“That is a specially modified version of the U.S. Air Force’s X-30 aircraft, the fastest plane on earth,” Op Nine said. “It skims along the very edge of the atmosphere at four thousand miles per hour.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“Which means we should reach our insertion point in under an hour.”
“Terrific. What’s our insertion point?”
I expected him to name some exotic locale, a place Mike Arnold visited on one of his missions for the Company, like Istanbul or Sri Lanka.
Instead, Op Nine said, “Chicago.”
I didn’t see a pilot or any crew onboard the X-30. We stepped into the main cabin, Op Nine closed and locked the door, and we took our seats. Everything looked brand-new, down to the plush carpeting and the first-class-sized leather seats. We buckled up and Op Nine pressed a button on his armrest. The plane immediately began to accelerate, and I felt my big body being flattened against the backrest. Then I found myself lying at a forty-five-degree angle as we roared upward, bouncing some when we hit the low clouds, but only for a second or two, and then the sun burst through the window beside Op Nine as we lifted over the clouds and kept climbing.
I turned my head slightly to get a better look, but the turning took a long time, because we must have been going close to Mach 2 and that makes turning your head a matter of willpower as much as strength.
The scene outside was breathtaking: the sun above the rim of the horizon, illuminating the solid cloud cover beneath it, painting the ridges gold, the bright unmarred blue of the sky. I thought of those kids playing soccer on that barren snowfield. Don’t forget, Kropp, I told myself. It’s beautiful. Don’t ever forget that.
The plane climbed until I could see the horizon begin to curve away from us, until I could see the actual curvature of the earth, and the sky darkened from bright blue to smoky violet to glimmering black.
Op Nine leaned over and raised his voice to be heard over the roar of the engines. “We have reached the edge of the atmosphere, Kropp! Approaching Mach 6!”
Normally, Op Nine was about as joyful as an undertaker, but now he was grinning like a kid on a theme park ride. We leveled off and the noise settled some, which is more than I could say for my stomach.
“What is it, Kropp?” Op Nine asked. Maybe he noticed that my face was the color of the snow about a mile below us.
“I’m not sure this was such a great idea,” I said. “The last time I got on a plane I deboarded the hard way.”
He reached under his seat and pulled out that same oversized leather-bound book I saw on the flight into the Sahara.
“What is that, anyway?” I asked.
“The Ars Goetia . . . The Howling Art.”
“What kind of art howls?”
“The title refers to the method with which the conjurer controls the Fallen. Said to be written by King Solomon himself, The Ars Goetia contains descriptions of the seventy-two lords, their symbols and powers, and the incantations to bring them forth from the Holy Vessel and control them. The conjurer is instructed to ‘howl’ the incantations, hence the name.”
“So it’s kind of a manual for fighting demons?”
He winced. “No, it is a guide for using them to the master’s purpose. The Great Seal is useless unless the wearer speaks the incantations as written by Solomon, word for word, with no variation.”
“I get it. That’s why the demons ignored me even though I was wearing the ring. I didn’t know the spells.”
He grimaced again. “I prefer not to call them demons. It demeans their nature.”
“But isn’t that what they are?”
“We should pity more than fear them, Alfred. They were angels once.”
“Yeah, but didn’t you say they rebelled against God? They got what they deserved.”
“Perhaps.” He sighed. “Yet do we not all hope and pray that we ourselves escape what we truly deserve? None have fallen as far or as irrevocably as the outcasts of heaven. Did you not find them beautiful?”
“Well, yes and no. They sure didn’t look like I thought demons or, um, outcasts, would look. But they were . . . it was . . .” I searched for the right words. “Almost like looking too long at the sun.” But that really didn’t come close to describing them. They were beautiful, but their beauty was wrapped in terror and despair, kind of like that sick feeling in your gut when the prettiest girl in school finally notices you . . . but that really didn’t describe it either. A pretty girl doesn’t push you to the point of tearing your own eyes out.
“Their essence—the truth of what they are—has not changed since their creation, Alfred. How could it? No matter how far they have fallen, they are the first fruits of the divine imagination. They have gazed upon the very face of God, the face they will see no more for all eternity—and so I pity them.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Even as I envy them for having seen it.”
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