Those who survived the initial fireball at the point of impact could only hang on. As Sonya Franklin, the rest of the passengers, and the giant turbines screamed, the jumbo jet plowed a nightmarish trench through the soft earth. Flight 2375 broke apart grudgingly, in sections: wings snapping away from both sides of the fuselage, the four General Electric engines tumbling end-over-end away from the wings, and passengers tossed into the air, still strapped into their wide, blue-leather seats.
Like a roller coaster from Hell, the remains of the Boeing jumbo jet cartwheeled and ground across the rolling terrain until nothing was left but a grisly, one-and-a-half kilometer trail of debris comprised of twisted, smoldering metal and human remains.
At last, all fell silent on the meadow except for the faint whisper of a breeze and the bleating of a calf separated from its mother by the wreckage.
~~~
After a long run down a narrow underground corridor, the vizier burst into the bedchambers of Egypt’s reborn god. He found the messiah sitting on his bed. Breathless, the aging overseer blurted out, “My Lord, how did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“How did you send flight 2375 carrying the vice president and his running mate to its doom?”
Leaping up from the bed, Horus grabbed the vizier’s face and squeezed it so hard his eyes bulged and his lips puckered. “I have done no such thing,” Horus shouted. “What is the reason for this lie with which you annoy me?”
Unintelligible muffled noises escaped from between Horace’s powerful fingers until he let go and allowed the vizier to back away.
With both hands, the teacher massaged his affronted face. When he could speak, he gasped, “You are the lord of the skies, you have within you the power to command all things, living or inanimate, that venture into the heavens. If you are not responsible, Lord Horus, how do you explain—?”
“You are the one full of explanations, Vizier. The only thing I am full of is unrealized potential. If this plane crashed as you say, I assure you that I am not responsible. Magic of that sort is beyond my current abilities. I can alter moods and manipulate thoughts, talents that might win me a job in Las Vegas, but they will not bring a commercial jetliner down. Yesterday, I learned this new trick.”
He stepped back, put his hands on his hips and closed his eyes. The vizier watched as his student’s skin color changed. Beginning with his face, it spread to his ears and neck, then down his chest and arms. In less than 30 seconds he changed the color of his skin to that of a black Nubian warrior.
Horus opened his eyes as the transformation concluded, and said, “I have been told by the priests that once I perfect the Fluid of Life and have bathed in the magical liquid, I will also acquire the ability to change my size, shape, and, I have been told, even my species.”
Excited by his pupil’s progress, the vizier explained, “You alone, because you carry the DNA of the gods, will be able to soar in the heavens as a bird of prey, or prowl the Earth as a tiger or lion. You will learn to take on the form of any creature you desire, with the exception of the snake or scorpion.
“You will be able to duplicate the likeness of any individual you contact, be he a king, or a president.” The vizier reached up and rubbed his sore face, glaring at Horus as he did. “We have such great plans for you my Lord, if only you can control these violent outbursts. Self-control is of paramount importance. You have exhibited the aptitude to fulfill all of our expectations, my Lord, but you must learn to better control your emotions. Do you hear and understand?”
The black man standing before the vizier shook his head. “My powers remain limited, for now, but if I am what you say, then you must learn to treat me with the respect owed to a god. Do not toy with me. Do not lie to me. To do so, as I become more powerful, could prove to be a fatal mistake. Now let me ask, do you hear and understand?”
The vizier bowed. “As you say, my Lord. As you say.”
Horus closed his eyes and reassumed his natural pigmentation. “Let me ask you,” he inquired after the transformation. “From what I have learned, early attempts to clone humans often failed. I must assume that before my birth there may have been unsuccessful attempts to recreate the son of Osiris. Am I correct?”
“Yes, my Lord,” the vizier replied. “Six failed attempts preceded our triumph in your birth.”
“And what happened to the other six?” Horus asked.
“Five were aborted, and the sixth,” the vizier paused while he considered his words. “the sixth did not meet our expectations and was terminated after birth.”
“Terminated after birth? Terminated because he failed to meet expectations? In what way was this sixth attempt found wanting, and at what point after birth was he terminated?”
The vizier dared not anger Horus a second time, yet he feared the truth might provoke him. He reached up to feel his cheeks and winced as he imagined what might happen if Horus perceived his answer as a lie.
“Vizier,” Horus sounded impatient. “I asked you a question.”
“I pause for the sake of clarity, my Lord. As I recall, number six did not pass the required tests included in the physical examination. The infant seemed frail. Its hearing was impaired. For these reasons we decided to try again. You were the seventh attempt.”
“I see. And how did you handle the termination?” Horus folded his arms in front of his chest. “The surrogate mother wouldn’t have been a Jew by any chance, was she? Tell me you didn’t float the infant down the Nile in a basket, assuming it would be consumed by a crocodile or a hippo? Is this sixth clone going to show up at some point calling himself Moses, brandishing a staff with which he will part the seas?”
“My Lord, Egypt had to have a strong, able-bodied leader. After conferring with the physicians, I personally plunged the dagger of Anubis into the child’s heart and then incinerated the body.”
“The same as you would have, or might still do to me, Vizier, should I displease you at some point?”
“You were and are the perfect embodiment of the Falcon God, Horus, for whom we rejoice each day. We have always been pleased with your progress.”
“Yes, Vizier, so pleased you curse under your breath at my arrogance.”
The door to the room opened and one of the lector priests bowed. Motioned in by both Horus and the vizier, the priest entered the room, bowing again before saying, “I pray that you will excuse my interruption Lord Horus, but I have seen the latest news from the plane crash and according to CNN, the vice president and his running mate are alive. Perhaps we should turn on the video monitors throughout the compound so that we may all follow the developments.”
When the monitor blinked into life, stretchers being carried to ambulances and waiting helicopters filled the screen. The camera zoomed in on one of the survivors, whose face contorted in pain as medical personnel loaded her onto a helicopter. The news reporter said, “At this time we understand that there are 12 survivors, including Vice President Christopher Gillpatrick, and Ambassador Benjamin Jefferson Franklin and his family.”
“That is Sonya Franklin!” Horus shouted, pointing at the screen. “She is the wife of Ambassador Franklin and mother of Thomas, who was my neighbor in Boston.”
“Yes,” the vizier agreed. “I recognize her from the intelligence photos. You must go to the hospital where they are taking the survivors. There you will have a chance to eliminate Gillpatrick before the peace conference.” Horus headed for the door before another word could be spoken.
~~~
Dressed in green operating room scrubs, Horus walked purposefully down the hallway towards the room where the vice president recuperated. Scores of nurses and doctors emerged from elevators, hurrying from room to room. Headed in every direction, they pushed patients on gurneys to x-ray or emergency surgery, making it impossible to detect one imposter. With confident strides Horus approached the secret service agent stationed outside the vice president’s door, and in his best African accent asked, “How’s he doing?”
The agent, Brett Elkins, who had also been on the plane, rose slowly and painfully from the metal chair, having twisted his knee which had, by now, stiffened up. He studied the tall, black doctor who stood before him, memorizing his features as he had been taught years earlier when he joined the secret service. Elkins didn’t know any of the medical personnel rushing back and forth on this special floor that had been sealed off from the press and reserved for the injured American dignitaries and their families, but he knew one thing. Nobody would get in to see the vice president unless he could be sure they were cleared. He reached out and tilted the doctor’s laminated name tag, paying close attention to the identifying information. The tag showed the doctor’s name to be Kendall Osore, from Kenya, a third year resident neurosurgeon at Hadassah hospital.
Elkins asked questions that someone who had illegally borrowed a name tag might not be able to answer. “You want to know how the VP is doing, huh? Who wants to know? What kind of doctor are you, anyway? And while we’re at it, where are you from?”
Without flinching, Horus said, “I am Doctor Kendall Osore, a neurosurgeon from Kenya who needs to see the patient in room 1423, which you are guarding. And may I ask, who are you?”
Elkins smirked and replied, “You may ask, but you aren’t getting in without providing authorization that I recognize. I haven’t seen or heard anything that says a Doctor Osore is treating the VP.”
“I understand, sir,” Horace replied, “I shall return with the authorization you require.” He turned and headed back down the hall. At the end, he pushed open a set of double doors and took the first left into another hallway, taking him past a locked linen closet where an unconscious neurosurgeon from Kenya lay slumped against the wall wearing only a white undershirt and a pair of bright yellow boxers.
When the unauthorized physician disappeared through the double doors, Elkins opened the door behind him and peered in. There, on an elevated hospital bed watching the latest news on a wall-mounted television, sat the vice president. He had a bandage wrapped around his left hand, which had been cut by a piece of metal as the rescue team extricated him from the wreckage. In a chair next to the bed sat Agent Collins. The big blonde appeared to have survived the ordeal without a scratch.
Seeing the door open, the vice president asked, “Hey Elkins, any word on Kerekes?”
“Sorry sir. He’s still in surgery.”
“Damn.” Gillpatrick looked down and shook his head. “I hope he makes it. He’s a good man.”
“Yes sir,” Elkins agreed, “As long as he doesn’t eat while he’s on the job.” Gillpatrick and Collins both nodded.
“Any word yet on a cause for the accident?” Gillpatrick wondered. “Could it have been a terrorist attempt?”
Elkins shook his head, and replied, “We don’t know anything for certain. I did hear one unconfirmed report that says they found some singed feathers in part of the engine that malfunctioned.”
“Yeah,” the vice president nodded, “I guess maybe we were low enough where a bird could have been sucked in that big engine, but man, I wouldn’t have believed it could have done that much damage. Do they really think it might have been a bird?”
“Nobody knows for sure, sir,” Collins chimed in. “You know how these things go. The FAA will look at this thing for weeks, maybe longer, before they make a statement as to the cause.”
Elkins, who kept one eye cocked for any other potential visitors, stepped back outside and closed the door as he saw another doctor approach. This time he recognized the thin, middle aged female whose short, salt and pepper hair stuck out slightly from underneath the front of the surgical cap she wore. She smiled as she slowed to a stop, and asked, “Am I still on the authorized list?”
“Yes indeed, Doctor Weinberg,” agent Elkins answered. “It hasn’t changed. Any news on Kerekes?”
“We just sent him to recovery. He’s still officially in critical condition, but I feel good about his chances. I doubt that he’ll be able to work again for awhile, though. The way his back was broken it’s a wonder he wasn’t paralyzed. The punctured lung should heal nicely, as should the busted kidney. The only thing we really have to fear now is infection.”
“How about the VP?” Elkins inquired. “Did you get the x-rays back on him?”
“That’s my other reason for being here. May I go in?”
Elkins swung the door open, and announced, “Doc says Kerekes is pretty beat up, but she thinks he’s gonna make it.” She walked past him to her patient who still sat on the bed, wearing slacks and shoes but sporting a hospital gown instead of his dress shirt and tie.
“Let me take your pulse again Mr. Vice President,” she asked, reaching out and taking his wrist in her left hand while looking at the readout on her watch, which listed temperature, blood pressure, pulse, and respiration rates. After 15 seconds she said, “Strong and steady. And the x-rays came back negative. If you feel okay I guess you can leave as soon as you’re ready.”
“And how about Franklin?” Gillpatrick asked.
“He’s fine,” Weinberg answered. “He’s in his wife’s room right now. She suffered a broken leg, and a slight concussion, but she’ll be okay, and their boy, Thomas, is fine as well.”
“That’s good to hear,” the vice president sighed. “I know how Ben adores his family.” He turned to Collins and Elkins and asked, “Has anyone come up with an accurate fatality count?”
Elkins looked at Gillpatrick, and then stared fixedly down at the floor as he said, “The most recent figures I have, sir, is that 22 have been confirmed dead, including the entire flight crew.”
The astonished vice president turned away from Elkins, and, looking at his other bodyguard, asked, “Good lord, Collins, those were my friends. How did we survive?”
Running his hand through his thinning blonde, hair, Collins replied, “It wasn’t our time yet, sir.” Collins reached into the small closet where Gillpatrick’s jacket, shirt and tie hung. He handed them to him. “Perhaps you should get dressed, sir. We need to get to the hotel and go over some last minute security details before the conference starts.”
Five minutes later, the door to room 1423 swung open as the same black physician who had been turned away earlier by Agent Elkins entered, holding a reasonable facsimile of an authorization form. He cursed when he saw the room was empty in a language that did not sound at all as if it originated in Kenya.
Chapter Nine
At the newly completed, 120,000 seat Zion stadium, the time for the parade of dignitaries drew near. The 40 foot tall, chromo-magnetically layered, multi-dimensional screen upon which President Daley would appear via satellite transmission had been hoisted and secured.
At the speaker’s podium, the vice president’s bodyguard, Paul Collins, conducted a last-minute search for any sign of concealed explosives. While the CNN television crews tested for proper alignment of their three-dimensional broadcast, Collins turned around and gazed up at the immense screen. The sight of his towering image made him flinch. “Get that camera off of me,” he barked at the man behind the heavy, dual-lens camera mounted on a rolling tripod.
“Sorry,” the network man shot back. He complied by swiveling the camera toward the crowd.
Satisfied, Collins notified his own team, “We’re all set. Let’s seat the delegates.”
~~~
During the short ride from the hotel to the stadium, the vice president spoke by cell to Ambassador Franklin, who rode in a separate vehicle. “Ben, if we can’t stop this thing from escalating we’re looking at World War Three. Even if no one uses weapons of mass destruction, this is a war we cannot financially afford.”
Several cars back, in a second limousine equipped with bullet-proof glass, Ambassador Franklin responded. “In all my 61 years, Gilly, I’ve never seen this much pressure put on us by the oil cartel. They’re flexing their muscles - trying to make us forget about our alliance with Israel.”
“It’s a good thing we weren’t killed in that cr
ash today, Ben, and I’m not speaking from a selfish standpoint. Imagine how Wall Street would have reacted. Those jackals know our economy is still reeling from the events that began with 9-11.”
~~~
Accompanied by a marching band replete with drummers and Romanesque trumpets, white uniformed security teams from ten different countries escorted the world leaders through winding tunnels beneath the stadium and out onto the field where sporting events and major concerts were held. Row after row of chairs were filled as political icons from the participating countries sat amidst flag waving pomp and pageantry that exceeded anything in recent memory.
Anticipation coursed throughout the stands, teaming with curious, peace loving, wealthy citizens from around the world. According to the rumor mill, this would be the most dramatic peace initiative in the history of mankind. The buzz of voices disappeared as the first speaker of the evening, U.N. Ambassador, Benjamin Jefferson Franklin, confidently crossed the stage and stood behind the podium, facing a world that anticipated a proposed solution to the never-ending hostilities in the Middle East.
Franklin began with a strong, purposeful voice, speaking words that echoed across the huge stadium and into homes around the world. “Good evening and welcome, concerned citizens of the world. We are gathered here to pay tribute to common sense and compromise, principles whose time has come, born more from necessity, perhaps, than from honorable intentions. Nevertheless, their indisputable essentiality stares at us this evening with unblinking eyes. Are we ready to set aside our petty differences, or do we remain on our current path, headed toward a war of cataclysmic proportions, which would yield economically catastrophic consequences?”
Franklin paused, picked up a glass of water, and took a sip. His hand did not tremble. With nearly a billion people watching, he gave no indication of being nervous. He continued, after setting the glass back down and surveying the immense gathering.
“Mankind’s ability to wage war has exceeded his ability to afford it. War destroys references to our past, and can rob us of our future. But more importantly, war depletes our most important resource, the lives of good men and women who have much to offer their countries...”
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 7