The Secret of Excalibur (5 page)

Finding her voice, she asks with wonder, “Not even at ground zero?”

“No.”
God, how can she eat this stuff?
The pudding is a nasty brown color and smells like old, well used socks, with a lumpy texture, leaving a gooey coating on my tongue.

“What would happen to you, if you were at ground zero?” she persists.

Obviously she isn't going to stop, so at least if I'm talking, she can't. Besides, then I can forget my pudding.
With that thought, I finish my wine and slide the brown, yucky pudding farther away from me.

“All right, Doctor, I'll try to explain the process to you. Not in technical terms, because none of the nuclear physicist experts have a clue of what actually happens to me.”

There, the pudding is pushed away, and as I rise from my chair, I drop my napkin over the bowl.
Perfect. If big fancy estates like this one have cockroaches, they'll be in for one hell of a nasty surprise if they eat the pudding.
I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.

I stroll to the bar and pour a brandy, then sit next to Ruth. Trying to wash the terrible taste away, I swish some brandy around in my mouth. Better, but my tongue still wants to stick to the roof of my mouth. Taking another sip, I continue, “The reason a nuclear blast won't hurt me is because of my force-field.” Ruth gives me another long, unblinking, quizzical stare. “When I became fairly proficient at matter transference, I placed a force-field beneath my skin. It's one-thirty second of an inch below the surface, and though I've been through and around several nuclear explosions, all I've lost is that one-thirty second of an inch of skin. My tan fades, that's about it.”

I also lose my hair on every part of my body. Unfortunately, I can't figure out how to remedy that problem. “For the record, I can stop, direct, or even reverse a nuclear blast. I can detect radiation for miles, and it won't harm me. At Cal Tech, I let those guys run all sorts of nuclear tests on me. When they ran out of ways to try to destroy me, I became bored and left.” As Ruth opens her mouth to launch into more questions, I tell her, “Whoa, quiet. Eat your pudding.” Yuck.

Ruth holds her hand up with a green sparkle in her eyes and a suppressed smirk. “Do you mind if I bring it out?”

“What?” I stare back stupidly.

“Well, I should've realized you would know what we're having for dessert, but may I ask a question?” She heads for the kitchen door, trying to hold back a laugh. “In your country, do they eat the snack the cook leaves out for the dogs?” Doubling over with laughter, she disappears through the swinging door.

What!?
I study the bowl of pudding, which she hasn't touched.
Dog food?
The bowls were sitting there; I figured it was dessert, so I ate almost half just to be polite. I can hear Ruth in the kitchen, loudly laughing away.
Dog food.

Ruth stumbles back out carrying two bowls, tears in her eyes. Her sides are still shaking from suppressed laughter. “I usually eat alone and feed Romeo and Juliet in the dining room,” she explains. “They enjoy their food, but not as much as you did.” With a impish look, she adds, “At least you won't have to worry about worms, Merlin. The bowls were laced with dog-wormer.” Laying her head on her arms, she laughs so damn hard the whole table is shaking. And it's a big table.

I sit there with a big T-bone steak, green beans, potatoes and gravy, and dog wormer, like a hot rock in my stomach.

Ruth's trying to talk through her laughter and I can barely understand her as she pushes the real pudding towards me. “Want some pudding–Rover?”

Grabbing the brandy bottle and my glass, I stomp into the library. I haven't blushed in a long while, but I can sure feel the heat now. Her laughter is echoing from the dining room. I'm glad no one else was here. Two things I've never been good at emotionally handling, receiving a present, or being the butt of a joke.
Faulty upbringing, I guess.

To drown out the laughter, and there's plenty of it, I browse over the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books.
What an impressive library.
Looking over the books, I notice several older tomes in leather bindings that seem to be valuable. I keep my search to the less expensive section of the library. Many of the books I've read, some I've never heard of. And here's a group by good old Dr. Tober, case studies from the Institute. I pull out several books about the old legends from long ago and faraway England, where a knight in shining armor would've cut off Ruth's head for laughing at him like that.

One of her dogs is sleeping under the desk. As I seat myself, it rolls up on its feet, nuzzles my leg, then heads off to the dining room. “Go eat my pudding, buddy, and believe me, you owe me one.”

I open the first volume. I saw many titles about the same topic on the shelves; King Arthur and Camelot, Merlin, and of course Excalibur, King Arthur's sword. These are some of my all-time favorite stories, besides Steven King and a few other ethereal writers. When I changed from my real name to Arthur Merlin, a book similar to this one is how I chose my nom de plume.
I could've used one of King's stories, but who wants to be called Cujo?
I think about that.
Damn. If I'd used that name, Ruth would probably have had a heart attack over the dog food fiasco. Gee. Lucky me.

I glance up, studying the titles again. There are many books around this time period, and several volumes about a St. George, and Excalibur.
Why would anyone have eleven books about a mythical sword, by eleven authors?

The book I'm reading has three hundred and forty-seven pages of facts and maps. Every battle the mythical sword had been used in, where it came from, and where the rock was located. There were several chapters about the Lady of the Lake and where the lake was reported to be located by the knight who presumably threw the sword in the lake for King Arthur, this St. George. It's pretty interesting reading.

I'm halfway through the third book and about that far into the brandy, when Ruth sticks her head into the room. “Hmm, Arthur, may I disturb you?” she asks cautiously.

I glance up. I swear there are still laugh lines showing on her face. “Do you always ask after you do something?” I ask peevishly.

“Please, I have an important matter to discuss with you,” she implores with knitted brows and a frown. She doesn't advance into the room, so I meet her at the doorway. “Did you hear the phone ring?”

I'd been too engrossed in the book. “No, I didn't.”

Turning, she glides back to the dining room phone. The receiver is lying on the sideboard. “It's Commander Dobie, and I think you should listen to him. Please?” The beseeching look Ruth gives me reminds me of those old Marlena Dietrich movies, where everything's so important. You know, end of the world, bounced checks, or the grocer's out of caviar. Now me, I worry about toilet paper.
Have you ever tried to use one of those corn cobs? No wonder the pioneers were so tough.

Picking up the antique receiver, I acknowledge, “Yes, Dobie, go ahead.”

“Uh, Merlin, er Arthur, we have a situation at Heathrow Airport, and the doctors think you may be persuaded to help.” Dobie doesn't sound as pretentious now.

“Spell it out, Dobie. I'm all ears,” I say snidely. Placing her hand on my arm, Ruth shakes her head no. With a sigh, I say, “Sorry, Commander, go ahead.”

“About forty minutes ago, a plane began boarding for Tehran. Several terrorists got on board, or maybe they already were, with weapons and explosives. They're demanding we bring their leader out to the plane and release him. They claim they'll kill one passenger every five minutes until he's released. They've already killed one man and dumped his body from the plane.”

Rubbing my forehead, I look down at Ruth. “How many terrorists are there?”

“We think four, maybe five,” Dobie answers. “Their leader is in prison for murder, terrorism, and attempted skyjacking. All capital crimes.”

“Commander, you don't have capital punishment,” I remind him with a frown.

“Capital punishment is life in prison,” he explains, sounding offended.

“If I get the terrorists off the plane, what will happen to them?” I ask, leaning one hip against the sideboard.

“They'll go to trial for murder and hijacking, life.”

“Unless their government protests, you mean.”

“No, Arthur,” the Commander disagrees, “the leader has been in custody for several months, and we'll not release him without good cause.”

Ruth still has her hand on my arm, with that pleading look in her eyes. “Please, Arthur; do this job for the passengers, for yourself, hell for me.” When she looks like that, I doubt the Devil could say no. Besides, I'm getting bored.

Rubbing my forehead again, I start formulating a plan. “Dobie, have the terrorist leader brought to the plane right away. Dr. Burns and I will be there shortly.”

“We've never given into terrorists before, Merlin,” Dobie protests.

“And you won't now,” I reassure him. “Just get him there. I'll also require ten men, armed and willing to shoot.”

You can hear the wheels in Dobie's head turning. “What are you up to, Merlin?” he asks guardedly.

“Commander, you called me. Now, if you want my help, get the leader and ten armed men at Heathrow, or else good-night.”

There's a short pause; I hear muted conversation in the background. “All right, he's on the way. When will you be here?”

“We'll be there as soon as we get off the phone.”

“Good, come then,” he orders, severing our connection.

Ruth looks at me with an arched brow. “Somehow, I knew you would help. It's like I'm feeling your emotions.”

“Is that right?” I ask distractedly.
What's Dobie up to? Is he behind this scenario, to ensnare me?
Government agencies will do whatever they deem necessary to get what they want. Even at the expense or death of the civilians they're sworn to serve and protect.

She backs away from me with a sheepish look. “I'm sorry about earlier.”

Startled from my distraction, I look down at Ruth.
Why did she have to mention the dog food fiasco? My stomach is finally starting to settle down.
I swallow a few times, trying not to remember the taste of the dog wormer, then ask, “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.”

“Close your eyes,” I instruct her.

She moves farther back. “Can't we drive there?” she asks, with a nervous smile.

“No, no time.”

She starts fingering her necklace. With a heavy sigh, she concedes, “Okay, I'm ready.” She closes her eyes, stiffening up, like she's waiting for me to hit her. An hour ago, that was something I was definitely thinking about.

Placing my hand on her arm, I focus on the airport terminal and BLIP! Teleporting to the airport is easy, since I was there earlier today. We materialize at the terminal gates, near a group of armed, tough, and capable looking soldiers, with black berets and submachine guns. These are the type of men mothers' dream of dating their daughters … in their nightmares. They look like English versions of Rambo.

Their leader is a tall man with white hair, no rank insignia, but a military bearing, squared shoulders and ramrod stiff backbone. An impeccably dressed man in an expensive suit is talking with them. “Said they would be here shortly,” he says haughtily to the taller man.

“Dobie,” Ruth says softly.

He turns at the mention of his name, his face tightening. “Merlin?” he asks with a measuring look.

“Yes, Arthur Merlin,” I affirm, giving the same appraising look.

“I'm Commander Dobie of MI6, in charge here,” he says in a deep, condescending voice, then waves to the men in his group, “and Major Breckenridge, leader of the Alpha Team and his terrorism response unit.”

The Major snaps a salute. “Sir.”

“Relax Major,” I tell him, “officially, I'm not here, and you probably outrank me anyhow.” Several of his men snicker softly. Turning to Dobie, I ask, “Commander, when will the terrorist leader arrive?”

He glances at his Rolex watch. “Should be any minute now, Merlin.”

“Major, have your men form up around me, at ease. Dr. Burns, wait over there, out of the way,” I instruct, shooing her away. With a frown, she stamps over several feet, then stands there, arms crossed, tapping her foot. “Gentlemen, I'm sure you've worked with Commander Dobie before. Everything you see, hear, or even imagine you see or hear, is classified,” I brief them. “How do you feel about terrorists? Not just any terrorists, but specifically the ones on that airplane. Speak freely, men,” I look around at the tough faces of Alpha Team.

One Alpha Team member, a short man as wide as a doorway answers, “I'd as soon split 'em open for fish bait, sir.” There's a general murmur of assent.

“Do all of you feel that way?”

“Yes, sir,” is their resounding reply.

“Okay, I'll get the terrorists off the plane, men. Be aware, at that point, I'm sure they'll open fire on you.”

Dobie pipes up, “What are you trying to pull, Merlin?”

“Oh, just killing two birds with one stone,” I say with a crafty grin.

“But that'd be murder, man!” Dobie disputes vehemently.

I ignore him. “Major, if terrorists open fire on your men, will you fire back?”

“Sir, if you get the terrorists off that plane, my lads will take care of them all right.”

A gray car with government insignias on the doors rolls up and three men climb out, two wearing uniforms, one a shirt with a number. The shirt is on a dark-skinned, wild-eyed, long-haired, heavy man, with a big, yellow-toothed grin.

“Merlin, this is Ahmad Reshan,” the Commander informs me.

The terrorist leader glares at me as a spider does a fly, then spits on my face. “American pig.”

How can he tell I'm an American?
Tearing off a piece of his shirt, I wipe off his stinking spit, stuffing the piece of spit-stained shirt in his pocket. Loud guffaws come from the team.

“Reshan, you and I are going out to the plane,” I tell him. “You stay by me, and the cuffs stay on until I say different. Understand?”

Ruth's car is smarter than this guy. He looks as if he's a little less intelligent than a tree stump. I don't want to go into his head, but I do. My mind cringes.
Shit. Can you really do all those things to the human body?
He's ready to cream his jeans imagining all the ways he wants to kill me. The man is very, very ill. His mind resembles a giant marshmallow, ready for roasting, and singed around the edges. So much hate, and he doesn't even understand why he hates. But he's been taught well.

“Fuck you, pig. We will destroy you, all of you.” He's yelling in my face with maniacal glee, and my nose wrinkles in revulsion. His breath smells like the south end of a north-bound skunk. I turn my head to the side for fresh air, and I'm suddenly reminded of the dog food and wormer dessert.
That does it.

“Okay, Reshan. I tried to be nice.” I mentally push. Hard. I almost hear the pieces of his mind break apart like brittle glass.
Oh well, no big guilt complex over this one.

Dobie takes two steps back into one of the guards. “Merlin, my God,” he yelps, clutching his head in pain. “I felt that. Dr. Tober told me, but I never imagined.” He's pasty white with sweat beading on his forehead.

“Sorry, Dobie,” I apologize halfheartedly, “you must be susceptible to my psychic pushes.” I turn to the Major. “Form your men on the field facing away from the plane, and when the terrorists open fire, fire back.”

“Yes, sir,” they yell back.

“Commander, you'll need to kill the field lights simultaneously with the lights on the plane, or the country will watch a massacre on the telly tonight. Got it?” I snap at him, trying to get his attention.

Ruth sprints off, with Dobie stumbling behind her, for the runway control room to coordinate the blackout of the field lights with the plane lights.

Since Ruth and I appeared at the airport, the four terrorists on the plane have been under my mental control. No way was I going to let them kill anyone else. Using the Major's radio, I contact the plane, letting the pilot know we're on our way. With his stiff stance and blank expression, Reshan seems more intelligent as I remove the cuffs and he follows me to the tarmac.

Alpha Team is ready as I climb the airplane steps, followed by my dark-skinned zombie. The terrorists stand at the doorway, machine guns hanging loosely. I'll send them to their deaths, but not this way. When I teleport and release them from my mind control, they'll die as they lived, like animals. I admit I'm being melodramatic. It'd be easier and faster for me to kill them, but I want Alpha Team to get the credit. Maybe give terrorists something to mull over the next time they want to hijack a plane.

I mentally scan the big 747's panels, and find the row of electrical breakers. All five of them are positioned next to each other, so I telekinetically flip them then teleport the terrorists out on the tarmac, about forty feet in front of Alpha Team, releasing them from my mind control. Alpha Team is backlit by the terminal lights, and just as they're getting ready to open fire, the main lights wink out. All I see are muzzle flashes, and an occasional ricochet off the pavement, as a bullet zings into the night. Within forty seconds, the firefight is over. I telekinetically reset the plane's breakers and hurry down to the tarmac.

“Major, inform the pilot the hostage situation is over, and to keep the passengers on board until the bodies are cleaned up,” I order.

“Yes, sir,” he responds and starts talking into his radio.

As the field lights blink back on, I see Ruth and Dobie sprinting towards us, with thirty members of the press.

The Alpha men are standing in a haze of blackish cordite smoke, and in front of them lay five bloody, bullet-riddled corpses. One Alpha man sustained a flesh wound high on his right biceps. He proudly stands there, blood dripping, and the biggest grin you ever saw. “We showed 'em, sir.”

“Major, I suggest you pick up weapons before the press arrives and realizes there are five bodies, but only four weapons,” I quietly suggest, and he winks at me.

“Sergeant Baynes, police weapons and brass.”

The team member who resembles a five-foot-high doorway jumps, and starts collecting the guns and spent cartridges.
He sure moves fast for his size. I'm glad these guys are on my side.
I suspect if their guns had misfired, the men of Alpha Team would've charged the terrorists and torn them apart with bare hands.

Lights from several minicams flash on, and the field lights up like weird daylight. Flashbulb strobes begin to go off. Glancing around, the Major asks me, “Sir, do you hear that?”

I'm staring at the bullet-riddled carcass of the leader, Reshan, revealed by the lights from the minicams as they focus on the terrorist's bodies. Reshan's laying on the tarmac covered in dark blood, a fanatical grin showing in the strange lighting. His eyes are open, but don't have that wild look.
Amazing. Even with ninety percent of his brain destroyed by my mental push earlier, the bastard managed to pull a grin while being shot to death.
His grin fades as the blood stops flowing, but I still feel his ingrained hatred.
Who, or what, creates men like this?

“Uh, sorry, Major, I wasn't listening.” But I do now; cheering and clapping noises are coming from the plane.

Major Breckenridge and I are slowly striding in the direction that Dobie and Ruth are running from, and three of his men are formed around us as we walk, machine guns at the ready. The armed guards would explain why the first group of press people avoided us and ran towards the bodies instead. Alpha Team are the type of men who'd take your camera away, break it, and stick the pieces where it'd take a proctologist to tell whether the film was still in the camera.

Spaced around Dobie and Ruth are seven or eight more soldiers, who not only divert the members of the press, but also hampers their running over to us too only a lope. Ruth pulls ahead of Dobie and, out of breath, throws her arms around me.

“Arthur, my God, are you alright? I mean, I know you're alright, but are you alright?” she asks, cheeks flushed with excitement. Damn if there aren't tears in her eyes.