The Origin of F.O.R.C.E.

The chamber of Your Grace was located on the main floor of the building housing The Exalted Fellowship of the Holy Epiphany in Washington. D.C. Consisting of a suite with living room, dining room, bath and bedroom, the chamber was just a short walk down a hallway from the prayer room where Richard Adams had first met the church elders. The gluttonous blob had just finished a delicious breakfast repast consisting of three pounds of eggs, bacon, ham and honey drenched biscuits covered with oily, gray-colored gravy. Running his chubby finger around the edge of the biscuit plate, he noisily sucked and licked away the last traces of the gray-colored gravy.

A soft knock at the chamber door annoyed Your Grace, and he decided to ignore the sound as he considered the massive burp building within his belly. The person seeking entrance was persistent, and the knocking continued until it was apparent the would-be intruder was not getting the hint to leave him alone.

“Enter,” he finally uttered, wiping the drool dripping from the corner of his mouth with the cloth he always kept nearby.

A yellow-robed attendant opened the entry door and bowed low from the waist, holding the bow as he waited for permission to step over the threshold into the sacred chamber.

Because the attendant had dared interrupt his morning devotions, Your Grace paused a full thirty seconds before he spoke the benediction releasing the man from his obsequious bow and allowing him to enter the suite. The man knelt down and kissed the greasy top of the hand of his church leader.

“Your Grace,” he muttered, “I have received a telephone call from Brother Richard Adams. He says word has been passed to him confirming the success of the mission to smite the blasphemers. He demands an audience with you. He is very insistent and even now awaits your response.”

The only immediate acknowledgment from Your Grace was a stupendous burp that filled the air around his mouth with a smell like vomit. Cringing at the sound and foul odor, the yellow-robed servant knelt even lower.

Your Grace didn’t like what he was hearing. Deacon Bandulog and his disciples hadn’t returned from their mission or even reported their status. Unusual to say the least. You didn’t rise to the top position in the church without some modicum of intelligence. Something was amiss. He couldn’t permit an outsider with close ties to the US defense department to threaten his safety.

Gazing imperiously at the groveling attendant, he intoned, “Inform Brother Adams I shall meet him at the Sacred Fountain of Bartholdi tomorrow at 10 pm where he will be anointed as an Elder of the church and presented with his just reward.”

Watching with impatience as the yellow-robed man backed out and closed the door, Your Grace mopped at the sweat oozing down his face and belched again. Shifting forward with some difficulty, he moved ponderously across the room to a telephone and dialed 6.

After just one ring, a muffled voice on the other end said, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Arrange a final send off for Brother Richard Adams at the Sacred Fountain of Bartholdi tomorrow at 10 pm.”

“It shall be done.”

Hanging up the receiver, an evil grin curled his lips as he lumbered back to his chair.

***

The Bartholdi Fountain rose to a height of 30 feet from the middle of a wide pool in the Washington Botanical Gardens. A 15-ton mass of sculptured cast iron with a thin coat of bronze, the fountain featured three women standing over a pedestal with, of all things, three sculpted reptiles spouting water into the air. Large trees, manicured bushes and row after row of beautiful roses lined walkways leading through the gardens to the fountain in the center of a tiled plaza.

Hidden behind a row of low hedges, Major Jim Blunt, Whatsit and a squad of soldiers waited in silence for the 10 pm arrival of Corporal Richard Adams. Whatsit was wearing his sombrero and trench coat outfit to hide his appearance from the squad of soldiers Jim had commandeered for the night operation. The noise of splashing water had necessitated bringing sound equipment to amplify the conversations of people standing near the fountain. A set of headphones draped across the back of Blunt’s neck were ready to cover his ears so he could hear what was said.

The mental powers of Whatsit were of prime importance to the mission. Blunt knew the lizard had taken strict control over the mind of the attacking thug at the Carlisle pool, but the end result of the control had been the death of the killer. Jim had worked out explicit instructions for Whatsit this time. No killing of Adams. Blunt had to know if the plans for saving Earth had been compromised. Information was vital and impossible to extract from a dead man.

The surveillance of Adams had resulted in concrete Intel. The story General Collier had told about the deaths of Jim and Whatsit had, as hoped, pushed the traitor into contacting the church. Jim figured the paranoid leader of the church would set a trap designed to eliminate the only tie between it and the attack in Carlisle. Why else would the meeting with Adams have been arranged in such a secluded spot late at night instead of the safer confines of the church?

At precisely 10 pm, Adams walked into the tiled plaza surrounding the Bartholdi Fountain. Looking around with impatience, he walked to the base of the fountain and stood near a pedestal printed with historical facts about its origin. Within a couple of minutes, two figures dressed in hooded, reddish-purple robes with billowing sleeves entered the plaza and strolled toward Adams.

Adams watched the two figures walk toward him, and excitement made his heart pound. The fountain lights made his sallow skin appear a sickly light-yellow and his weak chin bobbed nervously as it seemed to take forever for the figures to stand before him.

“Brother Richard Adams,” a low voice said.

It was impossible to tell which of the robed figures had spoken. The hoods hid their faces. Adams strained his eyes as hard as he could to make out any detail of the shadowed faces, but the darkness was complete.

Nodding, Adams replied, “My ceremony is to be conducted by his Eminence, Your Grace. Where may I ask is he?”

A rougher voice spoke from the depths of one of the hoods, “His Eminence regrets he was summoned to minister to a dying colleague and deliver last rites. We, his humble servants, have been sent in his stead.”

Listening to the conversation through the headphones, Jim could tell the meeting was going to deteriorate quickly. Adams’ tender ego had been poked with a stick and was about to explode. Looking at his squad of soldiers, he gave the sign to be ready for action. Several soldiers with bolt action rifles brought the weapons to their shoulders and aimed at predetermined targets.

Adams was angry at the disrespect. In a raised voice, he shouted, “How dare my loyalty to the church and my elevation to Elder be sullied by lowly acolytes? I demand my just rewards be endowed upon me by no less than his Eminence, personally.”

Within one of the dark hoods, an unconcerned voice answered, “Very well. You’ve earned this.”

Both figures pulled silenced pistols from the bulky sleeves of the robes and pointed them at Adams’ chest. Adams was stunned. He froze in place like a deer startled by headlights.

Just as the pistols leveled at Adams, bullet holes appeared in the sides of the hoods and blood mixed with bone blasted out the opposite sides. The delayed explosive sound of gunfire came next. Both figures fell dead, the pistols clutched in their hands. Pools of blood began to form on the concrete tiles under the dark hoods. Adams was still shocked by the treachery of his attempted murder. He stood rooted to the plaza, unable to move. He heard some shouts, but the numbing shock of the near-death experience blocked any attempt to run away.

Footsteps gritted on the plaza tiles as a group of men surrounded him. One of the men wore a sombrero and trench coat with a white scarf wrapped around his neck and knotted under his chin.

A silly thought tried to work its way through Adams’ brain, “Why is the guy wearing sunglasses in the dark?”

With that thought, his eyes rolled up and Adams fainted.

Smiling down on the coward, Jim ordered, “Wrap him up tight and transport to headquarters.” Pointing at the dead men, he continued, “Let’s clean up this mess. I don’t want any traces left. I want those bodies identified and thorough backgrounds run on them.”

“Yes, Sir.”

***

Deep shadows filled the alleys and stairwells along 13th Street near the building housing The Exalted Fellowship of the Holy Epiphany. Military roadblocks had stopped all pedestrian and vehicular traffic at midnight within a half mile radius. Three squads of armored soldiers commanded by Major Jim Blunt had worked their way into positions surrounding the church, ready to storm the building when Blunt gave the word.

Jim and Whatsit were hidden in the shadow of an overhanging awning across the street from the main entrance of the church. A communications expert, Corporal Henry Graham, stood nearby. He had a combat radio, with a long antenna, strapped to his back to relay Jim’s orders to the sergeants commanding each squad. Graham had survived several intense battles with the Germans in France and Belgium. As a radio man, he knew how to keep his mouth shut and his weapons ready for instant action. He’d seen and heard a lot of weird stuff in his career, but he had to admit the fellow in the sombrero was the oddest person he’d ever laid eyes on. The guy wore sunglasses in the dark and never spoke a word. Very strange.

“Corporal, advise all squads. I want simultaneous entry at all access points. Confirm all battering rams are at the ready.”

“Yes, Sir”

Within seconds, all squads responded they were good to go. At 0030 hours, Jim gave the okay and the front, rear and basement doors were rammed open. The assault on the church of The Exalted Fellowship of the Holy Epiphany began.

Jim and Whatsit ran across the street, up the stone stairs and through the open wooden doors. The wide entryway led back through double-wide wood doors with frosted glass panes into a sanctuary. The squad of soldiers entering through the front door worked their way to the rear of the room without encountering any resistance. They were creeping through the Chancel toward a door hidden behind a carved wooden altar when automatic gunfire raked the room.

The commandos took defensive positions behind overturned pews and the altar. Hidden panels opened in the door and in each adjoining wall. Machine gun bullets cut across the Chancel. Splinters of wood jumped into the air, and the room was filled with the deafening sound of automatic weapons. The return fire from the soldiers pocked the door and wall paneling, but as the bullet holes became more numerous, they revealed steel plates beneath a thin, wooden veneer. The steel formed an impenetrable barrier to the light-caliber slugs from the military weapons.

Jim had learned to never look a gift horse in the mouth, and he had come to this battle prepared. Reaching to his side, he unclipped the special flashlight LeBlanc had given him during the Carlisle ambush. Based on his experience using the weapon, Jim had asked McPherson to make a modification. Now when the flashlight lens was twisted to the right, the heat ray was focused into a narrower beam. Jim wrenched the lens to the right until it would move no farther.

With a deadly look, Jim aimed the flashlight at the machine gun poking from the panel to the left of the door and stabbed down on the red button. The results were spectacular.

A 2-foot wide hole appeared in the steel wall where the machine gun barrel had been belching its rain of lead. The gun, the sliding panel, a section of the wall and the gunman all disappeared. Satisfied with the results, Jim swept the heat beam across the door and aimed it at the other wall panel where a second machine gun was spraying bullets around the room. It too disappeared along with its gunman. The shooting from the door panel ceased abruptly when the second gunman was obliterated, and in the silence, Blunt and his squad heard running footsteps and a slamming door.

The sergeant in charge of the soldiers whispered, “My God, Major, what the hell is that thing?”

All heads turned toward Jim and curious eyes glinted with enthusiasm as they saw what appeared to be an ordinary flashlight.

Shrugging, Jim replied, “Just your ordinary Boy Scout camping essential.” With those words he pointed the heat beam at the steel door and watched as a hole large enough for a man to walk through vanished into a mist that floated away.

In a more serious tone, he looked at the amazed faces of his commando squad and ordered, “Let’s pick up the pace. Don’t touch the hot edges of the door as you go through it.”

***

Your Grace waddled back and forth across his chamber, each step causing an ominous creaking in the floor as his ponderous weight shifted. Gunfire had drawn closer with every minute since the initial onslaught. Very soon, the impious trespassers would be at his door.

“Very well,” he intoned. “No Godless heathens shall defile my church as long as I still breathe. The blasphemers shall feel my wrath as I smite them with the mighty sword of righteousness.”

Pulling the sash on his ceremonial reddish-purple robe with its gold lame collar more tightly around his bulging waist, Your Grace settled his bulk into the carved throne-like chair facing the entry door. Feeling around with his right hand, he located the black button hidden in the side of the right armrest. The button was connected to shaped explosive charges buried in the floor. The blast was directed in such a way that anyone standing more than 10 feet from him would be blown to bits, leaving him completely unscathed. An evil smile broke across his swollen lips as he waited for the accursed reprobates to gather before him.

***

Jim and Whatsit followed the squad of soldiers as they worked their way down the hallway behind the council room. Ahead was a solid oak door carved with ornate angels in various stages of flight; all gazing with uplifted heads toward the visage of a bearded man with a benevolent face sculpted near its top.

Inspecting the carved door, Jim thought, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Turning his attention to Whatsit, Jim looked into the alien’s dark eyes and concentrated. “Be careful when this door is opened. Whoever is inside will be scared and dangerous. Protect. Understand?”

Whatsit’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded. He wasn’t about to let anything happen to his Master.

Jim turned to the Sergeant and gave the signal to open the carved door. The soldier closest to it twisted the handle and surprisingly, it was unlocked and swung open. Inching into the room, the squad fanned out, taking defensive positions with their weapons trained on the humongous man lounging in an ornate, carved chair across the room. The room reeked with the putrid odor of stale cigarette smoke, greasy sweat and rancid food. The smell was disgusting.

Seeing no immediate threat, Jim stepped toward the robed man, keeping his .45 pistol trained on the guy’s chest. He could feel Whatsit standing off to his left.

In a clear and commanding tone, Jim said, “Identify yourself.”

With a thick, fluid-filled chuckle, the man raised a yellow-stained cloth to his lips to wipe away drool. In a ponderous voice, he replied, “I am the God fearing, anointed Leader of this sacred church. You and your vile minions have despoiled our holy tabernacle, and the wrath of the Almighty shall be visited upon your souls.”

Jim had heard enough from the pompous idiot. “Oh, cut the crap, you bloated, supercilious jerk. I won’t waste another moment listening to your drivel.”

An angry sneer did its best to curl Your Grace’s distended lips. He’d never been addressed with such arrogant impudence by anyone. It was time to demonstrate to this fool the full might of the righteous. Preparing for the loud explosion that would smite the blasphemers, Your Grace stabbed his finger on the black button.

Nothing happened. He stabbed the button again and still nothing happened. It dawned on him that his finger wasn’t pushing the button. He was trying to press, but his finger was paralyzed. He tried to raise his arm to look at his hand, but it wouldn’t move. Now frightened to the point of abject panic, Your Grace tried to rise from his carved chair but discovered he was unable to move at all. Sweeping his eyes back and forth, he struggled with all his might to move, but not a single muscle twitched. He watched in helpless fear as the man wearing a sombrero walked towards him.

Whatsit came close, stopping only when the horrid smell gagged him.

“This is the Human who ordered the death of my friend, LeBlanc,” he thought.

Deliberately, Whatsit slid his sombrero off his head, making sure the draw cord held the hat in a position where the squad of soldiers behind him couldn’t see his alien visage. There was nothing preventing the gross Human from seeing him, and the effect was dramatic.

As Whatsit’s beast-like, alien face was fully revealed, the robed man emitted a strangled cry, and his face began turning a dark purple. Memories flickered through his consciousness as his brain fought to make sense of the unearthly creature. The eyes of the beast were like deep, dark wells promising death to all who gazed upon them. He imagined its mouth filled with sharp teeth, its jaw wide enough to tear great chunks of flesh from its victims. Your Grace’s greatest fear was being eaten alive. Helpless. Observing his own death while fully conscious, feeling every moment of excruciating pain as gobs of his flesh were chewed off his body.

Gasping for breath, abject terror filling his black heart, the fat man wheezed, “Begone foul demon! Spawn of Hell! I command you!”

Peering into the brain of the gross Human sitting helpless before him, Whatsit perceived the man’s chaotic thoughts. Within moments he knew how to best respond to the gibberish.

In an uncharacteristic move, Whatsit raised his arms and shaped his hands like he was going to grasp the throat of the bloated, church leader. Narrowing his dark black eyes, Whatsit took one step toward the man and launched a series of words in a piercing mental blast he knew would haunt the man in the depths of his blighted soul. “Heed the words of First Peter, Chapter 5, Verse 8. Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”

Gasping for air, the fat man’s bloodshot eyes seemed to bulge from his face and a stream of yellow drool flowed from his mouth, pooling on his chest. His face drooped and his triple chin folded against his chest. He didn’t move again. An autopsy would later reveal he swallowed his tongue and died of a heart attack.

Whatsit could sense the death. Carefully repositioning his sombrero, he turned to look at Jim. Jim narrowed his eyes at the alien lizard and directed a thought. “Seeking someone to devour. You couldn’t possibly be that hungry.”

Cocking his head to one side and curling one corner of his mouth in a half grin, Whatsit shrugged his shoulders and ambled up to Blunt’s side. A rueful smile creased Jim’s face and putting his arm around Whatsit’s shoulders, they walked away from the death scene. The fanatics of The Exalted Fellowship of the Holy Epiphany were no longer a threat.