Knights of Aurora

"The Knights of Aurora" is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by John Ellison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.

WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.

The Knights of Aurora

Chapter 4

The Hospital of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Arnprior, Ontario, Present Day.

Jergen snuggled closer to Jeremie Cher and sighed. "Do you remember that night in Toronto, the night we were all put to bed?"

"Of course I remember," replied Jeremie. He looked down and said warningly, "I thought we had to get ready for the Ceremony."

"We do," said Jergen. "It is just that I am far too happy admiring the most beautiful man I have ever known." He gently ruffled Jérémie's pubic hairs. "And I still think you should have entered that contest!"

Staring, Jérémie asked, "You remember?"

"Of course," replied Jergen. He impulsively fondled Little Jeremie, who was snuggled against Jérémie's leg, fast asleep. "I remember the first time with you. I remember everything you told me." He glanced up and looked into Jeremie Cher's deep brown eyes. "I remember how you told me about Phantom's dream."

"Phantom's dream," whispered Jeremie. "I remember him telling us about it. I remember it all."

"That was the true beginning," said Jergen.

The Hospital of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Kensington, Toronto, 1976

Jérémie Cher looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and smiled. It was good to be in a washplace that didn't have forty other guys jockeying for a position under the showerheads, good to be able to luxuriate under the hot spray of water and not have some officious Chief come roaring in and yell at everybody for wasting water. He reached out and took one of the towels that were neatly folded on the shelf beside the toilet. Gosh, he thought idly as he finished drying his slim, and very trim body, this is soft! Which was a change from his usual towel, which he had to launder himself and he always forgot the softener!

After wrapping the towel around his waist, Jérémie ran his hand across his chin, thinking that he should shave. He had a definite shadow, but then he'd been shaving for two years now. He looked around the small, brightly lit and even brighter tiled bathroom and swore under his breath. His shaving kit...he'd left the brown leather bag containing his razor and shaving cream, underarm deodorant and assorted unguents and aftershave in the bedroom. With a low muttering swear word, Jérémie returned to the bedroom. He saw that Jergen, who had showered earlier, was comfortably settled on one of the twin beds, idly scanning a book. Jérémie smiled and reached out for his shaving kit, which sat on the long, dresser that dominated one side of the room. He held up the kit for Jergen to see and then returned to the bathroom.

Inside the shower Jérémie scrubbed and soaped his body, luxuriating in the steamy water. He shampooed his hair and used some of the foamy suds under his arms, and then on his dense, black, thatch of pubic hair. He rinsed and reached for the face cloth that he had left hanging on the taps. As he always did when he showered, he rolled back the thick foreskin that covered the light purple glans of his penis.

At the first touch of the washcloth Jérémie sucked in his breath. Damn, he was horny! The exposed head of his penis was extremely sensitive, the more so as he had not masturbated, which he usually did at least twice a gay. As he gently cleaned under the crisp ridge of his penis, Jérémie was tempted. He could feel his thick penis start to chubb, and he slowly began to rub the warm, soft skin. Then he remembered where he was and who was lounging in the next room.

Muttering another swart oath Jérémie quickly turned off the water and left the shower stall. After towelling dry he pulled on a clean pair of tighty-whiteys, adjusted himself so that Little Jérémie was snug and comfortable within the confining cotton, and returned to the bedroom. He smiled tentatively as he passed Jergen and then settled on the other bed. He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.

Jérémie was curious. He had helped, in a small way, to rescue the young man who was lying in the next bed. It struck Jérémie that Jergen was a young man, and wondered why he had not attempted escape. He was hesitant to ask. After all, Jergen, and all the boys, had been through a horrible experience, an experience that Jérémie could only contemplate and wonder about.

Turning his head, Jérémie glanced quickly at the German boy. He did not seem battered at all. In fact, Jergen looked the picture of health. His cheeks and face were clear of schoolboy acne; his eyes were bright and clear. Jérémie was reminded of the day Matt Greene had first come to AURORA and the Twins had discovered his bruised back and bottom. They had been outraged, rightfully so, Jérémie thought. Matt's father had beaten him for consorting with a Jewish boy. It was obvious that Jergen had not been beaten at all.

For some reason Jérémie's eyes were drawn to the full mound at the front of Jergen's thin underpants. Jérémie, who was big, silently admired Jergen's trim body and the enticing outline of what was a very large penis and . . . He looked quickly away. He was not "that way", not at all! Had he not spent two months in a mess deck, with forty other cadets, everyone of whom had no qualms about parading about naked, overtly flaunting their attributes, and never once had an evil thought? Then, looking away, Jérémie thought, well, that was not exactly true. There had been the night when he and The Phantom had talked and Little Jérémie had quiet inexplicably stirred and he had admitted that he would not have said no to an invitation to walk in the moonlight with the tall, handsome, emerald-eyed young man.

"I do not bite," murmured Jergen, never taking his eyes from book.

"Uh, sorry?" asked Jérémie, flustered that he had been caught.

"You wish to look at me," responded Jergen emotionlessly. "This I understand."

Rising and resting on one elbow, Jérémie eyes flashed briefly. "What are you talking about?"

Carefully closing the book, Jergen returned Jérémie's look. "You are a fine, clean, moral young Canadian. You must know what I am?" Before Jérémie could reply, Jergen continued. "I am a whore. You have never met anyone such as I, and naturlich, you are curious." His tone was a statement, not a question.

Jérémie's eyes flared as he quickly rolled to sit on the side of his bed. "Don't call yourself that!" he snapped. "You were forced to do . . ." Jérémie hesitated. He really did not know what Jergen had done, but he had a good idea. "You couldn't say no!" Then he added ominously, "And don't ever let Phantom hear you call yourself that . . . word! You can't help what happened to you!"

Placing the book beside his leg, Jergen regarded Jérémie. "This . . . Phantom?" Jérémie nodded and Jergen continued, "He is the boy with the green eyes? He is your leader?"

Nodding, Jérémie replied quietly, "That and much more." He regarded Jergen and then continued, "He saw you, and the other boys, in a dream."

Jergen bit back a sarcastic reply. "I do not understand," he said, his voice low.

"Neither does he!" returned Jérémie with a snicker. "He . . . look, Jergen, Phantom is, well, he's The Phantom. It's very difficult to explain, really, but he had this dream, and he saw you, and me, in it." He gestured toward Jergen's bed. "May I?"

For a moment Jergen was unable to speak. Not once in his young life had anyone asked permission to come to his bed! He nodded, wondering if Jérémie would . . .

Jérémie seemed to know Jergen's thoughts. "Don't worry," he said as he settled himself beside the German youth. He looked seriously at Jergen. "I'm not trying to get into your pants!"

"I never thought you were," Jergen lied in reply. He shifted slightly offering the young French Canadian more room.

"Just so you know," returned Jérémie. "Now, what you don't know is that The Phantom is a very special person. He loves me, he loves all his friends and he's the one who began what Chef - he's the old, fat guy who bellows a lot - calls the 'Ninth Crusade'."

Not knowing what to reply, Jergen nodded. "He is why you came to Toronto?"

"In a way, yes," said Jérémie, settling himself more comfortably. "Before that, well, it all began with a friend of ours, named Sylvain. He was a rat bag of a Frog . . ." here Jérémie smiled proudly " . . . like me." His pride dissolved into a look of sadness. "He died."

"I am sorry."

Shrugging, Jérémie continued. "Sylvain was, well, he was Sylvain. Nobody liked him, really. He was very vain, and most of the time he was a pain in the ass. He was the Drum Major of the Bugle Band, back in AURORA . . ." He regarded Jergen. "That's the Sea Cadet camp we were all at."

"I have heard the others talking," said Jergen.

"Good. Well, Harry, who was the Drum Major of the Band, a separate band, he . . ."

"Harry, he is very large," interrupted Jergen. "He laughs easily and everybody seems to be afraid of him." He thought a moment. "He also possesses something called 'The Pride of the Fleet'. This I do not understand."

Laughing, Jérémie pointed at Jergen's crotch. "It's Harry's dick! Harry's got a hell of pecker on him. And a great set of stones - they're called 'The Escorts'. He's very vain, and very proud of them." He gave Jergen a sly nudge with his elbow. "Between us, I'm bigger." He thought a moment. "And there was a steward . . . The stewards had a party after our Passing Out Parade and since everybody was pissed off with Harry always bragging about his dammed pecker, they held a contest and Dave, yes, Dave Tomkens, that was his name, he won."

Jergen glanced quickly at Jérémie's crotch. "You mean they . . ."

"Sure, it was just some fun," said Jérémie. "And besides, you must have seen more than enough peckers and . . ."

Jérémie suddenly realized what he had said and blushed furiously. "Oh, Christ! I'm sorry, Jergen. I didn't mean, I, uh, gosh, damn it! I'm so sorry!"

Smiling, Jergen patted Jérémie's bare leg. "I am not offended. You have nothing to be sorry about."

Feeling a shiver of . . . something . . . pass through his body, Jérémie quickly returned to his story. "As I was saying, Sylvain, he was a pain in the ass. When Harry got promoted Sylvain got all pissed off - angry, you understand?"

"Yes."

"Sylvain went home, to Montreal. His uncle, the General had bought him this flashy new car and Sylvain drove it up to Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré, I guess to thank the old bastard."

Once again Jergen interrupted. "This was the man who was molesting the young Achille?"

"Yeah, the prick," snarled Jérémie. "Anyway, something happened and Sylvain left his uncle's place and was driving back toward Quebec City. I guess he was speeding and he lost control of the car. He died instantly so I understand, and of course word came back to AURORA. Chef was very upset about it but to be honest none of the rest of us were."

"Sylvain being a, pain in the ass?" asked Jergen dryly.

"Yeah," agreed Jérémie with an embarrassed shrug. "What nobody knew was that The Phantom, well, he has this, bond with all the guys who went to AURORA! Nobody can understand how or why, he just does." A wistful tone crept into Jérémie's voice. "Somehow, you just look at him and you can't help but feel, I don't know how to describe it, you just want to be with him." Jérémie shook his head. "It's very strange."

"So it would seem," replied Jergen. He had never known true love, had never had a friend, really.

"Phantom had a dream," said Jérémie. "He told us that it was a battlefield. On one side were all his friends, all the Boys of AURORA. On the other were these . . . things, formless wraiths, all black, without faces. And in the middle, surrounded by dead bodies and the wreckage of war, was Sylvain."

"But he was dead!" interjected Jergen, his eyes widening.

"Yeah, he was," nodded Jérémie. "But not in the dream. The Phantom saw him, wounded, mortally wounded, trying to crawl toward what I guess you could call the Crusader lines. Phantom ran into the field and cradled Sylvain, who cried and said he wanted to come home, to come home to his brothers." A sob escaped Jérémie's throat. "I'm sorry, now, that I thought Sylvain was such a jerk."

"You could not know," said Jergen kindly. "Your 'Phantom', he saw something you did not."

"Yes. And he told us about his dream. He said that Sylvain was coming to us, had something to tell us, something so terribly important that he came back from the dead. Phantom also said that he was going to Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré to find out what it was that Sylvain wanted us to know."

"He saw all this in a dream?" Jergen's remark was not quite a snort of scepticism.

"You don't have to believe me," replied Jérémie easily. He was not angry. He admitted that the story was far-fetched, and stretched credibility. "But I believed it, and I followed Phantom. We all followed Phantom!"

"And I am very glad that you did!" exclaimed Jergen.

Seeing the anguished look on Jergen's face, Jérémie asked, "Was it . . . bad?"

For many years, Jergen had kept bottled up his true feelings. As a whore, which is what he considered himself to be, he did not see that he was allowed to feel. "I was a whore, Jérémie, what do you think?" he asked grimly.

Impulsively, Jérémie hugged the German boy. "I'm sorry. I have no right to ask!"

"You are curious," returned Jergen without emotion. "You are confronted with a thing that has done things you will never do, has lived a life so vile that it is beyond your comprehension!"

"I said I was sorry," replied Jérémie, upset at himself for asking. "Let's not talk about it."

Turning, Jergen's pale blue eyes bored into Jérémie. "Why? I am sure that you are all but overcome with the curiosity you feel. You are asking, 'what it is like, to be a whore? How could he allow himself to be a whore? Why did he not run away?' All this I understand."

"Jergen, please, don't!" Jérémie moved from the bed and returned to his own. "I'm sorry, I just wanted . . ."

"Come back at once," growled Jergen, interrupting Jérémie's apology. "I am not angry." He smiled winningly. "Please, Jérémie . . . Cher, please come back."

Jérémie started. "How do you know . . ." he began.

"The Phantom refers to you that way," said Jergen. He looked thoughtful. "He loves you very much, I think." He looked pleadingly at Jérémie. "Please, come back. I wish to be with you. I have never had a friend who would just . . . be with me!"

Leaving his bed, Jérémie quickly joined Jergen. "Of course," he murmured. Without thinking, he ran his hand over Jergen's broad, firm chest. "You never had a friend?" he asked, the surprise registering in his eyes.

Impulsively, Jergen placed his hand over Jérémie's, holding the warmth against his chest. "I was not allowed, Jérémie. I was an object, used only to gratify others." The smile left his lips as he continued.

"I do not remember where I was born - I only know that it was somewhere in East Germany. We were very poor. The Communists controlled every aspect of our lives. My father . . ." Here Jergen paused and shook his head. Then he continued tightly. "My father had been in the war. He was in the Waffen SS. You understand the SS?"

"Yes. The worst of the Nazis," replied Jérémie softly.

"The very worst," confirmed Jergen. "My father, as a former SS man, was not allowed any privileges. He was less than scum. The Communists allowed him to work in a steel mill, to sweep the floors. We lived in two rooms, in a building that was falling down. There was no toilet and there were so many of us." Jergen frowned. "I remember my mother, and some other children, older. I also remember black bread and thin cabbage soup, all we ever had to eat! I remember being cold, and wearing rags!"

"Dear, God," whispered Jérémie.

"There is no god!" growled Jergen angrily. "All there is is hunger and privation, and beatings, and ignorance!"

"Jergen!"

"It is true, Jérémie. For such as I, that is all we had, all we ever had. When the man came, and offered to take me away, I was happy! I would be leaving the filth, the ignorance! I would have good food, he promised, good clothing! I would go to a real school and not have to learn from some battered old book my mother had stolen from one of her 'customers'." Once again Jergen looked at Jérémie. "And do not say that you are sorry, or call on a non-existent god! My mother did what she was forced to do to put some food on the table, some clothes on her children's backs! My father could not!"

Wisely, Jérémie remained silent.

"I was eight, or nine, I do not remember," said Jergen. "The man paid my father for me. He paid in West German Marks, which in itself was a crime to possess in East Germany. I was taken to Berlin, and smuggled into the Western part. That was when it all started."

Jérémie could feel Jergen's body grow flush with anger. Still, he remained silent.

"The first day I was bathed, given clean clothing - I wore for the first time underpants - and I thought I was a very fortunate little boy! Little did I know!"

"The man, he treated you kindly?" asked Jérémie carefully.

Snorting, Jergen said, "For a few hours. After he had cleaned me, and fed me, and dressed me in underpants, he took me upstairs to his room. He told me that I should be grateful! He had taken me from a pigpen and given me every luxury! I did not understand, because he was taking off his clothes. Then he told me that I must show how grateful I was. He pulled down my pants and played with my . . . penis!" Jergen shrugged. "He raped me. What I did not know at the time was that he was preparing me. I was his, you see, to do with as he thought best. I was with him for perhaps a month. The time, it is all a blur."

Jérémie felt a tear course down his cheek. He did not want to hear Jergen's story, but something made him stay beside the German boy. He would stay, and listen, as Jergen purged his soul.

"I remained with the man for perhaps a month," repeated Jergen. "Then I was taken into the country, to a house. It was what the English call a 'Shooting Box'. Money exchanged hands and I had a new master. He was a very rich man. He was married, and only used the house on the weekends when he could get away from his wife and children. He did not beat me, but he used me constantly. He was not kind, he was not unkind." Jergen's voice was flat, and he sounded as if he were reciting a railway timetable.

"How . . . how did you come to Canada?" asked Jérémie.

"Jérémie, you do not know what it is, this business I am a part of." He looked at his newfound friend. "Some of the men, they want only young boys, boys who have not yet formed. Others, they want older boys, boys who can . . ." He stopped trying to remember the correct English word. "Ja," he said to himself. "Boys who can 'cum'. When I was little, I pleased one type. When I outgrew his particular taste, I was sold to a man who wanted an older boy. He was a friend of the first man and he took me to America, where his firm had transferred him."

Not quite believing what he was hearing, Jérémie swallowed and asked, "Did he hurt you?"

"Actually, he was the best of them all. He only beat me once." Jergen grimaced and looked ill. "He had a . . . fetish?"

Jérémie did not know what a "fetish" was, but nodded anyway.

"He liked for me to piddle on him!" exclaimed Jergen. "He would make me pee on him and then sit on his erection while he . . . while he fucked me!" Jergen forced smile. "It was very messy, being with him, but so long as I did what he demanded, he treated me decently. He was kind enough, I suppose, and gave me books to read, and helped me with the lessons he composed."

"What happened?"

"His firm experienced some financial difficulties. He was called home and as he was short of money he sold me." Jergen almost spat. "The next, he was the worst of the lot! A hypocrite! He was supposed to be a man of god!" A dark, forbidding look came over Jergen's face. "If he is what passes for god's messengers, then I am glad I do not believe!"

"He was a priest?" asked Jérémie, appalled.

"Nein! He was what you call an evangelist! Thousands of Americans send him money, and every Sunday he is on the television! He looks and sounds so saint-like. He surrounds himself with luxury, with a choir, an orchestra, and he bellows and raves at the fools who watch him! He refers to his wife, a stupid woman who wears too much paint! And to his sons, four boys who look like they would never have an evil thought. They all shout to their god, and sing hymns! Everybody looks at them and calls them saints, very holy people! Ha!"

Jergen's sweeping gesture of disgust almost knocked Jérémie from the bed. He apologized and went on. "The Reverend would not have his sons subjected to what he called the wiles of women! They would, when the time came, go to the marriage bed, virgins." Again Jergen snorted. "They were, at least with women!"

"They . . .?"

"Fucked me? Yes. I was there to satisfy their natural lust. To them it was nothing. I was a receptacle for their sperm. The old man's, as well!"

"The Reverend? A preacher?" squeaked Jérémie.

"He was the worst of the lot!" snapped Jergen. "When his sons were finished, he would come into the room and simply stick it in me. He would pump furiously and then scream, 'I'm goin' to glory!'." Jergen sniggered. "At least he was quick!"

Jérémie could only gasp and shake his head.

"The sons treated me indifferently. I was just someone to use, and for the most part they ignored me, except when they were what is called 'horny'. I was fed, I was clothed, and basically I was left alone, locked in my room. I had the television, and books. Life was bearable, except at night. They would come, one after the other. I would lie on my stomach, on the bed, and they would use me. Eventually I felt nothing, just as eventually I was sold to another man. "

"What happened?"

"There were rumours," said Jergen. "Perhaps one of the sons said something he should not have said. I do not know. I only know that one night some men, very important men in the Reverend's organization, came to the estate. The next day I was put in a car and driven to the border with Canada. It was a long ride and I was very tired. I can remember only that the man who bought me - the man you rescued me from - was waiting. He took me to Toronto."

"Did he hurt you?" asked Jérémie.

Laughing, Jergen shook his head. Suddenly he reached down and exposed his long, thick penis, which was covered in skin, and ended in a short tube of wrinkled flesh. "He loved this!" Jergen exclaimed.

"Huh?" Jérémie looked at Jergen and then exclaimed, "What could he love? It's your dick!"

Still laughing, Jergen fondled the tube of skin. "He wanted his boys to be natural! I am not beschnitten and he loved it!"

Jergen thought a moment. "Beschnitten . . . oh, you mean circumcised!"

"Yah, just so," replied Jergen. "The man was mad for my skin!" Still fondling himself, Jergen continued, "He called this little bit of skin my tassel! He would play with it constantly." Once again Jergen frowned. "He would not allow me to clean myself . . . down there." Quickly covering his organ, Jergen all but gagged in remembering. "All four of the Reverend's sons were beschnitt . . . I mean they had been circumcised. They insisted that I be very clean on my penis, and not smell. Not so the new master. He loved it when I was filled with the cheese! When Artur came, I thought he would die from the pleasure!"

"Artur is the other boy who was with you?" asked Jérémie.

"Yes. His penis is very long, very thin, and very not circumcised!" replied Jergen with a laugh. "He is also a peasant and does not mind being unclean." His eyes bore into Jérémie. "I am not a peasant!"

For some strange reason Jérémie reached down and pulled out his own member. "And neither am I," he exclaimed. He exposed the purple glans of his penis. "I make sure that I am clean!"

Jergen looked admiringly at Little Jérémie and nodded. "Quite handsome," he snickered. "But I thought that all Canadians were . . ."

"Nope. A lot are," said Jérémie, covering himself. "But I am Canadien, and we do not do it."

Feigning indifference, Jergen pretended to yawn. "You are quite handsome and I think that you should have entered that contest that you mentioned."

Not knowing if Jergen was joking, or being serious, Jérémie shrugged and then giggled a bit. "I would have won!" he declared. He yawned, for he was very tired.

"I am sorry, I am keeping you awake," said Jergen. "You have come many miles."

"Yes." Jérémie rubbed his eyes. "It has been quite an adventure."

Vancouver Airport, August 1976, One Week Earlier

The Service Air flight from Comox landed without incident, taxied to the terminal and stopped, the huge engines whining down to a stop. The ground crew hurried out, pushing a set of stairs to the forward door. Presently it opened and one of the flight attendants looked out. One if the groundsmen ran up the stairs, pushed the forward side panels forward until they were just resting against the fuselage of the aircraft. He winked at the attendant, and scampered back down to the taxiway.

After a few moments, Commander Stockman, in keeping with naval protocol, which said that the highest ranking officer always boarded last and exited first, looked out of the aircraft door, adjusted his cap to a rakish angle, and began to descend.

In the second floor Concourse Lounge, Pete Sheppard looked through the high, plate glass, floor-to-ceiling windows, and murmured as he checked the list he held, "Stockman, Francis Albert Edward." He saw the medal ribbons of Commander Stockman's blue uniform jacket and nodded approvingly. Pete approved of men who had known war. "Commander," he continued, "Royal Canadian Navy Reserve."

Beside Pete, Ned Hadfield, the tall, lanky, West Virginian who had been left hog-tied and naked during one of Laurence and Logan Hartsfield's forays into the woods, consulted his list, which was fixed to a clipboard. He looked out the window and muttered into the hand held walky-talky he held in his free hand, "Stein."

On the main level, Avram Stein, a short dark-complexioned man dressed in a well-cut, dark suit, moved toward the entrance.

"Them ribbons mean anything?" asked Ned, referring to the ribbons on Commander Stockman's uniform jacket.

"More than you'll ever know," replied Pete absently as he looked at the ribbons of the DSO and DSC on Commander Stockman's chest. "Knight of Honour."

Ned made a check mark beside the names of Commander Stockman and Stein, and asked, "You ever a-goin' to tell us what kind o' knight thet is?" Most of the time Ned kept his hillbilly twang under control, but sometimes he forgot.

"All in due time," returned Pete, whose attention was drawn to the next figure to appear in the aircraft doorway, a tall, strikingly handsome young naval lieutenant whose uniform could not quite hide his superbly muscled chest and firm, strong legs.

"Arnott, Colin Charles Edward Thomas," read Pete from his list. "Lieutenant, Royal Canadian Navy Reserve." He looked directly at Ned. "Professed Knight of Grace and Devotion."

Hearing Pete's emphasis on the word "Professed", Ned shrugged. The word meant nothing to him.

"Lieutenant Arnott is the Custos Principum, the Guardian of Princes," continued Pete.

Ned, who was a lapsed Southern Baptist, knew no Latin. "If you say so." Then he asked, "He a big shot?"

"One of the biggest, and about to get bigger," replied Pete. "Tomorrow he'll receive Letters Patent making him the Defensor Princeps, Hereditary Earl Marshal and Duke of Lausanne and Aquitania."

"Royalty, like?" asked Ned. Where he came from men were called a lot of names - few of them complimentary - and any man who owned more than five acres and two mules was "royalty". He grumbled into his walky-talky. "Peabody." He grinned at Pete. "That jerk says his folks come over on the Mayflower so he oughtten to feel right to home."

Downstairs, Hank Peabody, whose real name was Cabot Henry Peabody, a tall, well-built man whose baby face belied his ferocity when roused, moved forward.

Next to exit the aircraft came Andy and Kyle. "The fellow in the American khaki," said Pete. "He's one of us. He was in the Nam."

"Yeah?" Ned's eyes widened. "Thet a Purple Heart he's wearin'?"

"Yes. Berg, Andrew Frederick David, Ensign, US Navy Sea Cadets. He is a Professed Knight of Honour. Michael has plans for him."

There was that word again. Ned was tempted to ask what "professed" meant, but was more impressed with Pete's revelation that Michael Chan had plans for the officer, which he obviously did not so far as Ned himself was concerned. "Who is the other one?"

"Saint Vincent, Kyle Michael, Sub-Lieutenant, Royal Canadian Navy Reserve, Professed Knight of Honour."

Ned muttered into his walky-talky and two more stern-faced young men stepped forward. When he had checked their names off of his list he looked out and saw a large, well-upholstered man wearing an ill-fitting green uniform. He looked at his list and asked, "All it says is 'Chef'. What the hell is a Chef?"

Laughing quietly, Pete said, "That is what he is called, and that is all you need to know, other than he's a mean old bugger when he wants to be. He is also going to be the new Hospitaller of the Order. He is also the Proctor of the Order." He saw the quizzical look on Ned's face and continued. "He talks to people. Play your cards right and maybe he'll have a talk with you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. In the mean time, Chef is very important. He's a Knight of Grace and Devotion, which means he's a bigwig. He doesn't know - yet - but he's also the Duke of Lorraine and Styria and the next time you see him you call him 'Serene Highness'."

"I do?" Ned looked out of the window. "He don't look so 'Serene' to me. And how come he ain't got no Protection Officer assigned?"

Shaking his head, Pete replied, "If you knew Chef, you'd know he doesn't need one!"

With the departure of the high priced help the rest of the plane's passengers began to descend, in no particular order. Pete, who had spent half the night shuffling photographs, which Chef had supplied, some cadged from The Gunner's album, others from Nicholas' hoard, and yet more from the Investiture, leafed through the snaps he had with him. "Okay," he said, glancing first at the photograph, and then at the tall, blond young man descending the steps. "The tall kid in front is named Benbow." He glanced at his list. "Edward Tyler Stephen. He is the Master-At-Arms and the ranking cadet. He is also a Professed Knight of Honour." Pete paused, and looked again. "The short, dark guy is the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor. He's Italian."

Ned glanced toward the aircraft. "That mean's something?"

"No," replied Pete. "I merely offer it for information. His name is Orsini, Valentine Joseph. Also a Professed Knight of Honour."

More muttering into the walky-talky and downstairs two more men walked forward.

"American cadets," Pete noted as three white-uniformed young men began coming down the stairs. "The big dude is Master Chief Petty Officer van Beck, Mark James. He plays football."

"Yeah?" Ned was a gridiron fan. "He any good?"

"No." Pete shuffled his photos again. "Next is Chief Petty Officer Valpone, Anthony Salvatore. He's got an appointment to Annapolis."

Ned shrugged. He had been, as he once said, born a grunt, and as far as he was concerned the service colleges at West Point and Annapolis were little better than training schools for wayward boys and graduated self-serving pains in the ass. "Another Eyetie?" he asked.

Pete glanced sourly at Ned. "Never you mind. The next two you watch and you had better have good men assigned to them."

"Why?" Ned asked.

"The first one, the dark-haired boy, is Nathan Michael Berman. His family is very big in Seattle, and one of his uncles is a power in the Democratic Party. He has PI written all over him."

"The uncle or the kid?" replied Ned, pretending stupidity, which he did very well.

"The kid, you ass!" snarled Pete. "The next one is Fisher . . ." he consulted his list. " . . . Frederick John. His old man is with Foreign Affairs - Ambassador rank. More importantly, and be warned, if anything happens to him you, and the man you assign to him, will lose your balls to the Tsangs . . ."

Ned looked intently out the window. "He's that important?" he asked.

"His uncle is an Admiral in the Royal Navy. The uncle is also Second Sea Lord." Pete looked sideways at Ned's questioning face. Ned was a good soldier, but at times as dumb as a brick. He never read a book, unless it had lots of pictures, and only watched television for the more inane "comedy" series (he never missed Laverne & Shirley if he could help it). "Sort of Chief of BUPERS," translated Pete for Ned's benefit. "He has connections in all the right places in England."

More figures appeared in the aircraft doorway. "Okay, next we have two more coppers," Pete said. Once again Ned had no idea what Pete was talking about so the slim, dark haired Security Chief explained. "Regulating Petty Officers - ship's policemen, but not as mean as shipboard Marines."

"Oh."

"The tall, skinny one is Roger Andrew Home, pronounced as in 'fume'," advised Pete. "The other cadets call him 'Two Strokes' and I have no inkling why." Pete consulted his list again. "The shorter, stockier cadet is Thomas Matthew Vernon. He's nicknamed Thumper."

Ned chuckled. "We had us a 'Thumper' when I was doin' my basic at Parris Island. He just couldn't leave his jamoke alone! The Gunny liked to pitch a fit every time he caught ole Hudson in the heads! Hell, that boy shore did like to thump his meat - 'course he had the meat to work with and . . ."

"Was that the Hudson who was awarded the Medal of Honour?" asked Pete quietly. Then he added, "Posthumously?"

Ned gulped. He was a Marine still and a Marine never slagged off another Marine, especially one who saved six of his buddies at some shit hole named Ahn Loc. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Who's up?" asked Pete, deciding not to pursue the matter further. He would speak to Ned later.

"Antonelli and Jones," replied Ned.

The next group out of the aircraft were Cory, Todd, Sean and Matt. Pete frowned a little. "The two good looking blonds are Todd and Cory Leveson-Arundel," he told Ned. "They're fraternal twins and they are very dear to Michael's heart, and their mother is a close friend."

As Sean followed Cory down the stairs Cory turned and reached up to brush a stray bit of lint from the front of Sean's jumper. Ned, who had seen the gesture, innocent in itself, seemed odd to him. "Thet ain't right," he exclaimed.

Pete, who had also seen the gesture, turned and snapped, "Mind your own business, Hadfield! Those two are going to be Michael's Pages of Honour. They are also very special to the kid they all call The Phantom, very special!"

The harshness in Pete's voice caused Ned to back away, quickly. "Hey, I didn't mean anything by it, Cap," he said hurriedly.

"I prefer Captain," snarled Pete. "And yeah, you did." In a way, Pete felt responsible for not informing his men of the true importance of this group of young men, or the true nature of them. He would rectify that mistake, soon. "Whom did you assign?" he asked.

"Uh, Patrick Ives and Dave Edge to the Arundels, Reese to the redhead and uh . . ." He looked at his clipboard, " . . . Griffin."

"Make it so," said Pete, his voice calm. When Ned had finished his radioing, Pete said, "The Twins are very important to the Order. Their father is an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court. He and their uncle, Louis Leveson-Arundel once did Michael, and his uncle, Uncle Henry Chan, a great service." His eyes bore into Ned. "And Michael Chan never forgets a service."

Ned nodded.

"The 'redheaded one' is Fleet Chief Sean Mark Anders. He's a bit of a dip, but don't try to pull the wool over his eyes. He's a close friend to Cory Leveson-Arundel. You get my meaning?"

Once again Ned nodded his head.

"The young lad is Matt Greene, Matthew Alexander Edward Greene according to his service documents. He's just a friend. But . . ." Pete paused and held up a finger. "He enjoys the personal protection of the man they call 'The Phantom'. He is the Prince of the Order and man, if you so much as look at him the wrong way, or so much as hint that you disapprove of what he is, Michael will hand you over to the Tsangs!" Pete turned to look out the window again. "And Ned, make sure those clowns assigned as their Protection Officers are aware of the importance of their young charges."

Ned paled a bit. Pat Ives, a short, well-muscled young man with the pink face of a cherub, was also a jokester and according to the Gunny back in Parris Island, as horny a toad as ever hopped down the Carolina Pike. Dave Edge, taller and Ives' workout partner, had a baby face and a perpetual smile. Both men were trained Delta Force alumni. "They'll be okay," mumbled Ned.

"They had better be," warned Pete, whose tone implied that if any of the Protection Officers screwed up Ned's balls were on the chopping block.

More cadets appeared. "Brian Hugh Carlin Venables," said Pete. "He's the Guard Petty Officer." For some reason Pete thought that Brian walked a little straighter, a little taller than the others. "Don't let appearances deceive you, Ned. The kid is sharp and was made Petty Officer of the Guard (Queen's Company) because of it." He regarded Ned a moment. "His protection officer has already been assigned. Hartsfield." His tone implied that Ned had no need to know why Logan Hartsfield, an unknown quantity to many of the other guards, had been given his assignment.

"Yeah," replied Ned glumly. He had worked hard on the assignments roster and resented interference from up top.

Ignoring Ned's pouting, Pete continued. "Okay, directly behind Venables are Cook Chief Petty Officer Raymond James Cornwallis and Leading Gunner Kevin Patrick Berkeley. Cornwallis, Ray to his friends, is Chef's protégé and all-but surrogate son."

"Which means the old man will blow a gasket if anything happens to him," grumbled Ned. "I got a good man for him. Who's the other kid?"

Pete tested Ned again. "He's Ray's special friend. Where Ray goes, Berkeley goes."

Ned's left eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly. "I got Larsen for Cornwallis and Prentice for Berkeley."

"Fine. Behind them are . . ." Pete consulted his list and the clutch of photographs. "Yeah, Chief Petty Officer Robin - he prefers to be called Rob - Rosslyn Wemyss and the Yeoman of Signals, Nicholas Arthur George Rodney. His daddy is ex-USN, a Commander I think."

"Joe Kent and Adam Sheridan," said Ned, uninterested in Nicholas' antecedents. He looked out and gasped. "And who in the hell is that . . . that . . . moose?"

Pete choked back a chuckle. "That is Chief Petty Officer Michael Spencer Sunderland. You'll like him, Ned. He's an even bigger jock that you are. He works out all the time."

Looking at Mike's barrel chest and thick forearms, Ned nodded his agreement. "Who's the skinny kid with him?"

"That is Petty Officer Phillip Godfrey Adean. He's the assistant to Chief Sunderland, so of course everyone calls him 'the Assistant'," replied Pete with a grin. "He's also a jock, and he's not so skinny, unless you compare him to Sunderland."

Ned snorted and muttered into his walky-talky.

Next down the stairs were Stuart and Steve. "The tall blond with the moustache is Stuart Malcolm Douglass MacDuff, Chief Boatswains Mate of AURORA," said Pete. "With him, the shorter, dark-haired kid, is his buddy, Petty Officer Steven Robert Edward Lee. They are both Professed Knights of Honour."

There was the word again. Ned glanced obliquely, muttered and two more Protection Officers moved forward.

Gesticulating, and waving his finger, Sandro appeared in the doorway with Nate beside him. "Cook Chief Petty Officer Alexandr Effimovitch Signaransky," said Pete. "A Russian Jew."

Ned's eyebrows rose again but he did not say anything.

"The Order accepts non-Christians as Knights of Honour," explained Pete. He gave Ned a hard look. "Do you have a problem with Jews?"

"Not me," replied Ned quickly. "I shower with Stein!" Ned felt a chill up his spine and just knew that several generations of itinerant Baptist preachers were glaring down, or up, at him for that remark. Ned metaphorically glared back. He did not have a problem with Jews - one Jew in particular, Catholics, or any other religious persuasion. Whatever prejudices he had brought with him from the small hamlet in the West Virginia hill country where he had been born, had been left behind in the maelstrom of war. The jungles of Vietnam had been a great leveller, where survival far outweighed the petty differences of man.

"Good," said Pete, "Because the dark-haired lad behind Signaransky is also Jewish."

"A civilian?"

"The Order accepts civilians," rumbled Pete. "Make certain that the men you assign are not a couple of flaming anti-Semites."

"Derek Walker is from California," replied Ned, "and all he cares about is surfin' and being a 'dude', whatever the hell that is! Mike Knight is from New York. He votes the straight Democratic ticket - when he votes."

Pete wondered what in the hell surfin' and voting Democratic had to do with not being anti-Semitic, but decided not to push it. "Fine," he muttered.

Joey, Randy, and Calvin emerged, chattering and teasing Phil, who was following the three younger cadets. Ned saw Phil looming in the aircraft doorway and muttered, "Fuck, another moose! They sure build 'em large up here!"

Pete laughed. "Sometimes. The three younger kids are cooks, Joseph John Pelham, who is the one with the dark hair. The kid with the bright red hair is Randall Dodson Ramseur Lowndes. They're just kids. The other red head is Calvin Steven Hobbes, who just happens to be Joe Hobbes' younger brother. They are all Professed Knights."

"Kinda young, ain't they?" observed Ned.

"That was a decision made by the Grand Master," responded Pete. He continued on, "The tall guy is Chief Petty Officer Phillip Alexander Thornton. Where Lowndes and Pelham go, he goes."

Wondering just what sort of relationship existed between Phil and Randy and Joey, Ned noted, "I sent a car to pick up that other kid . . . Simon Keppel?"

"Good."

"He important?"

Pete looked at Ned and shook his head. "You just don't get it, do you?" he asked.

"Get what?" asked Ned at his obtuse best.

"Ned, they are all important! If you remain in Michael Chan's employ you had better get used to having those . . ." he pointed his finger at the trio descending the steps, "young men as part of your life!"

"Well, y'all might tell a feller what the hell is going on, once in a while," complained Ned.

While Ned did have a point, Pete was under certain constraints. He had been told certain things by Major Meinertzhagen, but not everything. In many ways, Pete was as much in the dark as Ned. "Look, I'll explain a few things to you, and the other guys . . . but not just now!" he said heavily.

Not at all mollified, Ned shrugged. "More comin'," he said as more cadets came down the stairs.

"Hood, Christopher James," said Pete as Chris came down the stairs and began walking toward the terminal building. "With him Thomas Jonathan Jackson. Behind him is Eion Reilly. Hood and Jackson are professed Knights. Reilly is a Companion of Honour."

"Another title, unexplained," thought Ned crankily.

" . . . As are the next two," Pete continued on. "Jérémie Stephane Larouche and Peter Race. Behind them are . . ." Pete paused and all but whispered. "The huge guy is Harold Franz-Joseph von Hohenberg, called Harry by his friends."

"He don't look like he needs protecting," sniffed Ned as Harry lumbered down the stairs. "And who's the skinny feller with him?"

Ignoring Ned's impertinence, Pete answered softly, "That young man is the be all, the end all, so far as the Order is concerned. He is the reason the others are here. Without him they would not be, period. Mark his face, Ned. Mark it well."

"But who is he?"

"He was born Philip Andrew Thomas Lascelles," recited Pete. "He's called 'The Phantom', why I don't know. Michael told me that he is the leader, that he has this ability to influence his friends. Call it charisma, call it black magic, but never underestimate his influence." Pete lowered his voice. "I had it in strictest confidence from Michael that tomorrow at the dinner The Phantom will be given some very special honours."

Ned recognized the warning in Pete's voice. "He's that important, this 'Phantom'?"

"Yes. He is also a close friend to the Chancellor of the Order, and Chef thinks the world of him. Once The Phantom extends his hand in friendship, it's yours forever." Pete straightened his shoulders. "When you were in Nam the guys you served with became your brothers?"

"Damn straight," responded Ned. "Hell, without them I might never have got back home."

"Well, in a way, the same thing has happened in Comox, at a little Sea Cadet camp called HMCS AURORA. If you understand what happened to you in Nam, then you understand the bond between these young men."

Without waiting for Ned to respond, Pete watched as The Phantom and Harry walked toward the terminal entrance. "The Phantom has Lieutenant Arnott as his minder, but Michael wanted a good man with them. Who did you assign?"

Ned hesitated. When he was given the task of assigning "a few good men" to be Protection Officers for the newest members of the Order, he had not really given much thought to the job. All the men were ex-servicemen of one county or another, all had been in combat, and all were crack shots. Michael's Chan's orders, relayed through Pete Sheppard, had been clear: Michael did not expect trouble, but be prepared for it. Only the best men were to be considered. Ned had tried his best, and had considered each man carefully. He was constrained simply by the fact that he had no idea of what the Order was, no idea of who the knights were, and no idea of the characters he was about to deal with. He had not quite picked names from a hat, but he had fudged a bit, simply writing a name from the Outside Security Force (now Protection Service) against the name of a knight.

"Um, well, Grinchsten," Ned answered.

Pete's voice rose as he asked, "Alex Grinchsten?"

"Yeah."

Pete was about to flare. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with the man, and he was a man for all of his appearance. He stood barely five and a half feet tall, was slim, had dark blond hair and had a barely defined body. Put him in a blue uniform and mix him in with the cadets and Grinchsten would never stand out. He was, Pete thought, about 23, or 24, and looked 17! He was notoriously fastidious, and never smiled, his lips primly set in a thin, unwavering line. He had no sense of humour, or none that Pete had ever been able to discern, and had all the warmth of a Calvinist preacher at a camp meeting.

But then . . . Alex Grinchsten was a Vet, and had served two tours in Nam. He had not been drafted, but had volunteered. He had been 17 years old and because of his size and slimness of body he had become a . . . Tunnel Rat. What he had seen, what he had done, Alex never spoke of. He never joined in the usual bullshit sessions the others always seemed to be holding at the end of their shifts. Alex Grinchsten lived in a lonely world, with his memories and his ghosts.

The more he thought of it, the more Pete came to realize that Alex Grinchsten had lost his soul in the jungles of Vietnam. Pete could see it in Alex's eyes, pale, violet eyes that seemed lifeless and cold. The brightness had left Alex Grinchsten's life and, while he was a good soldier, intelligent, and completely reliable, he was without purpose, without . . . hope?

Pete watched as The Phantom and Harry disappeared from view and a sudden thought struck him. If The Phantom could inspire so many of his peers, could he perhaps . . . He turned abruptly and spoke. "Good. Grinchsten it is. And Ned, let's walk and we'll have a talk."

"You know, Phantom, I am really chuffed about all this," Harry said as he and The Phantom walked toward the main entrance to the terminal. "Of course, it would be nice to know just what in the hell we're doing."

Chuckling, The Phantom agreed. "Harry, if I knew, I'd tell you. Chef is like a Sphinx, and all I get out of him is a parable about some Irish Leprechaun or some mythical King - usually of Tara, strong of arm and mightily thewed . . ."

"Mightily what?" asked Harry.

"Buggered if I know," responded The Phantom. "I sometimes think that Chef is as full of shit as a Christmas goose!" He saw Colin waiting at the door, talking quietly to a craggy-featured young man, and sniggered. "I sort of think that 'thews' is something like 'thighs', a man of mighty thighs!"

Harry regarded Colin and smiled winningly. "And yonder is a knight of mighty thews." He nudged The Phantom. "Nice ass, too."

"Harry!" exclaimed The Phantom, pretending to be shocked. He had long ago learned never to be surprised at what Harry might say.

Harry was deflected as two young men both wearing suits with suspicious bulges in their jackets sidled up to them. "Phantom, unless you have any other idea, I think we just got arrested," he muttered, not entirely in jest.

Colin moved quickly to The Phantom's side. "Don't worry, they're protection officers," he said. He gestured toward the man he had been talking to. "That's Peabody. He's mine."

The two young men, who had been coached by the Major in how to address their "principals", stopped one or two paces short. The first, a tall black-haired man with a five o'clock shadow, and whose suit seemed to strain at the seams, reached into the side pocket of his jacket and produced a slim, leather wallet, which he flipped open and showed to Harry. "Sir Harold von Hohenberg?" he asked formally.

Harry, who had never been addressed formally, or referred to as anything other than "Harry", except when the Twins were around, when any name, usually dirty, was thrown at him, nodded. The Phantom giggled at Harry's discomfiture.

"I am Sergeant Seward," the young man said. "I have been assigned as your protection officer," he explained.

"Huh?"

"Your bodyguard, you nit!" Colin growled at Harry, his voice low. "Where you go, he goes."

Harry regarded Sergeant Seward. "What if I have to go to the heads?" he asked.

Sergeant Seward answered for Colin. "Only if I think there's a danger inside. Other than that, you're on your own." He grinned.

Harry returned Seward's grin and then, being Harry, decided to have some fun. "Well, a feller does like a little privacy at times," he opined, "and I don't have to sleep with you, do I?"

The Phantom sniggered and even the strange, slim young man who was, The Phantom assumed, his minder, managed a slight curl of a smile.

Seward looked a little stunned. "Why no! We don't sleep with our principals, ever. I'll be around, though."

"Good," said Harry, "'cause it would get crowded, what with all of us in the same bed."

"Here it comes," muttered The Phantom to Colin, who sighed.

"I'm sorry, Sir Harold, but I don't understand," said Seward.

Harry started walking toward the terminal door. "Well, there'd be me, and I'm a big guy, and you, and you're a big guy, and then the Pride, which is not to be believed until seen, and the Escorts, so you see . . ." Harry's smile grew wider as Seward's face grew longer in confusion and together they entered the terminal.

Shaking his head at Harry's nonsense, The Phantom turned to look at the young man waiting silently a few feet away, and immediately noted the man's haunted eyes.

"I am Sergeant Grinchsten," the young man said as he presented his credentials. "I have been assigned as your Protection Officer." His voice was cold, formal, and precise.

Emerald green eyes met pale, violet eyes and The Phantom saw pain. Somehow, somewhere, this young man, so youthful looking that he might have been a contemporary of Joey or Randy or Calvin, had been hurt, and hurt badly. The Phantom returned the credentials to Grinchsten and said softly, "I shall try not to be too much trouble, Sergeant." Then he added, "Or may I call you Alex?"

The Phantom's quiet courtesy caused Alex to take a small step back. He had expected an arrogant, self-centred young man. He had expected to be ignored at the best of times, and castigated at worst. Protection officers he had been told were to be seen, and not heard. Protection officers remained in the background, always vigilant and always expecting the unexpected, and were never to forget their position, or the rank of their principal.

"I . . ." Alex looked embarrassed as he murmured, "Whatever you wish, Sir Philip."

Laughing quietly, The Phantom said, "It would seem that we are stuck with each other, Alex, and I would want you to be comfortable being with us." He turned and indicated Colin. "This is Colin Arnott. He is my companion and . . ."

Alex's body stiffened as he gave Colin a formal, correct neck bow. "The Custos Principum," he said. "I have been told." He coloured slightly.

Colin smiled inwardly. He saw the look on Alex Grinchsten's face, and saw how the young man could not take his eyes from The Phantom. Colin had seen it before, had experienced the same feelings, the same unexplained feeling that passed between The Phantom and those who would become a part of his life. Alex Grinchsten did not know it, perhaps might never know it, but he was now a part of The Phantom, and The Phantom was now a part of Alex, just as he was a part of the Twins, Harry, the Brats, all the young men of AURORA, and of one Colin Arnott.

Inside the terminal Brian was just getting over the shock of seeing Logan Hartsfield standing beside him. "Logan?" he whispered, not quite believing his eyes.

"Good morning, Sir Brian," Logan replied formally. He gave Brian a correct neck bow. "It's good to see you." He smiled winningly. "And gosh, do you look wonderful!"

Beaming, Brian held out both hands. He wanted to take Logan into his arms but thought better of it. "I . . . I never thought I'd see you again!" he said.

Taking Brian's right hand, Logan shook it, and lingered. The gentle tremor he had felt when he met Brian the previous evening back in the gardens of the Admiralty House Hotel in Comox coursed through his body. He withdrew his hand and for a few moments he was unable to speak. Then he took a step back. "I'm your Protection Officer," he said hurriedly. He could feel a stirring in his groin and his face felt flushed.

Brian regarded Logan, who was blushing like a schoolboy, and smiled. "My bodyguard?"

Logan swallowed and nodded. "I'm to be your shadow," he said. "At least that's what the Major told me."

"Shadows are awfully close," returned Brian with a wink.

Logan blushed. "Um, I'm not sure, Sir Brian." He smiled an embarrassed smile. "And you are a knight and . . ."

"I'm also a man," said Brian simply. He did not add, "Who has fallen in love with you."

Halfway down the concourse, Major Meinertzhagen, together with Patrick Tsang, both resplendent in morning coats and striped trousers, greeted Chef. Chef, who had been briefed by Michael constantly as to what was to happen, was expansive and smiling as he held out his hand to the Major. "Richard, how nice of you to meet us."

"The pleasure is mine," replied the Major. He shook Chef's hand and turned to Patrick. "You of course know Patrick Tsang," he said.

"I do, I do, and a fine young man he is," beamed Chef.

Behind Chef the Twins, who were eying their minders, who were eying the Twins, looked at each other. "He's in his Queen Mary mode," muttered Todd, referring to Chef.

"Better than the Galloping Lord of Killarney," returned Cory sourly. He glanced at the tall, well-dressed young man who was standing alertly off to one side. "And who in the hell are the suits?" he added with a slight snarl.

Pat Ives, who had overheard Cory, smiled an almost elfin smile and his eyes twinkled. Beside him Dave Edge, who had never lost his boyish smile, winked at Pat. An unspoken message passed between the two men: "Hide the ExLax!"

The Phantom had also heard Cory and he sidled up to whisper in Cory's ear. "They're your very own personal minders," he said with a snicker. "We all have one and you won't be able to get away with anything!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" growled Cory. "And why do I need a 'minder'? I am quite capable of taking care of myself!" He glanced at Pat Ives and snickered, "Mind you, he is kind of cute."

From directly behind Cory came a low growl.

"I'm only kidding," said Cory hurriedly over his shoulder. He threw a winning smile at Sean, which shut him up, and then glanced at Pat. Cory then motioned him to come alongside. "Who are you?" he asked. "And what are you?"

Pat Ives smiled and shrugged. "I am your Personal Protection officer, Sir Cory." He nodded toward Dave Edge. "He is Sir Todd's Protection Officer."

"Who is mine?" asked Sean. A tall, heavyset young man stepped forward. Sean eyed him and thought that the guy looked like he could stop a tank!

"Sergeant Galloway is assigned to be your Protection Officer, Sir Sean," replied Pat by way of introduction. "And Sergeant Brodie is yours," he continued, looking at Matt. "We know what we're doing, and we won't interfere too much." He grinned winningly. "We don't bite and . . ." he looked directly at Cory. "We don't drink Kahlua and milk!"

Cory's eyes widened. "Jesus," he said with a gasp, "Is nothing secret?"

Before Sergeant Ives could inform his "principal" that precious little was secret, Randy's high-pitched voice floated over the small crowd of cadets. "Are we going to spend the rest of the day parked here?"

"Mind your manners, whelp!" came Phil Thornton's deep voice. "Else I'll turn you over my knee!"

"Promises, promises," came Randy's cheeky reply.

Wondering just what he'd been volunteered into, Sergeant Ives coloured and said, "Ah, yeah, we had better get going." He nodded toward Chef and the Major who, with Patrick Tsang trailing were walking toward the exit.

With the Protection Officers trailing or walking alertly to the side, the group of cadets walked the length of the concourse, with Cory muttering every inch of the way. "A minder! I don't need a minder!" he complained.

"Even if he is 'cute'?" asked The Phantom. "And Todd's isn't that bad, either."

"I . . . I'm . . . spoken for," replied Cory with a nervous look at Sean, who glowered back. He leaned inward slightly and asked, "And who is the monk? He's got a face on him like a forty shilling teapot!"

The Phantom's emerald eyes slid toward Alex Grinchsten, who was walking a few paces ahead, his eyes, his restless eyes, taking in everything.

"Mine," said The Phantom with a sigh. "All mine!"

Outside the terminal the cadets stopped and stared. Ranged in a long line were the "hearses". First was the Phantom IV, then the twin Phantom Vs, then the three Daimlers. Beside each car, holding the rear passenger doors open, were liveried chauffeurs, each one of whom looked just as strong and capable as the Protection Officers. The cadets did not know it - yet - but the chauffeurs were highly trained in evasion tactics, and were, like the Protection Officers, armed.

"Who died?" came Joey's squeak. "And where's my luggage. We forgot to get it."

"Everything is taken care of," said Joey's Protection Officer, Sergeant Mosser. He led Randy and Joey toward the middle of the Daimlers. "This is your car, Sir Joseph."

In the Phantom IV limousine, Chef settled himself on the back seat and gestured toward the Major, who was sitting in the right hand jump seat. "And what is it you've planned for the lads?" he asked.

Without consulting his notes, the Major replied. "First to the house where Michael will greet his guests, nothing formal. Michael thought that the young gentlemen would then change and do whatever it is they want to do, shopping, visiting - which reminds me. We've arranged for young Hobbes' friend to be brought out from Burnaby."

Chef nodded kindly. "Young Simon Keppel. A fine young man, so he is. He and Calvin are great chums, and young Phantom cares deeply for him." Then he smiled. "There will be lunch, I'm hoping? They're accustomed to being fed, and fed well, so they are," he said, his tone implying that he expected culinary disaster if he, himself, did not do the cooking.

The Major bristled. "We have engaged the services of the finest caterer in town!" he rumbled. "He is doing all the work at the house, including tomorrow's formal dinner."

"Formal dinner?" asked Chef, his tone suggesting that the menu would be baked beans on toast, served on slates, in a warehouse somewhere on the waterfront.

"The man we have engaged has a sterling reputation," returned the Major, bristling. "I am sure he will meet your exacting standards."

Chef chose to ignore the Major's sarcasm. "We'll see," he rumbled warningly.

Darting a black look at Chef, the Major continued. "Today there will be a barbecue luncheon at the house." He waited for a comment, but as none came, he continued. "The young gentlemen will be treated to the finest Chinese restaurant in town this evening for dinner! Nothing has been spared." "And you can stick that in your pipe and smoke it, you supercilious blowhard!" he thought venomously.

Patrick Tsang sighed. Perhaps he should have stuck to peddling canned snails in Victoria.

"I meant no offence," replied Chef blandly. "It is just that the lads are used to the very best!"

"Which they will have," snapped the Major imperiously. "The Maestro has promised that everything will be of the highest class!"

"Maestro?" asked Chef, almost dangerously. "And who is this 'Maestro', if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"He is the best caterer in town." The Major shifted uneasily in his seat. "You have nothing to worry about."

Chef settled back in his seat. "You are right, of course," he said with deceptive calmness. "Sure and I am a guest, after all."

The Major may have missed the gleam of battle that had come into Chef's eyes, but Patrick had not. "Definitely canned snails," Patrick thought as the limousine pulled away. "Or potted shrimp."