A soft knock at the chamber door annoyed the corpulent toad, and he decided to ignore the sound as he considered the massive, gaseous burp building within his nicely filled belly. However, the person seeking entrance was persistent, and the knocking continued until it was apparent the would-be intruder was not getting the hint to leave him alone.
"Enter," he finally uttered, wiping the drool dripping from the corner of his mouth with the big cloth he always kept nearby.
A yellow robed attendant opened the entry door and bowed low from the waist, holding the bow as he waited for permission to step over the threshold into the sacred chamber.
Because the attendant had dared interrupt his morning devotions, Your Grace paused a full 30 seconds before he spoke the benediction releasing the man from his obsequious bow and allowing him to enter the suite. Walking hurriedly to the dining table, the man knelt down and kissed the greasy top of the left hand of his church leader.
"Your Grace," he muttered, "I have received a telephone call from Brother Richard Adams. He says word has been passed to him confirming the success of the mission to smite the blasphemers. He demands an audience with you. He is very insistent and even now awaits your response."
The only immediate acknowledgment from the morbidly obese man was a stupendous burp that filled the air around his mouth with a smell like vomit. Cringing at the sound and foul odor, the yellow robed servant knelt even lower.
Your Grace didn't like what he was hearing. Deacon Bandulog and his disciples hadn’t returned from their mission or even reported their status. Unusual to say the least. Your Grace hadn’t risen to the top position in the church without some modicum of intelligence. Something was amiss. He couldn't permit an outsider with close ties to the US defense department to threaten his safety.
Gazing down imperiously at the groveling attendant, he intoned, "Inform Brother Adams I shall meet him at the Sacred Fountain of Bartholdi tomorrow at 10 pm where he will be anointed as an Elder of the church and presented with his just reward."
Watching with impatience as the yellow robed man backed out of his chamber and quietly closed the door, Your Grace mopped at the sweat oozing down his face and belched again. Shifting forward with some difficulty, he moved ponderously across the room to a telephone and dialed 6.
After only one ring, a muffled voice on the other end said, "Yes, Your Grace."
"Arrange a final send off for Brother Richard Adams at the Sacred Fountain of Bartholdi tomorrow at 10 pm."
"It shall be done."
Hanging up the receiver, an evil grin erupted across the face of Your Grace as he lumbered back to his chair.
***
The Bartholdi Fountain rose to a height of 30 feet from the middle of a wide pool in the Washington Botanical Gardens. A 15 ton mass of sculptured cast iron thinly coated with bronze, the fountain featured three women standing over a pedestal with, of all things, three sculpted reptiles spouting water into the air. Large trees, carefully manicured bushes and row after row of beautiful roses lined walkways leading through the gardens to the fountain in the center of a tiled plaza.
Hidden nearby behind a row of low hedges, Major Jim Blunt, Whatsit and a squad of heavily armed soldiers waited in silence for the 10 pm arrival of Cpl. Richard Adams. Whatsit was wearing his sombrero and trench coat outfit to hide his appearance from the squad of soldiers Blunt had commandeered for the night operation. The noise of splashing water had necessitated bringing sound equipment to amplify the conversations of people standing near the fountain. A set of headphones draped across the back of Blunt's neck were ready to cover his ears so he could hear what was said.
The mental powers of Whatsit were of prime importance to the mission. Blunt knew the lizard had taken strict control over the mind of the attacking thug at the Carlisle pool, but the end result of the control had been the death of the killer. Jim had carefully worked out explicit instructions for Whatsit this time. No killing of Adams. Blunt had to know if the plans for saving the Earth had been compromised. Information was vital and impossible to extract from a dead man.
The surveillance of Adams had finally resulted in concrete intel. The story General Collier had told Cpl. Adams about the deaths of Blunt and Whatsit had, as hoped, pushed the traitor into contacting the church. Jim Blunt had figured the paranoid leader of The Exalted Fellowship of the Holy Epiphany would set a trap designed to eliminate the only tie between his church and the deadly attack in Carlisle. Why else would the meeting with Adams have been arranged in such a secluded spot late at night instead of the safer confines of the church building?
At precisely 10 pm, Cpl. Richard Adams walked into the tiled plaza surrounding the Bartholdi Fountain. Looking around furtively, he walked to the base of the fountain and stood near a pedestal printed with historical facts about its origin. Within a couple of minutes, two figures dressed in hooded, reddish purple robes with billowing sleeves entered the plaza and strolled slowly toward Adams.
Adams watched the two robed figures walk toward him, and excitement caused his heart to pound in his chest. The light from the fountain made his sallow skin appear a sickly light yellow and his weak chin bobbed nervously as it seemed to take forever for the figures to finally stop before him.
"Brother Richard Adams," a low voice said.
It was impossible to tell which of the robed figures had spoken. The hoods completely hid the faces of the men. Adams strained his eyes as hard as he could trying to make out any detail of the faces of the men shadowed within the hoods, but the darkness was complete.
Shaking his head slightly to confirm the statement, Adams replied haughtily, "My ceremony is to be conducted by his Eminence Your Grace. Where may I ask is he?"
A rougher voice spoke from the depths of one of the hoods and said, "His Eminence regrets he was summoned to minister to a dying colleague and deliver last rites. We, his humble servants, have been sent in his stead."
Listening to the conversation through the amplifier and headphones, Blunt could tell the meeting was going to deteriorate quickly. The tender ego of Richard Adams had been poked with a stick and was about to explode. Looking around at his squad of soldiers, he gave the sign to be ready for action. Several soldiers with bolt action rifles brought the weapons to their shoulders and aimed at predetermined targets.
Adams was becoming angry at the disrespect shown to him. In a raised voice he fairly shouted, "How dare my loyalty to the church and my elevation to Elder be sullied by lowly acolytes! I demand my just rewards be endowed upon me by no less than his Eminence, personally!"
Within one of the dark hoods, an unconcerned voice answered, "Very well. You've earned this."
Both figures pulled silenced pistols out of the bulky sleeves of the robes where they had been hidden and pointed them at Adams' chest. Adams was so stunned by the deadly moves he froze in place like a deer startled by headlights.
Just as the pistols leveled at Adams, bullet holes appeared in the sides of the hoods and blood mixed with bone blasted out of the opposite sides. The delayed explosive sound of gunfire followed almost immediately. Both robed figures fell to the plaza tiles and lay deathly still, the pistols clutched in their dead hands. Large pools of blood began to form on the concrete tiles under the dark hoods. Adams was so shocked by the treachery of his attempted murder he stood rooted to the plaza, unable to move. He heard some shouts, but the numbing shock of the near death experience blocked any attempt to run away.
Footsteps gritted on the plaza tiles as a group of men surrounded him. One of the men wore a sombrero and trench coat with a white scarf wrapped around his neck and knotted under his chin.
A silly thought tried to work its way through Adams' brain, "Why is the guy wearing sunglasses in the dark?"
With that thought, his eyes rolled up in his head and Cpl. Richard Adams fainted, crumpling to a heap on the plaza.
Smiling down on the cowardly Adams, Jim Blunt ordered, "Wrap him up tight and transport to headquarters." Pointing at the dead
men, he continued, "Let's clean up this mess. I don't want any traces left. I want those bodies identified and thorough backgrounds run on them."
"Yes, Sir."
***
Deep shadows filled the alleys and stairwells along 13th Street in Washington near the building housing The Exalted Fellowship of the Holy Epiphany. Military roadblocks had stopped all pedestrian and vehicular traffic at midnight within a half mile radius of the ersatz church. Three squads of heavily armored soldiers under the command of Major Jim Blunt had worked their way into positions surrounding the church, ready to storm the building when Blunt gave the word.
Major Blunt and Whatsit were hidden in the shadow of an overhanging awning across the street from the main entrance of the church. A communications expert, Cpl. Henry Graham, stood nearby. He had a combat radio with a long antenna strapped to his back to relay Blunt's orders to the sergeants commanding each squad. Cpl. Graham had survived several intense battles with the Germans in France and Belgium. As a radio man, he knew how to keep his mouth shut and his weapons ready for instant action. He had seen and heard a lot of weird stuff in his career, but he had to admit the fellow in the sombrero was the oddest person he had ever laid eyes on. The guy wore sunglasses in the dark and never spoke a word. Very strange.
"Corporal, advise all squads. I want simultaneous entry at all access points. Confirm all battering rams are at the ready."
"Yes, Sir"
Within seconds, all squads had responded they were good to go. At 0030 hours, Blunt gave the okay and the front, rear and basement doors were rammed open. The assault on the church of The Exalted Fellowship of the Holy Epiphany had begun.
Blunt and Whatsit ran across the street, up the stone stairs and through the open wooden doors. The wide entryway led back through double doors of wood and frosted glass into a sanctuary. The squad of soldiers entering through the front door had worked their way to the rear of the room without encountering any resistance. They were creeping through the Chancel toward a door hidden behind a carved wooden altar when automatic gunfire raked across the room towards them.
Immediately, the well trained commandos took defensive positions behind overturned pews and the altar. Hidden panels had opened in the door and in each wall adjoining the door and machine gun bullets from those openings cut across the Chancel. Splinters of wood jumped into the air and the room was filled with the deafening sound of machine gun fire. The return fire from the soldiers pocked the door and wall paneling, but as the bullet holes became more numerous, they revealed steel plates beneath a thin veneer of wood. The steel formed an impenetrable barrier to the light calibre slugs from the military weapons.
Jim Blunt had learned to never look a gift horse in the mouth, and he had come to this battle fully prepared. Reaching to his side, he unclipped the special flashlight Tom LeBlanc had given to him during the Carlisle ambush. Based on his experience using the weapon at the pool, Blunt had asked Lt. McPherson to make a modification. Now when the flashlight lens was twisted to the right, the heat ray was focused into a narrower beam. Blunt powerfully wrenched the lens to the right until it would move no farther.
With a deadly look on his face, Blunt aimed the flashlight at the machine gun poking out of the panel to the left of the door and stabbed down on the red button. The results were spectacular.
A 2 foot diameter hole appeared in the steel wall where the machine gun barrel had been belching its rain of lead. The gun, the sliding panel, a section of the wall and the gunman all simply disappeared. Grimly satisfied with the results, Blunt swept the heat beam across the door and aimed it at the other wall panel where a second machine gun was spraying bullets around the room, and it too disappeared along with its gunman. The shooting from the door panel ceased abruptly when the second gunman was obliterated, and in the silence that followed, Blunt and his squad heard running footsteps and a slamming door.
The sergeant in charge of the soldiers whispered excitedly, "My God, Major, what the hell is that thing?"
All heads turned toward Blunt and curious eyes glinted with enthusiasm as they saw what appeared to be an ordinary flashlight in his hand.
Shrugging nonchalantly, Blunt replied mildly, "Just your ordinary Boy Scout camping essential." With those words he pointed the heat beam at the steel door and watched with great satisfaction as a hole opened in the door large enough for a man to walk through easily.
In a more serious tone, he looked at the amazed faces of his commando squad and ordered, "Let's pick up the pace. Don't touch the hot edges of the door as you go through it."
The disgusting man known as Your Grace waddled nervously back and forth across his chamber, each step causing an ominous creaking in the floor as his ponderous weight shifted. Gunfire had drawn closer to his chamber with every minute since the initial onslaught. Very soon, the impious trespassers would be at his door.
"Very well," he intoned. "No Godless heathens shall defile my church as long as I still breathe! The blasphemers shall feel my wrath as I smite them with the mighty sword of righteousness!"
Pulling the sash on his ceremonial reddish purple robe with its gold lame collar more tightly around his bulging waist, Your Grace settled his bulk into the carved throne-like chair facing the entry door. Feeling around with his right hand, he located the black button hidden in the side of the right armrest. The button was connected to shaped explosive charges buried in the floor of his chamber and directed in such a way that anyone standing more than ten feet away from him would be blown to bits if he pushed it, leaving him completely unscathed. An evil smile broke across his swollen lips as he waited for the accursed reprobates to gather before him.
Jim and Whatsit followed the squad of soldiers as they worked their way down the wide hallway behind the council room. Ahead at the end of the hallway was a solid oak door ornately carved with angels in various stages of flight, all gazing with uplifted heads toward the visage of a bearded man with a benevolent face sculpted near the top of the door.
Inspecting the carved door, Jim Blunt thought to himself, "You've got to be kidding me!"
Turning his attention to Whatsit, Jim looked directly into the alien's dark eyes and concentrated. "Be very careful when this door is opened. Whoever is inside will be scared and dangerous. Protect. Understand?"
Whatsit's eyes narrowed slightly, and he nodded. He was not about to let anything happen to his Master.
Blunt turned his attention to the Sergeant and gave the signal to open the carved door. The soldier closest to the door twisted the handle and surprisingly, it was unlocked and swung open readily. Inching into the room carefully, the squad fanned out, taking defensive positions with their weapons trained on the humongous fat man lounging in an ornately carved chair across the room. The room reeked with the putrid odor of stale cigarette smoke, greasy sweat and rancid food. The smell was truly disgusting.
Seeing no immediate threat, Blunt stepped toward the robed man, keeping his .45 pistol trained on the guy's chest. He could feel Whatsit standing just off to his left.
In a clear and commanding tone, Blunt said, "Identify yourself."
A thick, fluid filled chuckle came from the mouth of the man, and he raised a yellow stained cloth to his lips to wipe away drool. In a ponderous voice, he replied, "I am the God fearing, anointed Leader of this sacred church. You and your vile minions have despoiled our holy tabernacle, and the wrath of the Almighty shall be visited upon your souls!"
Jim Blunt had heard enough from the pompous idiot. He angrily said, "Oh cut the crap, you bloated, supercilious jerk! We know who you are and what you are. I won't waste another moment listening to your drivel!"
An angry sneer did its best to curl up the distended lips of Your Grace. He had never been addressed with such arrogant impudence by anyone. It was time to demonstrate to this fool the full might of the righteous. Preparing himself for the loud explosion that would smite the blasphemers, Your Grace stabbed his finger down on the black button.
Nothing happ
ened. He stabbed down on the button again, and still nothing happened. Suddenly, it dawned on the fat man his finger wasn't pushing the button. He was trying to move the finger, but it was paralyzed. He tried to raise his right arm to look at his hand, but his arm wouldn't move. Now deeply frightened to the point of abject panic, Your Grace tried to rise from his carved chair but discovered he was unable to move at all. Sweeping his eyes back and forth, he struggled with all his might to move, but not a single muscle twitched. He watched in helpless fear as the man wearing a sombrero walked slowly towards him.
Whatsit walked to within three feet of the ghastly human, stopping only when the horrid smell almost gagged him.
He thought, "This is the human who ordered the death of my friend, LeBlanc." Very deliberately, Whatsit raised his arms and slid his sombrero back off his head, making sure the draw cord held the hat in a position where the squad of soldiers behind him couldn't see his alien visage. However, there was nothing preventing the grossly fat human from seeing him, and the effect on the religious zealot was dramatic.
As Whatsit's beastly, alien face was fully revealed, the robed man emitted a strangled cry, and his face began turning a dark purple. Memories flickered through his consciousness as his brain fought to make sense of the unearthly creature. The eyes of the beast were like deep, dark wells promising death to all who gazed upon them. He imagined its mouth was filled with sharp teeth, its jaw wide enough to tear great chunks of flesh from its victims. Your Grace's greatest fear was being eaten alive. Helpless. Observing his own death while fully conscious, feeling every moment of excruciating pain as gobs of his flesh were chewed off his body.
Gasping for breath, abject terror filling his black heart, the fat man wheezed, "Begone, foul demon! Spawn of Hell! I command you!"
The Origin of F.O.R.C.E. Page 18