by Alan Fenton
A few minutes later an enormous explosion lifted the submarine clean out of the water. As it blew apart in mid-air, a stream of liquid fire climbed the sky, revealing as it fell back a great sword, its blade glowing so brightly that no one dared look at it longer than a split second. When the sun stood high in the heavens, the sword shone at its brightest. In the afternoon its light began to dim, and at the day’s end, as the sun sank below the horizon, the sword glowed blood red, fading with the dying light.
This extraordinary phenomenon was witnessed not just by the passengers and crew of the Crystal Splendour, but by billions of people across the globe. Some had cause to fear the sword, some believed it was an evil portent, most saw it as a sign of hope for the future, a pledge to the world that Camelot had both the will and the power to do what needed to be done to save mankind.
And the name on everyone’s lips was Arthur.
Fourteen
The Sea Lords
An hour after the successful completion of Operation Sea Lord, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom was on screen.
‘My heartiest congratulations, Arthur. I don’t have the full details yet, but I have seen all those amazing pictures on the internet. It seems you have destroyed the Sea Lords.’
‘We have destroyed them as a fighting force,’ said Arthur. ‘We have not located and destroyed their home base.’
‘Nevertheless, Britain is in your debt. The whole world is. On behalf of His Majesty’s Government and the British people I offer you my sincere thanks. Is there anything we can do to help?’
‘There is,’ said Arthur promptly. ‘We have taken a number of prisoners.’
‘Prisoners?’ The PM’s nose convulsed, as though assaulted by a particularly offensive odour from a polluted drain.
‘Fifty-two in all,’ said Arthur, apparently oblivious to the PM’s suffering. ‘Including their leader, Mujahid.’
Guessing what was coming, the PM wished he had not so rashly offered his help.
‘We shall be handing over about twenty prisoners to you, and the rest to the United States, including Mujahid. I am certain the President will be more than happy to put him on trial.’
The Prime Minister sighed. ‘I imagine so. Though it does seem such a shameful waste of time and money,’ A beam of a smile clicked on and off. ‘Of course, no one actually knows that any of the terrorists survived, do they – apart from us, that is.’ A sly look. ‘What I’m suggesting,’ the PM explained, in case Arthur had not grasped his message, ‘is that you could – well – deal with them yourself, and no one would be the wiser.’ A Prime Ministerial eyebrow cocked suggestively. ‘Could you not?’
‘We have only a very small prison in Camelot,’ said Arthur. ‘I had something else in mind,’ said the PM, an insinuation
accompanied by a grotesquely broad wink.
‘You are suggesting that I murder the prisoners?’
The PM looked pained. ‘Murder is not the word I would use.
Murder is what terrorists commit.’
‘All the more reason we should not sink to their level,’ said Arthur. ‘And why are you so reluctant to accept your share of prisoners? You would undoubtedly obtain useful intelligence from them which would help you in the fight against terrorism.’ ‘To tell you the truth, Arthur,’ confessed the PM, ‘we have more than enough intelligence already; a great deal more than we can handle.’
Arthur’s blue eyes were cold. ‘These men have murdered innocent British citizens. They have committed crimes against humanity. They must be brought to trial, and, if found guilty, punished.’
The PM’s face betrayed his irritation. ‘All very well for you to take that line, Arthur. Camelot is not a target, at least not yet,’ he added ominously. ‘The United Kingdom, on the other hand, is a target for a whole bunch of maniacs. If we convict and imprison these men we would face a wave of suicide bombings, hostage taking, and God knows what else.’
‘No one said fighting terrorists was easy,’ said Arthur. ‘We have to hunt them down and kill or capture them. Those we take alive must be punished. If we fail to do that, they win, and we lose.’
‘Very well,’ said the Prime Minister wearily, ‘send the bastards over and they’ll go on trial and we’ll do our best to keep them in jail. Of course . . . ’ – he was a resourceful political animal who prided himself on his understanding of human nature – ‘if your guests were to disappear, no questions asked . . . why then, my government would know how to express its appreciation.’ An expansive gesture of his hands and an upward look suggested that the sky would be the limit.
Arthur’s face was stony. ‘Appreciation?’ ‘Honours would be showered on you.’
Arthur drew himself up proudly. ‘I am President of the Round Table,’ he said. ‘I need no other honour.’
‘Quite so,’ murmured the PM, unperturbed. ‘I totally understand. Totally,’ he repeated with earnest emphasis. After all, what are titles and medals to a man like you? Trivial and shallow things – on the other hand –’ his voice dropped discreetly ‘you might perhaps be tempted by more tangible expressions of our nation’s gratitude?’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ said Arthur, ‘but I’m not interested in tangibles.’
The PM’s smile was resigned but melancholy. ‘Such a shame,’ he said.
The US President did not hesitate. ‘Wheel them over, Arthur. About thirty, you say? Mujahid – he’s the only one we really want, but I’ll take the rest as well. We know how to deal with terrorists in the USA.’
‘That’s rather the point,’ said Arthur. ‘The world will want to see justice done.’
‘Spare me the human rights lecture.’ ‘Even terrorists have rights.’
‘You know something, Arthur,’ said the President, ‘I have a lot of respect for you, and I sure as hell admire what you’re doing. But I regret to say that you are deceiving yourself. You want to be all things to all people – warrior and saint. I’m afraid that doesn’t work. A saint is not supposed to get blood on his hands.’
Arthur had no answer to that. A distortion, yes, but close enough to the truth to be disturbing.
‘Let’s be honest with each other,’ said the President, ‘Mujahid is dangerous. We both want him dead. Am I right?’
‘It would certainly make life less complicated,’ agreed Arthur. ‘I gotta tell you, Arthur, if I were in your shoes – don’t quote me or I’ll call you a liar – I’d waste those Sea Lords of yours. You can say they died in battle, or resisting capture, or trying to escape. Fact is, you can say whatever you goddam well like, and who is going to know the difference?’
‘So if we send you our prisoners, you will kill them? Is that what you’re saying?’
The President was outraged. ‘Kill them! We don’t do things like that in the USA. Not any more, anyway. There’d be one hell of an outcry in the media. We’d be censured by the United Nations, the European Union and every crackpot liberal bleeding-heart do-gooder in the world! No, we have to watch our step these days, more’s the pity. But not you, Arthur. What do you care what anyone says? You’re accountable to no one. You’re above the law, answerable only to God. Hell, man, I envy you.’ The President slapped his desk. ‘OK, send me the goddam prisoners, and we’ll put them on trial. Just be sure you send me Mujahid. He’s the pearl in the oyster.’
Long after the screen went blank Arthur was still mulling over the President’s words. Above the law. Accountable to no one. Free to lie, free to kill. If that was how the world saw him, what hope was there for the future?
The Sea Lord prisoners were duly dispatched to the UK and the USA by Eclipse. Distrusting both leaders, Arthur decided to keep Mujahid under guard in Camelot until it was clear that the Sea Lord prisoners would indeed receive a fair trial. A message for Arthur was posted by the White House on a website whose complex of passwords was known only to Camelot’s Command Control. Copies received. Awaiting receipt of original. Arthur replied. Original will be dispatched when agreed conditions ar
e met. The same message was posted twice more, and each time met with the same response. The President was by now incandescent with rage. Arthur was unimpressed.
Meanwhile Command Control’s surveillance revealed that many Sea Lord prisoners had simply disappeared. Some media sources suggested they were being held in secure camps in the US and in various eastern European countries. Others said they had been freed. Neither the White House nor Downing Street would comment, citing national security.
When, after several weeks, Arthur was compelled to accept that he had been duped, the Round Table was summoned and agreed unanimously that Mujahid was to be tried by Camelot’s High Court for crimes against humanity. After a trial lasting two weeks, he was found guilty. A week later the three High Court judges passed sentence: Mujahid was to die.
Once more the Round Table met, this time to consider how the death sentence would be carried out. On this issue Gawain had a very basic view supported by a number of hawks. ‘As long as we do it, what does it matter how it’s done?’ Nods of approval around the table made him more daring. ‘Why don’t we just Elimat him on camera and relay the images to the world?’
This suggestion was less well received and there was an embarrassed silence in the Great Hall.
‘That’s what terrorists do,’ said Arthur. ‘Most democracies have abolished the death sentence. Camelot retains it for acts of terror; all the more reason for demonstrating that Mujahid’s trial was fair, and his execution humane and dignified.’
Most members of the Round Table agreed with Arthur. Several alternatives were debated. Mujahid could be Elimatted; he could be put to sleep by lethal injection; he could be painlessly killed by nano-organisms. It was Lancelot who came up with the solution that received the most support. ‘I propose a military execution by firing squad.’
Arthur asked what seemed to many a strange question. ‘Are we not putting the cart before the horse?’
A mystified silence was broken by George Bedivere. ‘What cart? What horse?’
Arthur looked around the table at friends and colleagues. ‘The question is not only how we do it, but who does it.’
Slowly Arthur’s meaning became clear.
‘Which of you agrees to carry out the sentence?’ Not a single member met Arthur’s eye.
‘Any volunteers?’ said Arthur.
Big Gaheris’s arm twitched, and then was still, as he became aware that everyone was looking at him. Folding his arms, he examined the table with great concentration.
‘Why not draw lots?’ Lancelot suggested. ‘Whoever draws the short straw does the deed.’
George Bedivere asked shrewdly: ‘If you drew the short straw, would you kill Mujahid?’
‘I might ask you the same question,’ retorted Lancelot. ‘I asked you first,’ said George.
The seconds ticked by. ‘I don’t know what I would do,’ said Lancelot finally.
One unspoken thought was in everyone’s head. Killing in battle was one thing, killing in cold blood quite another. No one, it seemed, had the stomach for it.
Every member was looking in Arthur’s direction. Surely he would have the solution to their predicament. ‘I have no answer,’ he said. ‘I suggest we adjourn to consider the matter, and meet again tomorrow.’
That night he tossed and turned on his bed, falling asleep shortly before dawn, dreaming, as he had so many times, of the knight in golden armour and his grim adversary. But in his dream the cruel eyes of the black knight were the eyes of Mujahid.
Fifteen
The Sea Lords
When he woke the following morning, Arthur knew what he had to do. Dressing in the plain dark blue uniform worn by every active, he strapped on his portable, making sure that it was set in Elimat mode.
Mujahid was held in Camelot’s prison. Dismissing two alert robot guards and one sleepy active, Arthur identified himself by voice and iris to the wall sensor. As he opened the cell door, Mujahid looked at him with expressionless eyes. ‘They tell me I’m to be executed.’
‘The High Court has sentenced you to death, yes.’
Mujahid smirked. ‘The High Court! On this tinpot little island! That’s a joke.’
‘You were given a fair trial,’ said Arthur, ‘which is a great deal more than you gave your victims.’
‘Do what you want,’ said Mujahid indifferently. ‘I am not afraid to die for the cause.’
‘What kind of cause is it,’ said Arthur, ‘that justifies murdering innocent men, women and children?’
‘They deserved to die,’ said Mujahid. ‘No, they did not. But you do.’
Mujahid shrugged. ‘There will be others to take my place,’ he said.
Watching the man pour himself coffee from a flask, Arthur marvelled at how ordinary he looked. Men like him – hair cropped, unshaven, dressed in T-Shirts and baggy combat pants – were to be seen every day strolling along the King’s Road, London, or Madison Avenue, New York. What distinguished this fanatic, this psychopathic killer from them? Nothing – nothing visible at least. There was no mark of Cain on his forehead, nothing in his demeanour that would suggest he was a mass murderer who took pleasure in blowing innocents to pieces and torturing people both mentally and physically. Indeed, looking at the Sea Lords’ commander objectively, without knowing what he had done, Arthur would have guessed he was a doctor, a lawyer or a teacher; and somehow the very ordinariness of his appearance made what he actually was all the more horrifying.
Focusing his mind, he tried to look through those blank eyes and find a way into Mujahid’s head as Merlin had taught him to do. But there was no way in. Behind the eyes was a steel door, and the door was firmly shut.
Mujahid yawned and stretched. ‘When is my execution to be?’
‘Very soon.’
‘How soon is very soon?’ Was that a glint of fear in his eyes? ‘You mean now?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are going to kill me?’
‘I have elected to carry out the High Court’s sentence,’ said Arthur.
Mujahid put down his cup of coffee. ‘You are Camelot’s leader, not its executioner.’ A shake of the head. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Nevertheless it is true,’ said Arthur.
‘No one else would do it, eh?’ Mujahid saw from Arthur’s reaction that he had hit the target. ‘So Arthur Pendragon is forced to do his men’s dirty work.’
‘I don’t ask my men to do anything I would not do myself,’ said Arthur. He tapped the port at his belt. ‘You are to be Elimatted. Painless and instantaneous. You will simply cease to exist.’
‘Don’t you think I deserve something better?’
‘Better than the innocents you slaughtered?’
‘In this world no one is innocent,’ said Mujahid.
‘I am not here for a philosophical debate,’ said Arthur, his hand reaching for his portable, ‘I am here to carry out the sentence of the High Court.’
‘I have lived like a warrior,’ said Mujahid. ‘At least let me die like one.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Arthur bit his tongue, sensing that with that question he had surrendered a measure of power to Mujahid.
Mujahid seized his chance. ‘A fight to the death,’ he said. ‘Nothing high tech. Axes and knives. Man to man. You are a soldier, Arthur, not an executioner. If you kill me in cold blood, the memory will haunt you for the rest of your life.’
Arthur heard himself asking, ‘What happens if you kill me?’ ‘In that unlikely event,’ said Mujahid, ‘I dare say your men will put me out of my misery.’
From the shadows came a soft whinnying . . . A black horse moved into the flickering light of flaming torches, on its back a knight clad from head to foot in black armour.
‘I challenge you to a joust.’
‘What do you say, Arthur?’
Arthur hesitated, not because he feared personal combat, but because he doubted it would solve anything. If he killed Mujahid, he would be criticised for bypassing the Round Table and recklessl
y endangering his own life. If Mujahid killed him
. . . either way he would be the loser.
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Are you not afraid of being branded a coward?’
The world will know you are a coward.
Is that what the Round Table would think of him if he were to refuse to fight Mujahid? That he was a coward? He trusted not. Though human nature being what it was, some of them might have their doubts.
‘I will not fight you.’
Mujahid fell to his knees. ‘Then kill me now.’
Arthur drew the Excalibur port from its holster. ‘Say your prayers.’
‘I have said them. I am ready to die.’
‘Then,’ said Arthur, ‘in the name of the Round Table, I hereby carry out the sentence pronounced by the High Court. May God absolve me from your death, and may He have mercy on your soul.’ Pressing the barrel of the port to Mujahid’s temple, his finger tightened on the trigger. But, as he was about to pull it, the deathbed confession of Uther, his father, reverberated in his head. Godfrey Whittaker. I shot him. There was a bang and he dropped dead. The most amazing thing. That’s all there is to a man’s life. Bang. And it’s over.
Another hair’s breadth of pressure with his finger and it would be finished. Bang. And it’s over. In the heat of battle he had killed men. Not like this, though. Not in cold blood. That he had never done, and he could not do it now. Mujahid looked up and saw in Arthur’s eyes what he was thinking. ‘You have to fight me now,’ he said.
At first light the following day the two men confronted each other on the cliffs above Castle Rock carrying axes and hunting knives in their belts. What Arthur did not know was that a patrolling robot had spotted him leaving his apartment before dawn, and that Lancelot and Gawain now lay concealed in the long grass a hundred metres away. After some discussion they decided not to intervene unless things were looking bad for Arthur. An ex-Special Forces man, Arthur knew how to handle himself, but, fit and experienced as he was, close combat was inevitably high risk, and Mujahid was fighting for his life, no doubt calculating that if he killed Arthur, he would have a chance, however small, of escaping from the island.