A Hideous Beauty: Kingdom Wars I

by Jack Cavanaugh

  “Give him your phone, Grant,” Jana said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  On the monitor I could see her look to the sky. I did the same. It was clear.

  “Let’s do it,” she said.

  I handed my cell phone to Craig, the tech, who let out a whoop and ran with it back to his equipment. “Two minutes,” he cried, “and I can have her patched in. Jana, do you hear me? We’ll go live in two minutes.”

  Semyaza took up position beside me. “She’s too good for you,” he said. “I’ve always thought so. That’s why I stole her away from you. I knew I couldn’t have her, but I didn’t want you to have her.”

  The cameraman zoomed in on Jana. Her face filled the monitor. As she prepared to broadcast a live report from the bridge, she looked confident, professional, and alluring.

  A thumping sound came from across the bay as a pair of Navy helicopters lifted off the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan. They set course toward what was still standing of the bay bridge.

  From atop the San Diego Bay bridge Jana faced the USS Midway and, talking into her cell phone, reported the news:

  “This is Jana Torres reporting live from the San Diego Bay bridge, where moments ago an FA-18 Hornet fired four missiles at the president’s motorcade in an apparent assassination attempt. The president is unharmed. However, the missiles severed both ends of the bridge, effectively cutting the motorcade off from land. As you can see behind me, a rescue effort is under way.”

  The view on the monitor focused on one of the transport helicopters as it landed on the southern lanes. The second helicopter hovered a short distance away beside the bridge, awaiting its turn.

  “About a dozen vehicles are stranded,” Jana reported, “including a school bus of children who were scheduled to sing for the president at a farewell rally. A last-minute addition to the motorcade, all the children on the bus are safe, thanks to the heroic effort of one Secret Service agent who fell to his death during the attack on the east end of the bridge.”

  It was difficult to hear her. The noise of the helicopter was almost drowning her out.

  “Just a few moments ago,” she shouted over it, “I spoke with an aide to the president and was informed that while the Secret Service has made every attempt to get the president to safety, the president refuses to leave the bridge until all the children are safe.”

  Again the camera transitioned from Jana to a line of schoolchildren being led by an attractive woman in a matching red skirt and jacket to the rescue helicopters. Christina carried a girl in one arm, while holding the hand of another girl.

  The Secret Service and staff had formed a line, lifting the children over a cement divider and into the waiting helicopter. The last man in the line, the one handing the children to the helicopter crew, was President Douglas.

  When the helicopter reached capacity, the president stepped back and gave the pilot a thumbs-up. As soon as the first helicopter cleared the bridge, the second helicopter landed. The rescue effort proceeded in orderly fashion.

  Semyaza sighed as he watched. “Frightening the natives was so much easier in the Dark Ages . . . a little lightning, a little thunder . . .”

  “I’m glad you’re amusing yourself,” I said, alternately checking the monitor and the bridge as the rescue effort unfolded. Everything was proceeding smoothly. Too smoothly in my opinion.

  “And why shouldn’t I be amused?” Semyaza said. “This is like opening night at the theater for me. The curtain has gone up after years of preparation. The staging. Casting of characters. Watching it all come together gives me goose bumps. Well, if I had flesh, it would give me goose bumps.”

  I ground my teeth and said nothing. He was toying with me. Cat and mouse. I was mouse enough to know that when he tired of playing with me he was going to hurt me.

  My gaze fastened on the bridge.

  Me, or someone I care about.

  Semyaza said, “More important, Grant, are you enjoying our little production? Our boy on the bridge is looking pretty good, isn’t he?”

  The image of R. Lloyd Douglas filled the television monitor. His coat was off. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. His hair was in his eyes and he was sweating. He looked every inch a media hero, the most powerful man on earth endangering his own life to save the lives of children.

  Only they were children he’d put in harm’s way for the occasion. And his hero strength had been injected by his physician.

  “He’s still alive,” I said.

  “For the moment,” Semyaza conceded. “But let’s talk about you.”

  “I’m not going to do what you want me to do,” I said.

  “And what is it you think we want you to do?”

  “You said it in your office. You want me to write a final chapter . . . a final lie . . . for Douglas’s biography.”

  “Did I say that?” Semyaza asked.

  “That’s exactly what you said.”

  “I lied.”

  I glared at him.

  He was unapologetic. “I said what needed to be said at the time.”

  “Regardless, when this is all over, I’m going to write a book exposing everything. All the lies and cover-ups. Vietnam. Douglas’s addiction. And I’m going to clear my name.”

  “Clear your name? What are you talking about?”

  “I know about Sylvia Jakes,” I said.

  “Who?”

  He scrunched up his face as though he didn’t know. Not surprising. I imagine you can get quite good at it when you’re a follower of the Father of Lies, a being who has lied for millennia.

  “Sylvia Jakes. The White House intern who doctored the manuscript to make it appear as though I had confessed to assassinating the president.”

  Semyaza burst out laughing. “That’s good . . . that’s rich! I’d forgotten all about that!”

  “You have a habit of forgetting your failures. I’ll help you remember this one.”

  Semyaza was still laughing. “Mastema has a knack for this sort of thing. She’s the practical joker of our team. You know her as Margaret, I believe she was—”

  “Secretary to the chief of staff.”

  “Her task was to keep an eye on you while you were at the White House.”

  “You expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with implicating me in the assassination attempt?”

  Semyaza guffawed. “Heavens, no! Who in his right mind would believe you were capable of pulling off an event this grand? It was a lark.”

  “A lark . . .”

  “If I remember correctly, it was Mastema’s idea but she wasn’t going to do it. Then someone dared her. The whole thing was a diversion, an amusement. We made wagers as to whether or not you’d find it. I bet you wouldn’t. But then, you didn’t find it, did you? You had help. That meddlesome Ling girl is the one who found it. I wonder how Mastema is going to settle the bets.”

  A diversion. An amusement. A prank. I felt like a chump.

  “Don’t take it hard, Grant. It got you here, didn’t it? That’s the important thing.”

  “I’m still going to tell the truth once this is all over.”

  “Are you? And what is the truth, Grant?”

  “That unscrupulous angelic beings have infiltrated world governments to manipulate leaders and alter the course of history to benefit their own evil designs. If it takes the rest of my life, Semyaza, somehow I’m going to get the message out. I’m going to expose you. You keep telling me you’ve been doing this for millennia. Well, maybe if enough people get wise to you, this millennium will be your last.”

  I felt like the mouse that roared, but I was tired of being toyed with.

  Semyaza became serious. “Is that what you see, or are you guessing?” he replied.

  “That’s my conclusion based on research and personal observation.”

  “Look at the bridge and tell me what you see.”

  What was he up to? I looked. “I see vanity and deceit. I see the future of a natio
n in the balance.”

  “Yes, yes, yes . . . what else do you see?”

  Lifting the last of the children into the helicopter, the president gave a thumbs-up signal to the pilot.

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  Semyaza became exasperated. “You’re stating the obvious,” he said. “Yes, the president of the United States will die today. No, he will not be immortalized with Lincoln and JFK as is his plan. The whole thing will blow up when the designated medical examiner will be delayed at the Los Angeles airport. The local medical examiner is a gung-ho type, a straight arrow. When he discovers the drugs in the president’s body, his report will launch an investigation and the whole thing will unravel.”

  “You speak as though you know the future.”

  “We’ve been creating the future for—”

  “Yeah . . . yeah . . . I know. For millennia.”

  “Vice President Rossi will serve as president for six months, then we’ll leak reports of his gambling addiction and his ties to the New York Mafia. He’ll resign to avoid impeachment and David Lamott, Speaker of the House, will become president. He’s our candidate. We’ve been moving him into position under the radar. Just when your nation needs strong leadership, you’ll have Lamott, a man driven by his insecurities, a man who is so desperate for approval he refuses to make a decision. In the absence of real leadership, special interest groups will tear the nation apart.”

  He paused to let the scenario sink in.

  “Now, I ask you again,” he said, “when you look at the bridge, what do you see?”

  The scene on the bridge hadn’t changed. “I don’t know what to say,” I replied.

  Semyaza cursed. He seemed to think I was being obstinate, but I really didn’t know what he expected of me.

  Then, he rippled. I don’t know how else to explain it. Waves of energy passed over him, through him. It radiated outward. The deck trembled beneath my feet.

  The news crew felt it too, but didn’t realize Semyaza was causing it. The tech turned to the tie and said, “Feel that? Tremor.”

  The tie laughed nervously. He said, “Now all we need is for the sun to turn bloodred and the day will be complete.”

  The ripple expanded beyond the edge of the Midway, across the bay and toward the bridge, climbing the arch-shaped pillars, spreading across the span and beyond, to the horizon, until the entire canopy of sky had been engulfed. As the ripple spread, it revealed an extra layer to the universe, a layer inhabited by spirit beings.

  I swallowed hard at what I saw. A universe atop a universe. And while the beings in my universe were unaware of it, the beings in the spirit world acted and moved as though the two were one.

  I saw a sky that was still blue yet overlaying it was a menacing, swirling dark cloud. It looked as though a terrible storm was brewing, only it wasn’t a storm. It had a presence. There were legions of them. I could feel their ferocity and my skin prickled and the hairs on my arms and neck quivered. I heard voices. Millions of voices. And I knew who they were.

  “Lucifer’s army,” I mumbled.

  Semyaza looked on with pride.

  I felt an ancient dread as they swirled over the bridge, a band of rebel angels who had warred against God before time began, fighting a conflict that had never ended, at least in their minds, now using earth as their battlefield. Their primordial grudge sent a shiver through me.

  On the bridge, the second helicopter lifted off with the last load of children and Christina. A blonde woman in a red suit stood out in a military aircraft. She was seated next to an open door.

  On the news monitor, Jana continued her report. “With the children safely off the bridge, now the White House staff and Secret Service . . . Oh my! Oh my!”

  Just as the helicopter cleared the bridge railing, something shot out of the dark cloud, a streak like a missile’s tail fire but without the missile, and hit the engine. The engine coughed, the chopper lurched. Children screamed as a crew member spilled out the door and fell to his death.

  A boy instinctively reached for the crew member when he fell, lost his balance, and would have taken the same path to his demise had Christina not grabbed him. The boy’s legs dangled helplessly over the water as she clutched his arm.

  “Are you getting that? Are you getting that?” the tech shouted at the cameraman.

  The monitor showed that the cameraman was getting it. He’d abandoned Jana for the crippled aircraft the moment it lurched. He captured the crewman’s deadly plunge for viewing audiences around the world.

  I took an involuntary step toward the bridge as the top of Christina’s blond head appeared on the monitor as she leaned out the door fighting to keep a grip on the boy.

  I was not alone in wanting to help her.

  Two beams of light broke through the swirling dark army. Different from the jagged weapon that had struck the helicopter, these lights were larger and softer, they had intelligence that emanated emotions in stark contrast to the cloud of evil.

  “Meddlesome fools,” Semyaza spat.

  I found myself praying aloud. “Help her, help her, please, help her,” I cried, urging the angels on.

  Streaks of jagged light shot past them. Then one found its mark, hitting one of the angels.

  I staggered backward, feeling the blow. How was that possible? In my head I heard the angel cry. My heart felt his pain. Sharp, then lingering. I moaned.

  Semyaza winced.

  “You felt it, too!” I said. “You feel each other’s pain? You feel the very blows you inflict!”

  “It is our nature,” he said without emotion. “We choose to ignore it.”

  Rubbing my chest, I watched as the injured angel retreated while his partner reached the boy and, taking human shape, cradled him in his arms, lifting him onboard.

  “Did you see that?” the tech shouted, watching the monitor. “Did you see the way she pulled him up? That chick must work out.”

  “They didn’t see him . . . ,” I muttered.

  Semyaza didn’t hear me. He watched with the grim expression of a field general.

  With the boy inside, the helicopter limped toward the USS Reagan. The angel hovered beside them.

  There was a bolt of light and he was gone, blindsided by a dark force.

  The cry of the rescuing angel’s sudden death exploded inside of me. I felt diminished, as though a part of me had been ripped out.

  Twin jagged bolts shot from the swirling cloud and hit the helicopter engine a second time. It shuddered, belched smoke, then tipped at a crazy angle. Christina tumbled out.

  “No!” I shouted.

  Jana’s voice could be heard on the monitor. “Christina! Oh God . . . Oh God . . . Oh God . . .”

  Somehow Christina had managed to grab hold of a safety harness. She dangled over the water as the crippled helicopter jerked and rattled as though it was trying to shake her off. Somehow she managed to hold on, but it didn’t appear to matter. The aircraft was losing altitude.

  A dark band of rebel angels encircled it. Their maneuver appeared to be twofold: to discourage any further rescue attempts, and to keep the helicopter from landing. Despite the pilot’s best effort, they prevented him from making any progress toward the carrier.

  “They’re doomed,” the tie concluded.

  The tech agreed.

  “Call them off!” I shouted at Semyaza. “Do you hear me? Let it land!”

  The tech and tie stared at me like I was crazy. I didn’t care. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t see what I was seeing.

  “Semyaza, I’m begging you . . . let it land!”

  With a stony expression, he said, “Every war has its casualties.”

  The helicopter coughed again. This time the black smoke from the engines flowed with a steady stream. It was going down.

  Then, above it, a hundred streaks of light looking like righteous comets broke through the dark ceiling and engaged the devilish perimeter. A burst of light signaled every blow with explosions popp
ing all around the crippled helicopter. I felt them. Every thrust, every wound, every death. It was as though the battle I was watching had a twin inside me.

  I shielded my eyes from the intensity so bright that I could barely see the helicopter. But I could see enough.

  A dark spirit took shape and attached itself to Christina, pulling her down, prying her fingers from the strap.

  My chest inflated with rage. My hands clenched so hard they hurt. My feet danced for a chance to launch into the fray. All I wanted was to be able to fly to Christina’s rescue, sword in hand, if possible, but if not, barehanded. I wanted to get a good grip on just one of them, to rip his . . .

  Semyaza stood beside me, smiling. “You would strike, even if you felt the blow?”

  I didn’t answer. We both knew I would.

  The tempest surrounding the helicopter dimmed as it emerged from the turmoil as though it was flying out of a cloud, and as it did, I saw angels.

  Supporting the fuselage.

  Cradling Christina.

  Carrying the crippled aircraft to safety.

  Christina dropped into the waiting arms of sailors on the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan. A moment later the angels gently set the helicopter down.

  The tech and tie let out a whoop of joy.

  I swiped at tears.

  “That was unfortunate,” Semyaza said.

  CHAPTER 29

  Give that pilot a Distinguished Flying Cross!” the news crew tech shouted, thrusting his fist into the air.

  “He made it! He made it! I can’t believe he made it!” the tie shouted with him. “There’s no way he could have made it, but he did!”

  The tech and the tie were jumping up and down like little boys. The cameraman celebrated in his own way by keeping a tight focus on Jana.

  On the monitor Jana was wiping tears of relief with one hand as she held the phone with the other. She, too, credited the pilot for his unbelievable flying skill.

  Wait until I tell her what really happened.

  Shouting into her cell phone, Jana was making her way to the first helicopter, which had landed for another load. The president’s staff filed aboard. A Secret Service agent assisted Jana into the belly of the mechanical beast. Once inside, she turned to face the camera and continued reporting.