. Along with his young male assistant, they manage to move the slab to reveal a dark chamber.
They struggle through the small entrance and fall heavily onto a stone floor. There is Sumerian cuneiform writing on the ancient stone walls, and in the middle of the chamber is a sarcophagus. The professor studies the writing, running his finger along the cuneiform characters. “Ah oui…oui, ‘The Shining One from the stars—here he rests.’ ” The assistant listens intently as inside the chamber, it is cold, and there is an eerie silence. He shivers and looks at the professor.
’This place gives me the creeps,’ he whispers.
‘Let's move the top slab,’ gestures the professor.
‘What do you think is inside, Professor?’ asks the assistant almost too afraid to ask.
‘Only one way to find to find out!’
‘Christ, it’s heavy! Here it comes,’ replies his assistant.
They manage to move the slab just enough to reveal what is inside. Professor Picard is shocked at the sight that confronts him. In the sarcophagus lie the mummified remains of an alien creature. It has a large oval head and large eye sockets, where the eyes were. It has long thin arms and legs.
‘Sacre bleu! Sainte Mère de Dieu—it's not human!’ exclaims the professor.
‘Look at the size of the eyes!’ whispers his assistant. They cross themselves, the professor whispers a prayer, and they edge closer to look at the alien mummy. Professor Picard takes photographs of the ancient writing and mummified alien, while his assistant takes flesh samples from it, being careful not to damage the alien.
‘We can analyse these later, back at the university,’ orders the professor as they make their way out with their equipment. While the assistant loads the gear into their jeep, the professor stands silently looking at the sky.
‘Penny for your thoughts Professor,’ as his young student stands by him.
‘Mon ami, there is a change in the air.’
‘What do you mean, Professor?’
The professor looks at the young man but doesn’t want to frighten him unnecessarily. He needs to talk to his adopted father, his secret protector, from early childhood. He turns and smiles at the curious young man.
‘Take the equipment and samples back to Berkeley. I must travel to Europe, to see an old friend.’
CHAPTER 22
COUNT CASSIAN’S CASTLE
MOUNTAIN CASTLE – ROMANIA
Professor Picard and Count Cassian, who is wearing a black hooded cloak, stand on a stone balcony, overlooking the mountains under a blue sky. Cassian is deep in thought, his piercing deep blue eyes hide ancient wisdom, the cloak hiding his long blond hair. They are in Cassian’s home in Romania, his ancient castle, forgotten by time, nestling in a remote valley in Transylvania. Due to its remoteness, and inaccessibility by road, it has very few visitors, which is just how Cassian likes it.
‘I know you like to keep a low profile Cassian, mon ami, but you could have found a home…well, a bit more accessible,’ complains Professor Picard.
‘It suits my purposes, Professor,’ replies Cassian as he turns to look at his old friend, giving one of his rare smiles.
‘Your finding that ancient tomb was no mistake, Professor.’
Cassian looks again at the mountains, searching the skies, looking for something. ‘I have become aware of an ancient threat. Our old enemies, that ancient filth, da aliens, are coming back to haunt us. I suspect they are coming in numbers this time, and we are not prepared. Not prepared at all,’ he says in his East European accent.
Cassian slaps the stone balcony in frustration.
‘Not prepared at all.’ He turns to the professor.
‘Cassian, if you are right the humans will need our help. You must meet with them.’ The professor has an urgency in his voice. Cassian is thoughtful.
‘The humans?’ Cassian raises his eyebrows.
‘Professor, you are right, of course. In the past, I have been reluctant to meet with them, they could not be trusted, but now, things are different. It is time.’
Cassian puts his head in his hands.
‘‘We have been complacent Professor, we must start to make preparations, make plans. We cannot meet this threat alone. We cannot.’
‘Cassian, we must consult the old book,’ Picard touches his protector’s arm hoping to lighten his burden.
‘I have always trusted your counsel Professor, but the book, it is full of riddles.’
‘And perhaps wisdom, my old friend.’
They are joined by Lucia, a vampire elder, wearing a cloak. She puts her arm in the professor’s and looks at him with her deep blue eyes, brushing back her long black hair. ‘Lucia my dear, exciting times are ahead,’ announces the professor, looking serious.
‘Yes, Uncle Louis,’ as she rests her head on his shoulder. ‘I missed you,’ as she kisses his cheek.
‘It’s good to see you smile my child.’
As they stand there, a large crow lands on the balcony, still as stone, its black beady eyes looking at Cassian, hiding great intelligence. It blinks then waddles toward him on the balcony, then jumps onto his shoulder.
‘Morfran, Morfran…wise old bird, give me news.’
The cunning old crow caws into his ear as Cassian strokes its head. The ancient vampire listens intently and nods as the wise old bird caws away. He feels inside his pocket and digs out some walnuts and acorns which Morfran eats hungrily, nuzzling his head against Cassian, who strokes his pet’s neck then looks up concerned.
‘We have less time than I thought.’
In the distance, a huge black swarm of birds is fleeing south. In the valley below, they can see hundreds of rabbits and deer running and stampeding through the wood, heading towards a cave system at the bottom of the valley.
‘The birds are fleeing. The animals are hiding. They know something is afoot. We do not have much time. Come, Professor, let us consult the book of riddles,’ Cassian sighs.
‘Mais oui, I need a coffee,’ the professor replies. Cassian whispers into the crow’s ear, and it flies off again, on another mission.
If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything
in your latest book?
If you could spend time with a character from your book whom
would it be? And what would you do during that day? Professor Picard
discussing computers, quantum mechanics and history.
Are your characters based off real people or did they all
come entirely from your imagination?
Do your characters seem to hijack the story or do you feel
like you have the reigns of the story?
Convince us why you feel your book is a must read.
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This looks like a stellar novel.
ReplyDeleteThank you for posting about the Dominion First Blood Series, I have enjoyed reading the author's guest post, bio and books' details and I am looking forward to reading these stories
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed the post. The excerpt sounds intriguing.
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