Majestic Dawn - Chapter Two

Majestic Dawn

Chapter Two

Invitation
Somewhere in England, December 18th, Modern day

The young man stirred in his bed, a fading dream of grilled hamburgers on a smoky summer barbecue drifted through his mind, as the saliva inducing smell of burning charcoal wafted in and out of his nostrils.
Charcoal...burning... It dawned on him slowly.
Fire!
He leapt up from the crumpled bed, grit-filled eyes still half closed and stinging. Disoriented, he scrambled around for his Chino’s in the low light, found them, and jumped into them as he hopped towards the bedroom door, trying desperately to keep his balance.
Behind him, a small orange circle glowed brightly in the corner, by the window.
‘Good Morning Dr Sharpe.’ The voiced was clipped Whitehall English.
‘What the hell?’ Adam Sharpe halted in his tracks, trouser buttons undone, and spun around to see a haze of blue smoke billow out from where the orange glow had appeared.
‘Who the bloody hell are you, and what the hell are you doing in my room?’ Sharpe said, his heart thumping hard in his chest.
A gloved hand, silhouetted against the window where early gray dawn light began to seep into the room, stretched across the wooden bureau, and pulled a cord, illuminating a triangle of soft yellow light from a green lamp.
A silver haired man of age stared nonchalantly at Sharpe. Dressed in a blue pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt, and camel brown overcoat, he was sitting in an old brown leather chair in the corner of the room, one foot across his knee, drawing heavily on his cigar, his exhalations filling the room with blue smoke. By the look of him, he’d been there for some time.
‘My name is Withers.’
‘What the hell are you doing in my room?’ Sharpe repeated.
‘My boss would appreciate your help in a certain matter, Dr. Sharpe.’
‘Does your boss know you broke into my goddamn place?’ Sharpe tried to sound angry as he pulled his shirt on, but the man in the pinstriped suit seemed so calm and assured, and it was Sharpe who felt intimidated.
‘I apologize for my intrusion, but it couldn’t be helped. An urgent situation of the utmost importance has arisen. It is extremely sensitive in nature, and requires the highest confidentiality. We were rather hoping you could help us…’ A disarming smile played across his face as he stubbed out his cigar.
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t help you, but it's..’ Adam glanced at the digital clock by the bed. '.. 5 o'clock in the morning, and you are trespassing.'
‘As I mentioned, it couldn't be helped. I'm here to take you to London this morning.’ said Withers, ignoring Sharpe's dry tone.
‘London? You must be joking! I'm not going any-’
‘I don’t make jokes Mr. Sharpe,’ Withers cut in.
‘It’s Doctor Sharpe. I'm sorry, who did you say your boss was?’
'I didn't.'
'So who is he?
'I don't recall saying it was a he?'
'And I don't recall inviting you to my room, so cut the bullshit.'
‘The identity of my employer is not important right now, we-'
‘Wrong answer,' Sharpe interrupted,'Who’s your boss?’
Withers sighed with resignation, ‘The British Prime Minister.’
Sharpe washed his eyes with a single slow blink, as if processing what he’d just heard, searching for a reason why the British Government wanted him…again.
‘You’ve got the wrong man.’ His voiced was tinged with hesitancy.
Withers steely eyes squinted as he stared directly at the young man.
‘This is not a missing persons case, Mr. Sharpe.’ he said coarsely. ‘You are Adam T. Sharpe PhD, aged 35, born in St. Mary's hospital, London, via cesarian section,'
Sharpes eyes widened. He only discovered that himself at his mother's funeral last year.
'Graduated out of Cambridge in 1986,' Withers continued. 'majoring in computer science, worked for various blue chips until 1994 when you were recruited by the previous government to work on the guidance system for the European Fighter Aircraft. Last known project, Echelon, the government’s communications interception system, last known whereabouts Lille, France, on an excursion organized by the British Government to retrieve a list of agents working for the Surette. You're six feet and one inch tall with brown eyes, and you have a birthmark on your left shoulder in the shape of a diamond, and you don't eat eggs. 'Do I need to go on..?' Withers enquired, as a slight smirk threatened in the corners of his mouth. Sharpe just cut him a cold stare.
'I think we have the right man, Mr. Sharpe.’ Suggested Withers.
‘It’s Doctor Sharpe. ‘You seem to know quite a bit about me. What else did they teach you at intruder school?’ Sharpe's sarcasm was tinged with a prickly edge that barely concealed his annoyance at this suave, intimidating, but well informed trespasser.
Withers didn't laugh. ‘We don’t have a great deal of time, sir.’ His face was stern.
'So what does the Government want with me?’ Sharpe enquired.
‘You are highly regarded as the best in your field. We have a situation that we think you can help us with, and we need you on board now.
Withers leaned forward from his squeaky perch and reached into his inside pocket as he spoke. Sharpe warily took a step back.
‘Nothing to fear, Sharpe,’ said Withers as he pulled out a flip wallet. ‘Its just my ID, so you are sure I am who I say I am. Can't be too careful these days can we?' He smiled warmly as he produced a photo-card which Sharpe recognised as an official I.D. of Her Majesty's Government, he had one just like it once, and the name, T.R. Withers, followed by an odd set of credentials, unfamiliar to Sharpe.
‘Now, I’m sure you’re familiar with an E24?’ Withers asked.
Sharpe didn't respond as Withers produced an envelope containing a copy of the Official Secrets Act and handed it to him.
‘If you’ll just read through and sign, we’ll be on our way.’
Sharpe glared at Withers, then shifted his gaze to the document, searching for the clues that lied hidden between the text of each individually drafted OSA notice. Unusual wording caused butterflies to rise from the pit of his stomach. Withers looked on silently and patiently.
‘Just sign at the bottom and then we’ll get going.’ He repeated.
‘Actually, I’d rather not.’ Said Sharpe, abruptly. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m real busy with my vacation, so thank you and goodbye Mr. Withers’. Sharpe tossed the document on the bureau and made his way to the bedroom door, inviting Withers to leave. Somehow though, he knew his actions were no more than bravado.
Withers sighed, but remained seated, leaning back into the cracked leather chair. He allowed his jacket to fall open, and Sharpe noticed the butt of a Walther PPK/S pistol, in it's holster, unclipped.
‘I can see that you’re having difficulty understanding me Sharpe, so I’ll spell it out for you.’ His tone had changed to a more sinister one.
‘You’ll recall your problem with the French authorities after you were caught in Lille. You were going to be there for quite some time, considering what they found in your possesion. Was it not obvious to you that your release was “assisted”?’ Sharpe's steady gaze dropped as he recalled his problem in France. He had been caught almost red-handed with the French Secret Service, the Surette’s, covert agent list. He had managed to discard the disk, but was traced to the hotel from which he was downloading the material. Circumstantial evidence was all they had, but it was plenty, enough for him to spend a few years rotting in a French jail. So it was a complete surprise when the British Ambassador to France had secured his release after ninenty days of nothing.
Withers continued. ‘This is a matter of national security where the Prime Minister, who is not know for his geniality, has seen fit to send me to get you, and frankly, Dr. Sharpe, he doesn't give a damn about your vacation.’
Sharpe stared at the man in the blue suit, incredulous at his completely calm demeanor. Steel blue, unblinking eyes stared confidently back from a tanned face. The kind of confidence you have with a gun at your side. A few silent seconds, that seemed like minutes, went by as Sharpe and Withers stood facing each other. Sharpe spoke.
If I’m to come with you, you’ll have to tell me what’s going on.’
Withers was cautious, but sensed that the fish was on the hook. 'It's not safe to talk here, I'll tell you on the way to London.'
'No. If you want me on this, you're gonna have to tell me now.' replied Sharpe calmly.
Withers stared at Sharpe for a moment, assessing his quarry.
'Your loss,' quipped Sharpe at the lack of reply, 'thanks for stopping by.' Sharpe headed for the bedroom door again.
‘Lets just say someone important is coming to see us in a few days.’ Said Withers quickly, as he rose from the squeaky leather chair, feeling slightly cornered. ‘I’ll brief you on the way to London.’ Withers gestured towards the door, inviting Sharpe to lead the way.
‘Someone like who?’ Sharpe stood firm.
‘Someone very important.'
'The US President?’
'No, not the President.'
'More important than the President of the United States?
'Yes.'
‘Like who, the Pope? What the hell does that have to do with me? I'm not a catholic. Heck, I'm not even religous.’
‘Not the Pope.’
‘Who then?’
Withers hesitated.
‘Who?’ Sharpe persisted.
Withers sighed a long sigh. ‘Seventy two hours ago we received an anomalous communication via the Echelon system. Twenty four hours later, the signal was repeated. It was cross referenced and corroborated by four operatives a few minutes later, which triggered a protocol previously known as The Xeno Option. 'Now, anyone familiar with this protocol, knows who's coming.' Withers paused for a reaction from Sharpe, who stared back expressionless, palms raised, and shrugged his shoulders. 'The visitor,' Withers continued, 'is Jesus Christ.'
'Jes-!'
Sharpe's exclamation teetered on the edge of amazement. He was about to burst out laughing until he caught site of Withers staring back, unblinking, deadly serious, nodding slowly as if confirming Sharpes realization that what he had just heard was true. Sharpe shook his head slowly, struggling to keep a grip, eyes widening with each passing moment, his world seemed to slow as comprehension dragged at the heels of time. Withers noticed a dove settling upon the balcony railing through the net curtains, then returned his attention to Adam, who was finally regaining lucidity.
Withers broke the silence. ‘The signal was detected approximately seventy two hours ago. The frequency on which the signal is received changes at six hour intervals, as predicted by Xeno. It's a countdown, Doctor Sharpe. We are on Operation Majestic Dawn. The procedure all governments must follow if they-’
‘gain concrete knowledge of Christ’s imminent return.’ Sharpe finished Withers sentence robotically, his mind now swimming in a violent sea of possible ramifications should the news be released to the world. Anarchy in eastern countries as faith gives way to proof; mass suicides; collapse of world markets. Chaos.
‘It’s the real thing, Dr. Sharpe. He is really coming.’ said Withers with an air of complete calm.
'But, how? How do you know?' Sharpe was barely able to speak.
'You know how, Doctor Sharpe. You wrote the document.'
'I did? You mean my thesis? But that was just-'
'-About as accurate as you could get.' Said Withers cutting in. 'Now we should hurry, the others are waiting for us in London.'

"Majestic Dawn - Chapter One"