Exiles Chronicles
Book I: Thy Will be Done
A companion story to Thy Kingdom Come

With a sigh, Elizabeth Leanora Langley turned her attention from the increasingly animated argument between her husband and what seemed to her an absurdly over-zealous airport security man, given his request, and glanced down once more to the little girl at her side. Her eldest daughter had been asking the same question for the past five minutes.

Not that Elizabeth could blame her. The man was being unnecessarily officious, and she could tell that James was fast reaching the limit of his patience, his dark face flushed with growing anger, and his broad shoulders tight as he towered over the other man.

“Oh, come on now!” She could hear him now easily even through the rising surge of activity around them as people prepared to move at a moment's notice, and she knew that his father's quick temper was beginning to get the better of him, despite his attempts to remain calm and reasonable. “Lord! Ain't my clearance enough? What the hell' you think my little girl's gonna do anyway: blow up the damn plane?! Come on! She just wants to see her Daddy safely on-board. Five minutes! Is that so much t' ask?”

“I'm sorry, captain Langley, sir,” came the answer, in a tone that seemed to suggest he was nothing of the kind. “No one but passengers allowed on the plane. Now if you don't like it, you're more than welcome to take it up with your superior, or the President himself, when you get to D.C., but I've got my job to do, and I've got no more time to stand here arguing about it, and neither've you sir, if you're gonna make the flight.”

Watching her husband's dark skin flush a deeper angry red, Elizabeth sighed again, and shook her head. He would probably have let the matter drop minutes earlier, preferring to spend his last few minutes with his family, rather than in what was obviously a fruitless waste of time. But he had promised little Deánne that she could say goodbye to him on the plane, and he never broke a promise if he could help it. Watching him, Elizabeth found herself smiling for a moment, despite her growing irritation at what seemed now yet another example of his sometimes ill-considered rashness. He would never have admitted it, believing himself scrupulously fair with all his three children, but she had known somehow from the moment he had first held his tiny first-born daughter, that he and Deánne would share a special closeness that he had somehow never quite managed with the son she had been certain would be closest to him, and it hurt him more than he would ever say whenever he had to let her down, or whenever his too-frequent absences made her cry.

A man of intense conviction and a fierce Baptist morality, learned from a large family and a childhood in which faith seemed to be the primary defining constant of their lives until he had left home to join the army at eighteen, James Thomas Langley, only son of a Scots-Irish father and Afro-American mother: army captain, CIA operative, and now recalled early from his leave to take up his new post with one of the additional detachments of secret service agents assigned as Presidential bodyguards, given the increasingly dangerous situation brought about by the recent spate of world-wide disasters and the unrest they had sparked, loved his family above everything with a fierce protectiveness that Elizabeth sometimes found almost frightening in its intensity.

They had met barely a week after his first posting, and were married barely three months later, despite her mother's initial unease concerning her daughter's marrying a man who had chosen to make the military his career.

Not that Elizabeth had blamed her for her uncertainty. Having fled Castro's Cuba in the early sixties, the only survivor of a family of ten, Maria's distrust even of the American forces was more than understandable, and it had not taken her long to accept the inevitable, once she had met the tall, well-spoken Langley: her greatest concern in the end being his Baptist convictions, and the fact that his swiftly-advancing career might mean she would see far less of her daughter and the many grandchildren she expected a good catholic girl to give her, rather than anything else.

August, Elizabeth's father, an immigrant who had come to upstate New York with his parents, two brothers and four sisters from West Berlin as a young man, some ten years after the war, had simply smiled and kissed her, and wished her all the happiness she could find.

For the tall, quietly-spoken, but quick-tempered son of a man whose family had come from Derry (or Londonderry, as Thomas Langley always felt it necessary to point out when the subject was mentioned) to America during the worst deprivations of the great depression, and to all the unlooked-for prosperity their new home had brought them, and a woman whose great-grandmother had had the relative fortune to be slave to a family who had considered kindness and education preferable to the beatings and brutality all too accepted in their time, Elizabeth, small, dark and delicately pretty, whom he had loved with a boundless intensity almost from the moment he had met her at a charity dance: warm and bubbly, yet with a quiet core of steel to match his own quicker fire, with her mother's strict adherence to a Roman Catholicism his Presbyterian father had always despised, and his Baptist mother deeply distrusted, had seemed to him an unattainable hope for ever beyond his reach. Then he had met her parents, and Maria – although wary, and after a warning glare that had made it very clear that his intentions towards her daughter had better be honourable, and that had had even him ready to turn and bolt as far, and as fast as he could – had smiled suddenly, and taken his arm, and welcomed him warmly to their home.

And upon his entering the large and cosy parlour, August had risen from a low armchair by the fire, and caught and shaken his hand with a quiet strength that had astounded him. And he had known in that moment that somehow as always the Lord had seen him through, and that he had not hoped in vain.

His own parents had proved little less intransigent, although he still smiled whenever he recalled their first meeting with Elizabeth's equally large family, and the first thunderous religious disagreement between Maria Bach and Thomas Langley, that had culminated in the small, fiery Cuban woman catching the huge Scots-Irishman a cracking back-hand to the cheek, and had ended with her being held back by August and an astonished Harriet, while Elizabeth just shook her head, and he simply stood and stared open-mouthed. He had never before seen his father so utterly lost for a response to any situation, and it had been perfectly obvious that Maria was not the least intimidated, and that she was quite ready to try pounding home her point of view, despite the fact that she was little more than half his size.

From that day, the two had become fast although volatile friends, and even now no family gathering was complete without at least one spirited debate between them, while August and Harriet talked easily, and kept an eye on them to see that things did not get entirely out of hand.

Although fierce in her Baptist convictions, Harriet Langley was a steadier soul, and a calming counterpoint to Thomas's driving fire. It did no harm also that, although slow to anger, she was nevertheless more than capable of holding her own when she felt it necessary.

For their only son, an often dichotomous mixture of his mother's quiet steadfastness and his father's consuming fire, Elizabeth had proved that same strength and balance: a steadying and unbreakable anchor to his sometimes rash, and overbearing intensity.

To him, she was his light and his life, and all the good and warmth and happiness there could be: a quiet, calming respite from the deadly world in which too often he was forced to move. To her, he was soul mate and confidant, and a boundless strength and security: her absolute in a world in which so few things were certain.

Now, as she turned her attention once more for a moment to the small, bright bundle of boundless energy beside her, Elizabeth felt a surge of love for her family that made her throat suddenly tight, and her breath for a moment short and painful.

At her mother's side, the little girl had jumped yet again from her place, and was bounding from foot to foot, her long pony-tale dancing, and her dark, pretty face set in a scowl as she bounced up and down, and turned this way and that, dark eyes flashing as she waited with her usual impatience for her father to finish whatever he was arguing about with the stupid airport policeman, so that she could say goodbye to him inside the big plane that would soon be taking him away to his new, and very secret job in the President's own house. It wasn't fair sometimes that Daddy's work made him have to stay away so long. But he had hugged her tight, and explained that what he did was very important, and kept God's good people safe from those who might want to harm them, and this job was most important of all. Besides, this time she and Mommy and her brother and little sister would only have to wait two weeks before they would be moving too, and she would have so much to look forward to, including school after next summer. Maybe if she was very good, he might even be able to take her to the White House itself, and let her see inside; and perhaps she could even meet the President.

She had beamed at that, twining small arms fiercely around his neck, while thinking that perhaps it would not be so bad after all, even though she had had to say goodbye to Karen and Dana and Elena, and all her other friends, which had made her cry until her sometimes-nasty elder brother had teased her, and she had hit him.

That had made her feel better, even though Mommy had scolded her, and even Daddy had frowned and flashed his dark eyes in a way that always told her when she was in trouble. Hitting James Jr. could usually make things better if she was particularly upset.

At only a few days passed her fifth birthday, Deánne, like the others, was no stranger to flying. But unlike her elder brother, who hated it, she never seemed to tire of planes or roller-coasters, or anything else that was fast or dangerous. Indeed Mommy often teased with a smile, that she would probably be able to fly one of the big planes herself before she went to school, with all her questions and everything she had already seen.

She had been unable to think about anything but the trip for weeks, and she had thought her father's promise that she would be able to go inside the plane before he had to leave, more than worth the midwinter cold, and having to get up so early for church, and drive through all the snow. Or at least, she had when they had started. Now, as her brother (who was definitely nasty this morning) seemed to have decided that poking her just hard enough to make her mad, but not quite hard enough to make her really want to hit him and so attract their mother's attention, might relieve his own boredom, and her younger sister Linna set up yet another protesting plea to be allowed to get out of her pram and walk, Deánne was not so sure. Her father was getting really angry, and it seemed that the stupid policeman was not going to let her on the plane, no matter what he said. It wasn't fair.

Beside her, her mother smiled indulgently down at her and squeezed her tight for a moment, before releasing her and turning back towards the still-arguing pair. But Deánne was far from placated, and her mood was not exactly improved a moment later, when, seeing his mother's attention fully distracted, James decided it was time to pull her hair.

That did it.

With a squeal of pain, and a sudden burst of her father's fire, the little girl whipped around before he had a chance to back away, and would have hammered one small fist into his mouth with all the strength she had, had not her mother been quicker. A moment later, Deánne found herself picked up, and looking into her mother's smoldering dark eyes, while her brother scuttled frantically to relative safety on the further side of Linna's pram.

For a moment, Elizabeth continued to stare down at her daughter in silence, her small mouth set into a thin line of disapproval, while she waited for the inevitable flurry of protests. Although almost a year and a half his junior, Deánne had almost half an inch on her brother, and both their parents had begun to suspect that the teasing from his friends (not to mention Deánne herself) concerning the fact that he inevitably ended up on the receiving end of any skirmish with her, was mostly responsible for their increasingly frequent fighting.

Not that any of his friends had fared much better. Of the two, Deánne was by far the more aggressive, her brother's only real chance being to tease her until her quick temper made her careless, while to her, fighting seemed to come as naturally as the almost dichotomous warmth and gentleness she could sometimes show, even to him, given the right circumstances.

Today however, she was not of a mind to be gracious.

“He started it!” she flared, the tears already gone, though it had hurt, twisting with amazing agility in her mother's arms to glare at James Jr. with a look that promised dire consequences when she next had the chance. “He was poking me, and he pulled my hair!”

She might have said and done a good deal more, but at that moment their father turned in their direction, and she was distracted by the look in his eyes as he approached and halted beside them.

“I'm sorry Pony,” he said softly, settling heavily at his wife's side and reaching to take the little girl from her arms, and hold her close. “I tried honey, but they're not letting anyone but passengers on the plane; not even to say goodbye. I'm sorry.”

In truth, he knew he should have expected it. The unexplained world-wide phenomena of the past few weeks had everyone on edge, and seemed to have brought an unending stream of maniacs out of the woodwork, from straight-out lunatics to crackpot doomsday fanatics who had recalculated this year as the new millennium and the beginning of the end of the world, and although he was taking a commercial flight, it seemed that it would be carrying other military personnel, and they simply could not afford to take chances.

Beside him, Elizabeth shook her head, a sudden quick flare of anger at the hurt in Deánne's eyes, when he more than anyone should have known this would happen, making her own eyes flash for a moment, before she took a calming breath, and shifted a little to let the little girl settle down between them.

She turned to him, about to say something she would probably immediately have regretted. But at that moment the call came for his flight, and she realised with a sudden unreasoning start of unease that it was time for him to go.

Quickly they stood, James bending to slap his son gently on the shoulder and ruffle his hair, rather than do something that might earn him more teasing from his sister, before turning to lift little Linna from her pram, and hold her close.

“You be sure and be a good girl for your mother,” he said as he kissed her goodbye. “and I'll see you in a few days; ok?”

Linna beamed up at him, her small arms twined about his neck, and her blue eyes sparkling with the simple trust of her two and a half years.

“Bye-bye Daddy,” she chirruped, squeezing tighter for a moment, before kissing him on the cheek, and beginning to squirm to get down.

Laughing, he set her on her feet, and turned to Deánne. The little girl flew into his arms, twining both arms fiercely around his neck, and bursting into a sudden flood of tears. Although she loved her mother fiercely, her Daddy was special, and she missed him desperately whenever he had to go away.

“Hey Pony” he murmured, his own voice catching suddenly as he held her close. “Come on now. I'll see you again so soon you'll hardly know I've been gone. And you have the plane-ride to look forward to, and the new house, and all the fun we're gonna have.”

Yet even as he tried to smile, she clung suddenly to him with a fierce almost painful desperation, and a sudden unreasoning thrill of fear seemed to take hold of him, almost as though caught from what seemed for a moment that was for ever the stark terror in his daughter's eyes; and for a heartbeat he faltered, Deánne clutched desperately close in his arms, while he stood suddenly trembling and unable to move, or understand the fear, until at last she began to squirm a little, and the spell was broken.

“Daddy, you're squeezing too tight!” she said, trying to get more comfortable. Her father's expression was suddenly so strange, and something she could not understand had made her suddenly frightened, and want just to hold on and hold on and never ever let go.

“Please don't cry,” she pleaded; and suddenly he was aware that tears were streaming down his face, and he could not understand why, or why he did not seem able to let her go. “I'll be brave and grown up, and I'll help Mommy with Linna, and make sure Mommy doesn't cry, or get too lonely. And Mommy can help me write you, because even though I'm big now, it's really hard to remember how all the letters go together; but I'll try so very hard, so that you'll be proud of me. And I'll pray to Jesus every night so he'll watch over you, and keep my Daddy safe. And I promise I'll be good and…and…”

And then she was crying so hard she could say no more, while her father's face was wrung with pain, and beside them Elizabeth caught the look in her daughter's eyes, and suddenly everything seemed deathly cold, while an unreasoning, icy dread crept slowly down her spine. Suddenly she wanted desperately to plead with him to stay: to forget the trip, and take the leave they owed him. But she knew before she spoke that it was too late, and tears filled her own eyes as she heard his voice choked with emotion as he held his little girl, and whispered a last goodbye to her, before he at last eased her to the floor, and turned to gather Elizabeth close.

“Hey, it's all right,” he hushed her gently, trying to smile. “It's only a precaution Beth: a security upgrade, because of a few crazy people. I'll be fine, honey: you know I will, and it's only for a few weeks: just until things settle down. Then I'll take my leave, and we'll go on vacation. Come on now. I think me and Pony have done enough crying for all of us, and if I miss this flight, a few weeks more before my leave'll be the least of my worries.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, trying to laugh through her tears, and fighting down the fear.

But although she smiled as he kissed her one last time, and stood with the children as he hurried away at last, waving a final goodbye to him when he turned for one last moment to look back at her and flash her a last intense smile in his turn before disappearing in the crowd, the brief glimpse of the terror she had caught in Deánne's eyes would not leave her, and a part of her screamed and screamed at her to run after him, and plead with him to stay; and it was with a sense of unreasoning, terrible foreboding that she watched at last as the plane leapt skywards, and moved when it was gone to settle little Linna once more in her pram, despite her protests, beckoning the two elder children to her side.

“Oh blessed virgin!” she found herself praying suddenly, her soft words choking in the sudden seeming stillness, turning in that moment for a reason she could not have explained to the faith of her childhood, rather than to that she had more or less accepted since her marriage. “Please watch over him this day, and see that he comes to no harm. Holy mother of God, protect him.”

And with that, and a warning that the children stay close, she turned and led them swiftly away.

But in a realm unknown to them, a moment of dreadful destiny drew near; and her daughter was afraid.

* * *

It was just as he had tossed the last of the two bags he was carrying into the luggage-rack above his head, that the voice came from behind him. “Hey! J-T!”

A moment later, a hand slammed down on his shoulder, and he turned, his melancholy lifting a little as he caught sight of the shorter man who now stood almost beside him.

“Hey John!” he returned, forcing a smile, and pounding the other on the back in return with a huge hand that nearly drove him to his knees. “Thought you weren't flying out till later this afternoon.”

“No sir,” he answered, grinning as he snapped a quick salute. “They flew us in upstate early this morning: Al and Tom and Larry and I; probably couldn't wait to get us off the base.”

Langley laughed, the gloom lifting still more as a genuine smile creased his features. “And decided to torment me by putting all four of you on my flight, Lieutenant? As if I ain't gonna have enough of you over the next few weeks? Or maybe they just wan'ed me on-board to make sure the plane was still in one piece when we got to D.C.” His tone had just the right mixture of bite and sarcasm, but the smile belied it completely, and John Lansing's grin never faltered as he aimed a mock-blow at Langley's midriff. Then abruptly the captain's smile was gone. “You carrying weapons?” he asked quietly, and suddenly Lansing was all professional attention. “Not that I'm expecting trouble, but…”

“Yes sir,” he answered quickly. “Don't worry sir; we're ready should anything happen.”

Langley nodded, and might have said more, but at that moment the cabin PA crackled, and at his gesture, Lansing saluted again, and moved quickly back to his seat.

Glancing quickly about him, Langley noted the others had been seated at strategic points at some distance, each from the rest, and despite his question of a moment before, he found himself smiling and shaking his head at someone's seeming paranoia. Just what, really, were they expecting to happen?

With a sigh, he took his own seat, and settled back. He intended to catch up on a couple of hours sleep before their arrival and the inevitable protracted checks, briefings and heaven only knew what else to which he would be subjected before he was allowed finally to get down to doing the job for which he had been sent. His head half turned as he gazed out of the window at the retreating terminal where he knew his family would be watching the departing plane, Langley let his thoughts turn for one last moment entirely to them, barely aware of the voice of the plane's captain, as he prayed softly for a quiet moment, before the aircraft turned, and began to pick up speed, and he turned quickly away.

“Lord protect them,” he murmured one last time when at last they had climbed above the clouds, and the city was lost behind them.

And with a heavy sigh, he settled back and closed his eyes.

But although sleep rushed quickly to claim him, the fear followed him down into the darkness, and he did not rest in peace.

* * *

In the terrible months that were to come, Langley would torment himself again and again with the certainty that the unreasoning terror he had felt as he made his last goodbye to his family was a premonition of what was to begin on that flight: that had he but understood the warning, and stayed, he might somehow have averted the terrible destiny he would have sold his soul in a moment to change.

He was never afterwards certain whether the first piercing, terrified scream was real, or part of the horrible dream in which he had been trapped. Instantly half the passengers seemed to be on their feet, shouts and cries, and the splintering crash of trays and breaking glass adding to the tumult, while Langley, snapped suddenly to combat readiness from clawing nightmare, surged to the aisle, his hand already on the weapon concealed beneath his coat as he spun wildly in search of danger.

Then a half-screamed: “Look!” from behind had him whirling to face his window, others turning instinctively to follow his example as he stared out into the morning.

For one frozen moment, he could see nothing. Then suddenly it came: a darkness, profound and absolute, surging with terrible speed from the north to swallow the sun: waxing and deepening, until within moments, the sky had become a deep, impenetrable black, lit only by a lurid, diffuse glow that cast the cabin in stark, chilling hues of blacks and deathly greys.

In the sudden almost total darkness, a stunned, profound stillness seemed to Langley to fill the cabin, while people stared stupefied and uncomprehending into the midnight sky. Then someone screamed again, perhaps the same woman, and suddenly the silence turned to nightmare and horror and the madness of over two-hundred people suddenly unable to understand or accept what was happening.

For a moment, Langley remained as frozen as the rest. Then a shouted: “Sir!” from behind snapped him back to reality. If they did not do something quickly, there would be a riot in the plane. Already, many were screaming in incoherent panic, shouts of “Holy Jesus! The Goddamn sun's blown up!”, and “It's a Goddamn nuclear war!” only adding to the rising terror. In moments the panic would take hold completely, and it would be too late.

“Lansing!” Langley's suddenly thunderous voice cut through the din, and immediately the lieutenant was saluting, and awaiting his instructions, the others already ranged behind him. “Secure the cabin. Use what force you have to, short of killing anyone. I want all of you ready for anything, and I want you all changed into uniform as quickly as you can. I don't want any doubt as to our authority, or any more panic than we have already. I'm going to try to find out what in the Lord's name we've run into, and get through to colonel Prichard at the White House if I can.”

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, knowing he could rely on them to do as he told them without any idiot questions, Langley shrugged quickly from the heavy coat he had pulled on that morning over his uniform, pitching it into his seat, even as he moved quickly forwards, laying a hand on the weapon in its holster, although he did not draw it; not yet. He had barely taken a dozen strides, careful in the near-darkness, when abruptly light flooded the cabin, and he blinked and increased his pace.

Behind him, he could hear Lansing shouting orders, and the chaos dying down as people at last began to recover at least a measure of composure, now that it seemed someone in authority was taking charge.

Ignoring an attendant who was shouting at him, and pushing quickly but with relative care passed another who tried to bar his way, Langley reached the front of the cabin, the door opening, then slamming quickly behind him.

For a moment, the two attendants stood frozen, staring after him. Then nodding to one another, the first turned back to the cabin, while the second moved quickly to follow.

* * *

“I don't give a damn what you've been told! We've run into the Goddamn X-files out here, and I want to know what it is, and I want to know now!”

With a half-snarl, Hal Andersson tagged off the transmit, ignoring the radio as his hands flew over the board before him.

“Still no GPS?” he demanded, turning to the co-pilot at his side.

“Nothing,” he answered. “No satellite comms at all!”

“Sh*t!” Andersson swore fervently. “Goddamn it!”

He might have said more, but at that moment the door opened behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder, ready to snarl a curse at whomever of the cabin-crew was stupid enough to bother him now, rather than doing their job, then half turned, his eyes suddenly blazing for a different reason as he stared at the tall, dark-skinned man moving quickly into the cockpit. “I don't know who the hell you are,” he began savagely, “but you've got two seconds to get the hell off this…!”

But abruptly he faltered into silence, staring. He had caught sight of the holster, and was just about to turn and add a shouted “May-day!” to his problems, when something was thrust into his hand, and the uniform the stranger was wearing at last connected with the addendum to the manifest he had noted before the flight.

“Captain James Langley, sir; Presidential staff. We'll be on your manifest.”

With visible relief, Andersson nodded, relaxing just a little as Langley took back his ID, and moved to close the door.

“Ok,” he began, turning back to face him; “just what in the Lord's name is goin' on?”

* * *

“All right! All right! Now if everyone can just can the noise for a moment, I might have some chance of making myself heard!”

With relief, Lansing noted that the last of the panic seemed finally to be relenting, save for the occasional sob, and some crying from some of the children. From his position at the front of the cabin, the lieutenant surveyed the scene before him, and felt that at last he had at least a reasonable chance of maintaining control.

“I'M lieutenant John Lansing, with the U.S. Special Forces,” he continued after a moment. “This is Sergeant Larry Gleeson, Sergeant Alan Alcott, and Corporal Tom O'neal. Now before you ask; no: we had no idea anything like this was gonna happen. We were on our way to assignment in D.C., it's pure coincidence we're here, we don't know any more than you do, and we can't answer any of your questions. Perhaps we'll know more when Captain Langley gets back from talking to the flight-crew. But at least I can assure you that the Sun hasn't blown up: believe me, we'd already be dead if it had; and whatever this is, it's certainly not the start of a nuclear war. Now I know it's not going to be easy, but I'd ask all of you to stay as calm as you can, because we're not gonna get anywhere if people start to panic like you did a few minutes ago. Now I want everyone but the cabin-crew in their seats, and strapped in within the next thirty seconds, because anyone I see walking around after that, unless you're paying a visit, I'll have physically restrained. Now I'm sorry if that seems a little harsh, but until we know what's going on, I can't afford to take chances. So please, let's all just stay calm and cooperative, and hopefully things will work out fine; ok? Now let's get to it.”

There were some glares, and a good deal of hostile grumbling, but most seemed still to be too shaken to offer much in the way of resistance, and within half a minute or so, the last stragglers had settled, and Lansing was about to move to speak to one of the cabin-crew about checking to see whether anyone was worse than shaken, when the door behind him opened, and his captain stepped through, closing it quietly behind him. Snapping to attention, Lansing was about to speak when he caught the look on the captain's face, and faltered into silence.

“We're in trouble.” Langley's tone was quiet and terribly calm, and the four listening men felt suddenly cold. “I managed to get through to the colonel. Things are goin' crazy out there! Captain Andersson wanted to turn back, but the colonel ordered me to place the plane under military control. Andersson's not too happy about it, but we have to get to D.C., and JFK'S already in chaos. Whatever's happened out here, reports are coming in that it's world-wide, and it's blacked out not only the Sun, but all satellite communications; in fact it seems it's pretty-much a full-spectrum shield over the entire planet, except that it seems to stop about two-hundred miles off-shore, which means that whatever it is, there's a good chance that someone, or something's behind it.” For a moment he was silent, gauging their reactions. Then in the same deadly-calm tone he continued. “There'll be a chopper waiting for us the moment we land. All conventional and nuclear forces have been placed on maximum alert. The United States of America could be at war.”

* * *

For Langley, it was the waiting that would remain graven in his memory in the days to come: that, and the bewildered, uncomprehending look in the eyes of many of the passengers as the minutes passed, and the raw, desperate panic of those first terrible minutes gave way to a numb, helpless dread that seemed to fill the faces of all save a very few.

The five had remained intensely alert for any sign of trouble, only too aware that anarchy lay still just below the surface, and that many were holding on only because the rest had not yet broken. At any moment, they knew, the tenuous calm they had achieved could erupt into chaos, and that should that happen, restoring order without someone being hurt would be all but impossible. Langley could only pray that they could hold them together until they landed.

It was just before twenty to ten, and they were barely ten minutes out of D.C., when it nearly fell apart.

He had just returned to his seat after another walk through the cabin, when it came: a sudden unreasoning urge to turn to the window beside him, and look out and up. Dimly he was aware that the subdued murmur of conversation had ceased, and that everyone had turned to stare.

Then the image filled the sky, a blue-tinged, deeper blackness seeming to wax and surge about it as the face grew ever more wild, and the stark, chilling words filled his mind: “I am Calcite. I am responsible for both the global darkness and the imminent annihilation of the city known as Tokyo. I will address the United Nations at precisely 10 am Eastern Standard Time tomorrow. Enjoy the darkness. You have seen your last sunrise!”

For one terrible moment after the image had vanished, all remained frozen. Then the screams began.

* * *

“Damn it; we're not gonna make it!”

Glancing at Captain Andersson beside him, Dan Ericson could not help but feel that he might well be right. It had been bad enough during the hour of incomprehension that had followed the coming of the terrible darkness. Now, he knew he was holding on only because to surrender to the mounting horror would mean death, not only for himself, but for the desperate, panicked people for whom he and the man beside him were responsible.

Turning for a brief moment, he studied him as he sat as though carven in stone, his hands steady and his face a mask of savage concentration as the minutes passed, and they drew ever closer to the end of their journey. But he was pale and cold, and Dan Ericson knew that, like himself, he might break at any moment: may well have done so already, were it not for the knowledge of what would happen.

The “Mayday!” followed by the stark, chilling report of only moments before had only added to the terrible intensity of the strain. A passenger-plane was down and burning on a runway at Washington National, while an abortive take-off had damaged another plane, and closed a second. He supposed it had been all but inevitable, given the circumstances. A pilot had panicked, and come in too soon and too fast. And now nearly two-hundred people were dead. And perhaps they're the lucky ones, he thought grimly, and shivered.

“Bastards!” Andersson continued, his tone low and savage. “Goddamn military bastards! We should have turned back to JFK.”

He fell silent, and Dan fought the sudden urge to add something of his own. Losing what control he had would be the beginning of the end, of that at least he was certain. He had to hold on for another few minutes, at least until they had landed. Then he could let the fear take him; then, but not yet.

Nodding to the captain, he reached for the cabin mike, and fought the terror to a last, desperate calm.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began, his voice sounding impossibly, incongruously steady and reasonable in his own ears. “We are beginning our approach to Washington National Airport. Please fasten your seat-belts, and prepare for landing.”

* * *

Still and terribly calm, Langley watched with an almost numb fascination as the city spread out below them, lit now as though it were middle-night, the airport lights stark and cold in a scene that was almost other-worldly. Away to his left as they came round for their final approach, he caught with a terrible detachment, the dancing shadows cast by the lurid glow of what could only be the burning of a crashed plane. Then the glow was behind them, and they were diving low and fast, and Langley knew with a terrible certainty that they were too far from the runway, and would crash if Andersson did not do something now. Then the nose jerked upwards, and for a moment they lifted, before, with a final dying scream, it dropped once more, and they struck down with bone-shattering force, bouncing once, twice, then a third time, before the scream became the roar of braking thrust, and Langley unlocked his intertwined, aching fingers from their death-grip, while all around him people wept and laughed with hysterical relief, and it was all he could do not to join them.

Even as the plane slowed, Langley unfastened his seat-belt, and rose quickly to his feet, Lansing and the others joining him with the little luggage they had, and by the time the plane had halted, they were already by the doors, and waiting for them to open.

“There!” Lansing shouted, when less than a minute later, they were out and hurrying away from, rather than towards the terminal.

In the next instant, the helicopter was dropping from above, and it seemed only moments later that they were racing aboard, and the machine was soaring skywards once more, turning north-eastwards across the Potomac, and towards Capitol Hill.

The briefing when they arrived was, to Langley's relief, mercifully short, and it was only a little later that they slipped unobtrusively into a meeting of the President and his security advisers; and froze in stunned disbelief.

“What the hell!” was all Langley could manage, staring open-mouthed at the impossible scene before him.

Seated with the President and the generals, were two teenage girls, clothed in what he recognised immediately to be Japanese fuku, a small black cat settled on the table before them. That alone would have been inconceivable enough, but it was the fact that it was the cat who was currently holding the floor, that had them gaping as though the world had gone mad.

For a long moment, Langley continued to stare in stupefied incomprehension. Then at last he turned to fix a frigid, blazing stare upon the man at his side.

“Colonel Prichard, sir,” he said, his tone very quiet, and terribly polite, “you have exactly five seconds to explain just what the hell sick joke you think this is, before I turn round, walk straight out'a this room, and go back to New York City and my family.”