Harry squeezed himself into the cramped unisex shower, washed quickly, and changed into a T-shirt and sweats. It would be a few more hours before the night’s exercise began, and there was no point sitting around in his kit. He made his way through to the mess and found Sergeant St. Clair taunting an Australian submariner. They were discussing the chances of the locals rescuing the final cricket test of the 2021 series under the dome in Sydney. How sweet it is, thought Harry, to finally have a first eleven worth following after decades of humiliation. And that England’s cricket revival should actually come Downunder . . . well, that was the sweetest victory of all.

“Guvnor, this idiot is offering two to one against our boys in Sydney,” cried St. Clair. “True, it’s only Australian money, but I think we’re morally bound to relieve him of it anyway.”

The Australian, an engineer at the end of his watch, grinned at Windsor like a hungry shark. “If your lordship would care to back his loyal subjects?”

God, but they do take the piss, Harry thought, as the lights dipped and the cook began cursing at his microwave oven. A short time later the lights returned to normal.

“Right, then,” said Harry Windsor, old boy of Eton, captain of His Majesty’s Special Air Service Regiment, and third in line to the British throne. “Let’s see the color of your money, mate.”

The engineer waved over a female petty officer to hold the bets. Carrying a mug of tea, she gave the young warrior prince twenty-five thousand watts of her smile as she bore down on him.

But before she could witness the bet, or make a move on His Studliness, the infinite dark consumed them all.

EAST TIMOR, ZONE TIME: 1238 HOURS, JANUARY 15, 2021

“Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”

Adil hammered out the ancient phrase, part supplication and part plea for the mercy of Almighty God, as he lay prostrate in the dust.

All around him the scrub was alive with screeching, panicking animals desperately attempting to flee the giant, swirling tsunami of light. It had filled the sky, perhaps the whole world, for just a second, but the afterimage would remain with Adil until he was old and wizened. Village children would gather at his feet decades from now, begging to be told the story of how Allah himself had cast the crusaders down into Hell.

He fumbled for the canvas pack that held the laser transmitter, still imploring God’s mercy. His hands trembled so much he dropped the small device four times before regaining some measure of control over his actions.