Persecution: God's Other Children. Book 2

by Rob Mclean

  The coverage pulled back to show the panicked crowd running away, falling over the wounded and dead bystanders, slipping over a pavement slick with blood.

  A crush of secret-service agents had descended upon the gunman. They could be seen hand-cuffing his limp, lifeless body.

  John watched the pandemonium with an eerie sense of detachment. The image of President Palin being shot replayed in his mind. The violent attack disturbed him at one level, if she died there would be political consequences, but there was something else that on a deeper level, would not allow him to take his mind off the assassination.

  “Is she dead?” Jarred broke their morbid vigil with the question on John’s mind.

  ‘Is she dead?’ The words brought back memories of the dream where he had been hunting the woman in yellow. As the President’s assassination replayed in his mind, he saw that it matched his memory of the dream. His head spun with the realisation. He found himself reaching for the armrest as he had to sit himself down.

  Jarred saw his distress. “What’s up man, you look sick. You going to puke?” He put his hand to John’s clammy forehead.

  “Nah, I’ll be fine,’ John lied. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

  “You’re pale as a ghost, man.” Jarred said as he hurried to the laundry. He returned with a bucket.

  “I didn’t know you were so squeamish. I thought you were supposed to be tougher than this,” he said shoving the bucket in front of John.

  “I am,” John snapped. He felt anger rising at his brother’s lack of sympathy. “It’s not that, it’s…”

  “It’s okay,” Jarred said, patting John on his back. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  John brushed away his brother’s condescension. “No, I dreamt this before. Remember I told you about the dreams I had about Angela’s guardian angel?”

  “That weirdo ‘woman in yellow’ thing?”

  “Yeah, I dreamt she got shot in just the same way.” John’s thoughts drifted as he remembered the other dreams he had with her in them.

  “You’re trying to say that you have some special power of prophecy through your dreams?” Jarred’s cynicism was plain to hear.

  “Not me,” John said. “Maybe it’s her. If she is some sort of angel, then maybe she’s outside of time?”

  “A higher dimensional being could do that.” Jarred’s eyes took on a faraway look as he worked through the possibilities.

  “Whatever man, it’s spooking me out.”

  “If only we could somehow hook you up to an egg when you’re having one of your dreams,” Jarred said thinking out aloud.

  “Hey, you know that dream where I was in the cattle train carriage and she lit up and got brighter and brighter, then exploded into a massive fireball?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe that was Cairo?”

  “Could be,” Jarred mused, then a sly grin spread across his face. “But then there’s that one where your boss was…”

  “Yeah,” John felt the colour drain from his face again. “I remember that one.”

  Chapter 19

  The Admiral stood facing a blank wall of his cell. He found it helped him to block out the world and think.

  It wasn’t much different from a motel room with cable TV and limited internet access. If it wasn’t for the lack of a window and the armed guard posted outside he could almost forget he was under arrest.

  Since landing at the Bahrain Naval Base a few days ago, he had been treated with all the deference and respect that his rank deserved. The personnel had been courteous and almost apologetic about having to detain him.

  “Sorry about all this Karl,” the base commander had said when he met the Admiral after the helicopter had landed, “orders, you understand?”

  They had known each other for decades, but weren’t close friends. The base commander, Robert C. Bellinger was nominally a Catholic, but had no spirituality and couldn’t understand the central role that faith had played in the Admiral’s life.

  “Sure Bob, no hard feelings,” the Admiral reassured him. The man was just being cautious, playing both sides. He probably thought there might be a slim chance that the court-martial wouldn’t be as severe as everyone expected and they’d have to be working together afterwards.

  “I know Karl, you probably wouldn’t want to tell me, even if you were allowed to,” the base commander spoke in casual tones as if he were discussing a football game, “but I can’t for the life of me work out what you were playing at, ordering that strike.”

  The expressions on the curious faces that had followed the Admiral on his way from the helicopter, through the processing of the screeds of paperwork, to the walk to his cell were a mixture of respect, awe and bewilderment. He saw them, the pilots, the guards, the office workers and now through to the base commander himself, all wanting to ask him the same question.

  “I don’t expect you’d understand,” the Admiral said keeping his eyes ahead as they walked. “I’m not really sure I do myself,” he added with a wry smile.

  An Arabic man standing in the background caught the Admiral’s attention as they walked. One of the locals employed on the base in a menial civilian job. A hangover from the trickle-down policy from an earlier generation that no longer applied to these locals. The Admiral suspected him of being some sort of spy, sending information across the gulf to his Iranian friends, except that the Iranians weren’t Arabs…

  As their eyes met, the Arabic man put his right hand on his chest and closed his eyes. He then bowed slightly, not enough that anyone else noticed, but it made the Admiral wonder. It was traditionally an Arabic way of showing respect, so the Admiral returned him a lazy salute, all the while wondering what he meant by his gesture.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Karl,” the base commander continued, unaware of the Arabic man, who had turned around and melted away behind the onlookers. “It took balls, but there’ll be hell to pay for it.” He shook his head as they walked.

  No doubt the base commander had a few more questions he’d like to ask him, such as; ‘Were you working with the Iranians? Are you some sort of traitor?’

  In truth, he wasn’t sure of the answers himself anymore. He had sat in his room for days without any contact from Lieutenant Gray. He found that the more days that passed without contact from her, the more fatalistic his attitude grew to such an extent that now he really didn’t care what happened to him.

  The worst case might be that he could be executed, but he felt that would be unlikely. Since no ‘aliens’ had been hurt and the alien emissary had shown himself to be a politically correct overachiever, he hoped things might go more leniently for him.

  Of course the alien AntiChrist would portray himself as the magnanimous peacemaker, forgiving everything, making himself all the more wondrous in the eyes of the world.

  Part of his more rational mind compared the actions of the aliens, dealing with uncivilised humans, to that of the western nations dealing with their third world enemies. The terrorists would laugh as the western nations followed protocols, Geneva conventions, United Nations directives and fight with limited and reduced capacities, all the while fearful of recriminations from their own citizens. At the same time the less ‘civilised’ terrorists were free to wage any sort of warfare they could dream up unfettered by any moral restrictions.

  A dour grin lifted a corner of his mouth as part of his mind considered what he could do if he were to fight the alien AntiChrist on the same terms. He shook his head and brought himself back to the reality of his imprisonment. There would be no more chances at vengeance. He should have gone nuclear when he had the chance. Now all he had were regrets.

  Even if, by some miracle, he ever got his command back, it would be unlikely that he would ever be in such a position to deliver a decisive blow against the enemy again. Now that the New World Government, the new U.N., had decreed that the religious states to be ‘unstable’ and that they should be stripped of ‘weapons of mass destruction’ and being an avowe
d Christian, it would be almost impossible for him to acquire the firepower necessary for the job.

  As a sign of respect the Rear-Admiral was not locked up in a regular prison cell. Rather, he was confined to a motel like room in the officer’s quarters.

  He slumped back on the lounge and flicked on the television and for the thousandth time, pondered his fate.

  He knew that the most likely outcome would be a dishonourable discharge. His career would be ended and he would return to the States, maybe spend some time in prison, maybe not, but he would carry a criminal record that would follow him in civilian life. He might be able to get some coin from interviews and maybe a book release, if he wasn’t bound to secrecy. Still, such a life didn’t hold much appeal without Lieutenant Gray with him. Somehow he couldn’t see her settling down to a quiet retirement with him in the suburbs. The thought of doing the same with his distant wife, Elma was to him a form of slow death that made the firing squad seem appealing.

  Then again, they might decide to make an example of him, to show the aliens that they were serious about a peaceful relationship and to discourage anyone else with similar plans.

  He secretly hoped that the spook in the suit, allegedly from the President’s office, or wherever he was really from, would quietly intervene and arrange a more rewarding outcome. After all, they were the ones who had first recruited him and gave him the launch codes. He hadn’t been looking for this role. It was only fair that they now look after him.

  Another grim smile crossed his face as he realised that ‘looking after him’ might involve an accident to ensure that he didn’t incriminate anyone with his wild accusations.

  It was then, as he was flicking idly through the channels that he saw the C.N.N. coverage of the shooting of President Palin in New York.

  “Holy hell,” he cried out aloud as he sat bolt upright. He turned up the volume and watched with growing horror at the gruesome replays of the shooting. The President had been rushed to hospital and the nation was on a vigil, waiting to see if their leader would survive.

  The Admiral shook his head. He knew that the chances of that were non-existent. His certainty came not only from his professional assessment of the wounds, but his conviction that this was all part of the diabolical plan to destroy his great nation. She had been a vocal opponent of the alien’s proposal to renounce religion and it had cost her dearly.

  They must be stalling, delaying the announcement of the President’s death in order to prepare themselves for her secession. The appointment of the replacement President would be of paramount importance. If it wasn’t another God-fearing believer, then it would be tantamount to accepting the alien’s proposal and that would be the first step to splitting the nation along religious lines.

  Normally, the Vice-President would be acting as interim President until the President recovered or there was a fresh election. He remembered that the Vice-President, Mike Huckabee was once a Christian preacher before he went into politics. Hopefully he could be counted on to hold true to his beliefs.

  The Admiral could readily see the referendum going badly for the religious otherwise. Sure, they might get some sympathy votes from the assassination, but without a strident voice at the top opposing the alien AntiChrist, he was certain which way the vote would go.

  With corporate America, the Democrats and as much as he hated to admit it, his own military colleagues behind the alien’s proposal, it was sure to win. Religion, he knew was hard work. It was demanding and had high standards. People these-days, he knew, were creatures of convenience-store comfort. The majority wasn’t moral anymore. There was no way they would voluntarily vote for the sacrifices that a religious life required. His only real hope lay in the vote being non-compulsory. Maybe these sorts of people would be too caught up with their own immediate gratifications to bother to vote. He knew the religious would be very diligent to make their voice heard, but he wasn’t overly optimistic.

  He couldn’t imagine an America without God and religion; it certainly wasn’t an America he would want to live in.

  As he watched, the haggard face of the Vice-President came on the screen. From the media room at the Whitehouse the Vice-President faced the glare of the world’s media.

  It was clear from his bleary eyes and drawn, sunken face that he had dire news. He announced that he would be making a brief statement and would not be fielding any questions.

  “Firstly, let me say that the President is still in a critical condition. We are closely monitoring her condition and I am sure that all our prayers go out to her at this time.”

  His heartfelt sentiments sounded so natural. If he was aware of the political implications of using the word ‘prayer’ at a time like this, just before the referendum, he didn’t show it. The Admiral gave his nodding approval. With this man in charge, maybe the nation still had a hope. Maybe his fears of a nefarious conspiracy were unfounded.

  The acting President continued, “It is traditional for me, as the duly elected Vice-President to fill the position of President and should President Palin not survive, I will undertake this role until the results of the referendum are finalised. If, at that time, there is a mandate to retain our belief systems, our faith in God, upon which our great nation was founded, then I will stay on until the next election.” He paused to acknowledge the applause from his audience.

  “If however, the referendum, the will of the people is to accept the alien ambassador’s offer, then I will resign the Presidency of this great nation to the Speaker of the House.”

  There were a few gasps from the media present in the room covering the event.

  The Admiral knew the Speaker of the House, Van Hollen was a Democrat and as such, most likely to be all in favour of the Alien Antichrist’s proposal.

  Amid the flash of cameras, Vice-President Mike Huckabee gathered up his papers. “I cannot, in all good conscience lead an America without God behind it.” With an acknowledging wave to the media, the Vice-President left the podium. Followed by a scrum of bodyguards, interspersed with relatively undersized staffers, he left the room amid a flurry of shouted questions.

  The Admiral shut off the set and stared at the blank screen. He tried to think things through.

  If the referendum went well and the majority voted to keep things as they were, then he still had a slim chance of Presidential intervention in his court-martial.

  If not, then his country would be divided into religious zones, isolated amongst a sea of the New World Government. The religious zones would be demilitarized, but he couldn’t see everyone agreeing to that. And what would happen to all the overseas military assets, like the base he was in. Who would they take their orders from, who would they owe their allegiance to?

  The Admiral sat heavily on the bed and hung his head as he realised that all the old U.S. military bases would be claimed by the New American government, the one aligned with the New World Government. In that case, his own future looked bleak.

  Chapter 20

  Captain Lau quickened her pace when she heard the ruckus coming from the classrooms. Sergeant Wei lengthened her stride to keep up. They were both breathing heavily when they reached the classroom door.

  From inside they could hear the raised voices of many people speaking mainly English with a mixture of Mandarin and other Chinese dialects thrown in.

  These rooms had previously been storage rooms, filled with dust covered boxes of archived paper. Thousands of folders filled with hand-written paper reports of prisoners long gone, either rehabilitated or dead had been moved and the room cleaned out for its new role.

  One evening, a few days earlier, while giving the Captain a relaxing massage after a close, intimate encounter, Ling had uncharacteristically suggested that these rooms be used for teaching English to some of the more promising inmates. It was something so unusually altruistic, coming from her normally self-centred lover that the Captain had to enquire further. Ling had pointed out the benefits of giving the inmates an incentive to wo
rk towards, in contrast to the usual forms of persuasion.

  It was only after the Captain had dismissed the idea as an unnecessary waste of time and resources that Ling conceded that it had all been the American girl’s idea. Ling had not been at all happy when the Captain promptly reversed her decision. Her face had hardened even more when the Captain suggested that Ling would make a suitable teacher.

  Now at the door, listening to the clamour within, Captain Lau now regretted that decision. She drew her baton and opened the door.

  She saw there were six inmates standing out the front of the class, two of them the Captain recognised as the American girl’s friends; Horseface and Moonface. They all were arguing loudly, pointing fingers at each other. More inmates were calling out their opinions from their places sitting on the floor. They were so caught up with their arguments that they didn’t notice the Captain’s entrance. Off to the side, the Captain caught sight of the American girl, Michelle Mae Cheong watching the pandemonium with interest.

  The American girl hadn’t been able to contain her excitement when she had been offered the teaching position. Her happiness was contagious and the Captain had to admit that she too had felt a flush of pleasure to see the American girl so happy. She had been surprised how her infectious smile had stirred feelings of simple affection that the Captain had not felt since she had been a small child.

  But now, as she witnessed this chaos, Captain Lau felt betrayed. She tightened her grip on her baton. Is this how the American repays the position of trust given to her?

  The Captain slammed her baton across the back of the nearest inmate. The woman grunted out a muted cry as she fell to the ground. She curled herself into the foetal position with her arms protecting her head. Behind them, Sergeant Wei followed, swinging her baton left and right like a machete cutting through jungle vines. Inmates fled before her, cowering against the walls to avoid her blows.