The Secret of Excalibur Page 6
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.
“Relax, kid, I'm fine. Alpha Team did all the difficult work.” I hold out my hand to the Major, and we shake, then he steps back and salutes. Dobie finally arrives.
Trying to talk with heaving lungs, Dobie stammers breathlessly, “Merlin, er, Arthur, damn fine show.” He's in pretty bad shape, huffing and puffing away. Panting and grinning like that makes him resemble a damn alligator.
“Commander, the men of Alpha Team did a fine job. Good men all, sir. I'm proud to have worked with them,” I say.
Dobie grabs my
hand, giving a firm shake, then just as quickly he jerks his hand away. His mouth and eyes fly wide open, his face going deathly pale. I suddenly remember how susceptible he is to my mental probe, and that I'm still 'hot', and maybe he can feel all that hate I felt from Reshan. I hold out my hand, and he flinches.
“Do I have to take your hand, Commander?” I hiss under my breath. He gingerly clasps my hand and we shake, then I pass his hand to the Major. “These men should get the credit, Commander. See that they do, sir.” I take Ruth's hand and head away, saying to the Major, “It's all yours.” He's saluting me again, spotlighted by the blaze of the minicam lights and strobe effects from flashbulbs.
There's still a line of news people walking single-file from the terminal building, where guards are stopping and checking everyone. We're now by the side of the building, heading for the shadows near the chain-link gate. Several reporters see us, hurrying our way.
When we hit the shadows, Ruth says, “Ready, eyes closed.” BLIP! back to the library.
“Okay, kid, you're home,” I say, releasing her hand and slumping in a chair in front of the desk.
Ruth stands a few seconds with eyes closed, and I'm about to scan her, to make sure she's okay, when she says, “I still never felt any sensations, except maybe a coolness, then warmth when I knew we arrived.” She lays her hand on my arm. “Are you sure you're okay? Would you like some brandy?” she asks with worry lines creasing her forehead. My whole one-thirty-second inch of skin tingles where she gently strokes my arm.
“Thought you'd never ask,” I answer wearily as she goes for the booze. She comes back with bottles, my brandy, and her cognac. Some brandy drinkers say they never taste the difference between the two, but I always can.
Settling on the arm of the overstuffed chair I'm reclining in, Ruth muses, “Those poor reporters. What will they think when they get to the gate, and no one's there?”
Staring into my glass of brandy, I ask, “Are you worried about them?”
A little chuckle. “No, but I'd love to see their faces when they realize there isn't anywhere to go, short of climbing the twelve foot-high fence, with barbed-wire on the top.” In a more serious tone, she asks, “The firefight was pretty bloody, wasn't it?”
I just go, “Umm, he who lives by the sword.”
She kneels in front of me, looking up at my face. “Is it bothering you much? I mean, you look all drawn out.”
With the tiniest grin I can manage, I reply, “I think that's the after effects of my worm medicine.” She lets out a little sigh, peering down at the carpet between her knees. I watch her a few seconds. “Oh, hell, I can't be angry when you're trying to be nice, kid.” Rubbing my forehead, I explain, “I'm always affected by those types of men. So much hate, and they aren't even sure why they hate, and it's more than that. I guess it's man's inhumanity to man, plus I can't stand the smell of gunpowder.”
She props her elbows on her knees, studying my face. “That's really something, Arthur. Here I meet a man who lives through nuclear explosions, and he hates the smell of gunpowder. Kind of like an elephant afraid of an ant.” I shrug as she rises, standing in front of me. “Tell me, do you sleep much?” she asks with a hint of a smile.
“Oh sometimes, but usually about four to six hours. Why?” I ask as she glances at her watch.
“It's almost 1:00 a.m. and I'm far too wound-up to sleep right now. Usually when I can't sleep, I go down to my tub room, turn on the hot tub bubbles, and soak for a while. It's very relaxing. Want to try it?” She gives me a coy smile.
Never having been in a hot tub before, I think, why not. “Do you have a suit I can wear?”
Grabbing bottles and glasses, Ruth tilts her head with a crooked grin. “Sometimes, as intelligent as you are, you're just plain stupid. We don't wear any, we go nude.” She's gliding away, looking over her shoulder. I swear she's taunting me. “You've seen me naked a few times; I guess you can stand to see me naked again. Besides, once you sit down the bubbles come up to your neck, so you won't see anything. C'mon, follow me.” She's halfway to the door, so I follow, just as a calf to the slaughter.
We walk through several halls, down a few flight of stairs, and end up in a small gymnasium, with three big tubs in the center and tables scattered around the room. A few tables are heaped with big, thick towels.
Pointing across the room at a closed door, Ruth says, “That's the sauna, but it's not on now. This is the only tub I use, so it's always ready and hot. This used to be my father's private place, where neither Mother nor I could enter when he had important businessmen or government officials with him. They held secret meetings down here.” With a sad sigh, she says, “It's my private place now.”
Placing the bottles on the edge of the tub, she turns a switch; the water starts steaming and swirling with millions of tiny bubbles. She switches off the main lights, then switches on a smaller one over by the sauna, with just enough light to see by after your eyes adjust. Turning her back to me, she hurriedly undresses, then climbs slowly and gingerly into the tub.
“Ooh. It's pretty warm in here, be careful,” she warns, giving me an eyeful of soft skin.
Realizing she's had no sexual experience with a man, I wonder whether she knows the effect she's having on me. Does she understand what she's implying by sitting naked in a hot tub with a man? Ruth's leaning back against the edge, and the bubbles do indeed go up to her neck. But I can still see her breasts, bobbing slightly in the swirling water.
The hot tub is set halfway into the floor, so the rim stands at crotch level. Once I'm undressed, I crouch down as my hormones are fighting for attention. She glances up at me, sensing my hesitation and gives me an inviting smile.
Ruth slides over to the bottles, sloshing water around in the tub. “While you adjust to the water, I'll pour us a drink. C'mon, get in.”
With her back to me, I step into the bubbling water. Even though I'm trying not to be, I'm fairly hard, and embarrassed because of it. Doesn't make any sense, but there it is. I slowly sink into the hot, steamy water. She's right. The water is a hundred degrees and the bubbles feel as if I'm getting a massage. Oooh, feels wonderful. My muscles begin relaxing, except the one between my legs.
Ruth slides over by me, handing me a snifter glass of brandy, then slides back to where she's sitting across from me. We drink in silence awhile, me trying not to ogle her beckoning breasts. As I take a sip of brandy, she catches me staring at her erect nipples, and I quickly look away.
I have no idea what she's thinking, and I promised her I wouldn't invade her privacy any longer with my mental probes. Is she still afraid of being touched by a man? Should I make the first move? Becoming frustrated and unsure of myself, I try to stem my rising libido by thinking some unpleasant thoughts, like Reshan's skunk breath. Nope, that's not working. All these warm, caressing bubbles aren't helping my condition either. I shift on my seat in discomfort and embarrassment.
With a soft, sexy smile and smoldering, jade eyes, Ruth begins to slowly, teasingly stroke my outer thigh with her foot.
The little minx, she's been toying with me the whole time. Finally able to relax, I release my pent-up anxiety with a loud sigh and settle more comfortably in the bubbling water. How had I managed to live without my mental probes before? It's the pits trying to second-guess people.
Still trying not to spook Ruth, I slowly stroke her outer thigh with my foot. Our eyes are locked on each other as we take several sips of our drinks. The sexual tension's mounting, and I'm finding it harder and harder to restrain myself. I'm going to have to make a move, soon.
As if reading my mind, Ruth sets down her glass, then slowly half-crawls to me, like a lioness, kneeling over me. With a seductive smile, she takes my glass, then gives me a long, passionate kiss. My hormones immediately stand at full attention, which she acknowledges by grinding her hips into me.
When she finally pulls away from her long, probing kiss, I tell her in a breathless, husky voice, “I'm not making you do this, Ruth.”
Her silky hand snakes down, searching for my rock hard member. Grasping it, she slowly impales herself on me, saying breathlessly, “I'm doing it, dummy, now shut up.”
And she surely does.
Chapter Seven
Several hours later I rouse enough to find Ruth still on top of me, her head and arms lying on my shoulders. I have my knees up, and she's cradled between them and my chest. Sleeping with bent knees should've been uncomfortable, but it isn't, must be from the water. Next thing I know, the sun's shining through the skylight. I reach for my watch, 7:22 a.m. We've slept like this for almost five hours.
Ruth makes a small movement, yawning in my ear. “Uh, morning, Arthur.”
“I feel like a prune, kid,” I complain as she leans back against my knees, sending ripples through the bubbling water.
Reaching down between us, Ruth says with a coy smile and a green twinkle, “Oh no, you don't.”
We begin again, sloshing more water over the sides. Fifteen minutes later, with her head on my shoulder panting in my ear, me panting in hers, I become soft enough to slide out of her tight, warm body.
She leans back, kissing me lightly, asking, “Hungry?”
Sitting in a kneeling position, just the tips of her nipples are in the water, with the tiny bubbles playing hide-and-seek with them. I could've sat there mesmerized for hours, but she gives me a gentle nudge, asking again, “Are you hungry?”
With a satisfied grin, I lean my head back against the padded rim. “I don't know, I feel too good to worry about food right now.” I gently stroke one of her tempting nipples. She jumps as if I touched a nerve.
“Well, I am.” She kisses me, then shoves my head under water and steps out of the tub. “Stay here, I'll send coffee down.” Just that fast, she wraps in a towel, grabs her clothes, and leaves. I don't know about anyone else, but if I'd slept kneeling all night, I wouldn't be able to walk for several minutes, much less skip out like that.