Overlord (2 page)

The punitive action against the Caledonians was now entering its seventh month. Pattellus’s one hundred cavalry and three hundred and fifty foot soldiers were weary and worn, with many of them having been cleaved to the bone. The soldiers as well as their commander were ready to end this raid and return to Hadrian’s Wall.

Pettellus turned his face to the skies as dark rain clouds closed over the last of the sun as the centurion sat by his fire. He removed his helmet and stared into the crackling flames. He didn’t notice when his aide removed his red cloak and then placed it over the commander’s shoulders for warmth. The sounds of the camp were nothing but muted noises as his eyes remained fixed on the fire even as his body ignored the mist starting to veil the evening under the ominous skies.

“The honor has left this pursuit just as surely as the warmth of the year vanishes around us,” he mumbled as his eyes remained locked on the flames.

His aide stopped before entering the tent but decided not to comment on his commander’s increasingly sour mood at the lack of success in his campaign to rid the northern regions of the devils that raided south of the Wall. The aide shook his head and was about to step into the tent when he saw the lights to the north. He was about to comment when Centurion Pettellus was approached by the watch commander. Even then the aide’s eyes never wavered from the strange sight directly to the north. The green and blue shades of light were unlike the northern lights they had witnessed at these climbs and the aide knew he was seeing something very much different this night.

The watch commander slapped his right fist to his armored chest and then waited for the centurion to acknowledge his presence. The messenger soon realized that Pettellus was not going to respond and hesitantly lowered his hand and arm.

“Sir, we have activity reported by our outer pickets.” The man waited but Pettellus remained still and his eyes continued to watch the flickering fire before him. “There seems to be Caledonian movement in force. They may be using the weather for cover for possible attack.”

“I would hardly call the placement of fifty men to spy our movements as activity in force, Commander.”

“The pickets report—”

“Thus far on this campaign we have yet to see more than a hundred of the savages on open ground, and by the time we react they have vanished as magically as wine and coin in a brothel.”

“Sir, these reports are verified. Possibly one thousand to two thousand blue-painted warriors are near our breastworks.”

Finally Pettellus blinked and then barely moved his head to look up at the watch commander just as the first real drops of rain hit his face through the gathering mist.

“And with the northern lights having changed their colors the men are not taking to encampment well. They are speaking among themselves about omens and that the lights are a harbinger of disaster.”

Centurion Pettellus turned and looked northward and saw the meaning of the commander’s words. The northern lights should not be visible at this time in the evening. They were at least seven hours ahead of schedule and the colors were far more radiant. The blues swirled around the green and then those dove into a yellowish mix of reds and orange. The centurion slowly rose to his feet. The red cloak slid from his shoulders as he spied the strange activity of the lights. The rain and wind picked up in strength.

“Bring the men to 100 percent alert. Get my archers to the center of the stockade to await orders. I want my cavalry mounted and ready to move.” He turned to his aide as the watch commander moved off to alert the detached men of the Ninth Legion for action. “This is perfect weather for attack. They can hit us and move into the storm and vanish as usual”—he smiled for what seemed like the first time since the pursuit had started many months before—“but not this time.”

The aide watched the centurion place his cloak back on and waited for him to tie it off. The helmet was replaced with renewed vigor and the commander adjusted the Gladius in its sheath. The steel of the blade was still shiny and a virgin to enemy blood.

“Sir, this night’s lights in the north, this … this could be a bad portent of things to come.”

Centurion Pettellus turned abruptly to face the aide who had remained quiet during his exchange with the watch commander. The man was Greek and the Roman knew him to be knowledgeable about the mysticism of the great lights in the north. The man had been a teacher of philosophy many years before his days of servitude began.

“Night arrows!”

Before Pettellus could admonish his aide about his fears, the shout of warning stopped him cold. He immediately took hold of the Greek and threw him to the ground near the fire just as the black arrows started thudding into the ground and tents around them. One of the missiles glanced off of the helmet of the centurion as his aide shouted in terror at the sudden assault from the swirling night sky. Arrows as black as the night struck the fire, tent, and the surrounding equipment of the Ninth Legion. The sound of men shouting and cursing was heard as even more of the black-dyed arrows slammed into the earth around them.

The wind picked up just as the last of the missiles fell. The blow had gone from only a breeze to gale force in less than five minutes. The northern lights were burning through the darkness as they had never done before. At that time every man of the Ninth Legion felt the penetration and assault on their inner ear. It was as if a sharp spike had been driven into their eyes. The feeling soon passed as men fought to get their bearings in the rising storm.

“The attack has stopped!” Pettellus shouted as he stood. He shook his head to clear it and casually pulled an arrow from the lining of his red cloak, then angrily tossed the black stick into the fire. The rain was now falling as if pebbles were being thrown at them from the heights and the wind was threatening the footing of every man inside the stockade.

His commanders were starting to report on casualties and to receive orders when the lights illuminated the entire breadth of the night sky, and that was when the centurion saw what evil had suddenly come upon them. Rock-sized hail started to fall. Some of the ice stones were larger than a man’s closed fist, while others were larger than a two- or three-pound stone. The hail destroyed tents and knocked running men from their feet.

“The savages have broken off and are retreating!” one of his men said just as a ball of chain lightning rent the skies above them. Blue and green bolts shot through the swirling raindrops and snaked across the black sky enough to illuminate the circling motion of the storm.

“Tell the men to hold position at the stockade, as I fear this attack may not be over!” Pettellus shouted as his men quickly moved away watching the skies as they did. “This storm may keep them out … then again it may not.”

As he watched the terror of his men start to show on their faces, Pettellus looked at the sky as lightning again ripped across its blackness. The swirling clouds above the stockade made his blood turn cold. The hurricane-like storm was now directly atop the Roman army. Men were thrown to the wet ground as more of the evil green and blue lightning broke the skies apart with such violence the men of the mighty Ninth Legion cowered in terror. As Pettellus’s eyes widened, yellow, green, and orange bolts shot out of the center of the swirling mass above. The air rose underneath the helmet of the centurion. The crack of heat and electricity filled the air and the earth shook beneath their prone bodies.

“The savages are attacking!”

Centurion Pettellus turned as his helmet was ripped away by the wind and rain. The enemy had seen the chance and were now breaching the stockade under the cover of the storm. The moat was now gone, pushed and pulled free of the trench by the storm, and that gave the Caledonians clear access to the wooden barrier.

“Defense!” The order was shouted as men rose to meet the attackers as the barbarians streamed over the stockade in a man-made rush of a waterfall.

The sky exploded.

A green bubble formed within the eye of the storm directly over the battle. The swirling clouds seemed to implode and then expand. At that moment the sky became as bright as the sun and forced every man, both barbarian and legionnaire, to freeze in fear.

The centurion turned to shout orders as the savages broke into the center of his still-forming men. Before he could utter a sound the sky exploded and the buzzing was heard all around them, piercing and deep. The green dome exited the swirling hurricane above and slammed into the ground. Pettellus felt his skin warm and then he felt his stomach heave as though trying to rid itself of the afternoon meal he had eaten earlier. His tongue was like a cotton swab and his vision became nonexistent. Then all was gone. Sensation along with thought vanished as the light washed over him and his men.

The storm stopped as if it had never been. The rain ceased and the clouds circled into nothingness and the mist seemed to climb into the sky and then quickly dissipate. The northern lights were gone and the night was still.

The earth where the stockade had stood was barren. Gone were grass, fire pits, and moat. The wood of the earthworks vanished as though it had never been. Tents, weapons, even the barbarian savages had vanished. Only the strange buzzing continued as the last of the clouds evaporated, and even that eventually faded and then disappeared.

The Ninth Legion and the savages attacking them north of Hadrian’s Wall that summer of 117
AD
, vanished without a trace, then swelled into one of the great mysteries of the world.

After that night the Ninth Legion was woven into the fabric of legend.

NANKING, CHINA

DECEMBER 1937

Colonel Li Fu Sien of the Nationalist Chinese army anchored the ends of his defensive lines with massed artillery. As he observed the Japanese across the bridge on the far side of the Yangtze River where the enemy waited to cross, the colonel knew his men were ready for what was to come. He removed the binoculars from his eyes and looked down at the commander of his artillery. The hated enemy would not cross the Yangtze River without the loss of many men.

His soldiers were indeed ready. They were near mutinous in their desire to get at the men who had committed the worst atrocity in human history not three days before. The Rape of Nanking would haunt the Japanese people for the rest of human existence. This would be the historical price for the murder of over three hundred thousand civilians inside the city. Men, women, and children had been bayoneted, shot, raped, and beheaded. Yes, his men were ready to exact vengeance on the Japanese soldiers across the river.

The colonel heard the rumble of thunder and as he looked toward the sky he could see the swirling mass of clouds start to collect over the river. The boom of thunder felt as if the guns of the heavens had opened up upon the world. He watched as colors started swirling not only in the winds, but they also illuminated the funnel cloud that was starting to form. He raised his field glasses and aimed them at the Japanese troops across the river. He could see they too were growing concerned over the strange turn in the weather. Suddenly the colonel let the binoculars slip from his grasp as the pain struck first his ears, and then his eyes. He grasped the sides of head in pain, as did the men around him.

Around the two armies the wind started a slow circle as the bright green, yellow, and blue lights intensified, making the Chinese colonel look up. His eyes widened when he saw the swirling, circling funnel cloud moving over the land like a zigzagging snake or a mythical dragon of old. Then he saw the static electricity run over his exposed skin and under his hat. Men were starting to panic as the moving tornado—one that resembled a hurricane more than its landlocked cousin—closed over his men and then the river and finally the Japanese soldiers on the far shore.

The colonel fell to his knees as the gale-force wind struck him and his massed troops. Before he knew what was happening, he, his men, most of the Yangtze River, and finally the Japanese vanished. Each man in both armies felt the penetration of the electrical field as it passed over, around, and then finally through their bodies. Soon each human being just phased out of existence. Equipment, rations, and men vanished in a blink of an eye.

The strange tornado seemed to leap, settle, and then turned itself inside out and then shot back into the skies. In the eye of the tornado the blackness of space could be seen in the far distance. But there was now no soldier, enemy or Chinese, within twenty miles that would ever report it.

The two armies and every piece of equipment weighing less than a thousand pounds had vanished from the face of the earth.

TEHRAN, IRAN

DECEMBER 1978

The streets were now quiet. The rampage of students had settled to an uneasy array of midnight shouts praising God and its oft-mentioned counterpart, “Death to the great Satan.”

The slow-moving Mercedes turned and made its way through a small storm of flying paper and other detritus that had accumulated since the revolution against the shah began. As the car’s occupants watched through tinted windows a large white van appeared at a street corner and then flashed its headlights. The Mercedes followed suit and gave their return signal. Two large Toyota Land Cruisers sped ahead of the white van as it soon pulled out of the darkened street. The black Mercedes quickly fell in line to the rear of the small column. They were soon joined by five supporting Toyota all-terrain vehicles brimming with armed men.

The two vehicles with their military escort slowly slipped out of town just after 1:45
A.M.
and with their escort quickly wound their way out of the still-smoldering city of Tehran. They slid past the darkened United States embassy where student militants were holding fifty-seven American hostages. The small man riding in the backseat of the Mercedes shook his head. Even though he was younger than most of the occupying students holding the embassy, he knew tweaking the nose of America at this critical juncture of the revolution was dangerous to say the least. Although he had met only three or four Americans in his time at school he knew them to be the most impulsive people on earth—and in his mind that made them dangerous. He watched the students as they lounged around the thick iron gates of the U.S. embassy. The university student took a deep breath and rubbed the skin of his beardless face.