“The descent to Hades is the same from every place.”
~ Anaxagoras ~
Greek philosopher, 500 – 428 BC

Threat Level

Rizben Mace stood in the center of the pentagram carved in the stone floor, its five points striking out like the blades of an ancient weapon. Six black-robed children knelt before him, their faces hidden beneath hoods.

Clothed in a ruby-red robe, Mace held a golden cup in one hand and a jewel-encrusted dagger in the other. He said, “I call upon Samael, the Guardian of the Gate.”

In unison, the children intoned, “Samael.”

Responding to the incantation, a finger of high vapor clouds drifted across the moon that shone down like a pale spotlight.

Candles flickered in the night air, their flames protected by high walls as they cast an orange glow upon the ancient rite. Dark figures, torches in hand and cloaked in black, ringed the courtyard.

“I call upon Azazel, the Guardian of the Flame,” Mace said, “the Spark in the Eye of the Great Darkness.”

Again, the small voices spoke, “Azazel.”

At the word, the torches brightened.

“I call upon the Light of the Air, the Son of the Dawn.”

“Son of the Dawn,” the children repeated.

A hot breath of wind swooped down and furled the robes about the forms of the shadowy figures.

Mace held the dagger and the golden cup in outstretched hands. The flames reflected off the polished metal making it appear as if fire burned from within. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped. The wine warmed him. He had waited with anticipation for the ceremony—the initiation—the official presentation of these young warriors to Lucifer, the Son of the Dawn. They were the offspring of the Fallen Angels, the latest Nephilim soldiers in the ranks of the Ruby Army amassing in preparation for the Final Conflict. A wave of pride rippled through his veins as he held up the cup for all to see.

“In the name of your mighty sword and the flowing life blood that gives you the power to conquer, enter into the minds, hearts, and souls of these young warriors, and fill them with your terrible and crushing strength.”

Mace raised his arms high and the children stood, forming a single line. Each in turn kissed the blade of the dagger and took a sip from the chalice. When all had done so, they returned to their places and pulled back their hoods revealing their young faces.

Mace opened his arms in a sweeping gesture. “Oh great Son of the Dawn, behold, the newest soldiers of your vanquishing Ruby Army.”

* * *

Mace walked out of the building and down the three levels of narrow steps onto the sidewalk. It was always such a jarring transition, he thought, going from the medieval courtyard hidden deep in the heart of the building out into the harsh glare of the Washington, DC streetlights. And from his ceremonial robe back into a suit.

He reached in his pocket and took his cell phone off vibrate. The text message earlier during the ceremony had forced him to rush through the ancient ritual. He wouldn’t want to have to explain to anyone what kept him.

Standing on the sidewalk, he glanced to his right at the Sphinx-like granite lion guarding the entrance. It had a woman’s head with a cobra entwining her neck. Its matching sister stood guard to his left. His limousine waited at curbside, an FBI agent holding the door open. A black Suburban with a forest of rooftop antennae sat poised like a timber wolf in front of the limo. Two police cruisers, one at the front of the small caravan, the other at the rear, were at the ready, their blue and red strobes casting an hypnotic glow on the tall bronze temple entrance behind him.

Mace slipped into the back of the limo, and the heavy, armored door shut with a bank-vault thud. Immediately, the caravan pulled away—sirens screaming, engines racing. The acceleration pushed him into the deep leather seat as he glanced at his watch. A few minutes past 11:00 P.M.

“What do we have?” Mace asked his advisor who sat opposite him.

“About an hour ago, we received word of a significant increase in cyber intrusions on a global scale. The Internet is down in parts of Asia and Africa, and it’s spreading across Europe. Three-quarters of our worldwide monitoring stations are experiencing simultaneous attacks, and over four-hundred-thousand servers have been infected and shut down.”

“Is it just the Internet?”

“So far.”

“What are the source addresses?” Mace asked.

“Mostly from China——a few in Malaysia.”

“Random targets or a focused assault?”

“It looks random. But it’s huge.”

“Has anyone notified POTUS?” Mace asked.

“Not yet.”

“Make the call.” Mace rubbed his face. He could still smell the smoke from the torches and taste the faint sweetness of the wine on his lips. “I’m going to recommend raising the threat level to orange for specific infrastructure. No reason to get the general public in an uproar.”

“I agree, sir.” The advisor picked up one of several phones from the communications console and pushed a speed-dial number labeled POTUS. In a moment he said, “The Secretary of Homeland Security is calling for the President.”
 

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Copyright © 2005-2010 Lynn Sholes & Joe Moore and Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide, Ltd.