As the Lightning Comes

Svensk Jr. Ã?ob

Description

This fast paced adventure is like The Bible Code meets The Chariots of the Gods. It weaves together the fascinating themes of ancient astronauts, angel visitations, hidden Bible codes and end time prophecies, with an international conspiracy thrown in.

The story follows the quest of cynical lawyer John Marshall to locate the Tree of Knowledge and then to pass on the key to it to the one called the Son of Man.

Marshall unwittingly becomes the last custodian of the key when he tries to come to the rescue of an elderly Eastern wise man.

He teams up with fellow American, evangelist and one time Middle Eastern linguistic expert, Marc Arnold. Arnold ropes in the assistance of longtime friend, Kirsty Gordon, a Scottish aristocrat and archaeologist. Their quest across three continents is thwarted by dark forces apparently hell bent on grasping the key from them for an as yet unknown nefarious purpose.

The key is an ancient artefact that guides and gives access to a subterranean installation. This is the remnant of a long lost civilization, of which the Atlantians were a part. Modern technology has not yet caught up with that of the ancients, which ultimately contributed towards their downfall.

The installation, located in the bowels of a Nepalese mountain, houses an arsenal of futuristic flying craft of the sort mistakenly labelled as UFOs. It is also the repository of an electronic archive of the long forgotten past, shades of which were captured in myth, folklore and religion, known as the Tree of Knowledge...

Through the centuries, various historical characters including the Chinese strategist Sun Tzu (author of the Art of War), Nostradamus and Hitler have gained access to the Tree of Knowledge. What they learnt changed the destiny of mankind and provided a peek into the future.

Will the trio find the Tree of Knowledge and identify and locate the Messiah in time to thwart the Antichrist and save the Earth from the immense meteorite storm that is on a collision course with it? The final countdown has commenced.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Fiction
• Thrillers
• Technological

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456607678
• Langue: English

Extrait

As the Lightning Comes
 
by
Svensk Öob
 


Copyright 2012 Svensk Öob,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0767-8
 
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
 

 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FRONT OF LOCKET
BACK OF LOCKET
SKETCH MAP OF NEPAL
ANNAPURNA CIRCUIT MAP
LAYOUT OF ANNAPURNA BASE
 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 
 
Svensk Öob
 
Svensk was born in Sweden in 1967 but, at the age of seven, moved to Kenya with his parents when they assumed duties at a mission post on the outskirts of Nairobi. This was literally down the road from the house in which Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke, of Out of Africa fame, lived. His early schooling took place at the St. Aloysius Jesuit School in Nairobi. Thereafter he was a border at the High School in what was then Umtali, Rhodesia.
 
After completing a degree in Political Science at the University of Göteborg, and a Master‘s degree at Harvard University, Massachusetts, Svensk joined Amnesty International. He has travelled worldwide monitoring human rights abuses. Much of his time is spent in Africa, especially Southern Africa. As a consequence, he suffers from recurring bouts of malaria, which he contracted on his travels.
 
Ironically, his only real brush with authorities was when he was researching for this, his first novel, in Nepal. He was interred by the Nepalese Government on suspicion that he was involved in subversive activities.
 
The novel represents an attempt by Svensk to reconcile the belief system he inherited from his parents with the UFO sighting that he experienced in Central Africa and a strange dream that he had. [read more]
 
The author is reluctant to disclose his present whereabouts or family details as he fears he will meet a similar fate to that suffered by Alberto Rivera , mentioned in the book.
 
Chapter 1
For as the lightning comes from the east and shines as far as the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man.
Matthew 24:27
Stepping out into the street was like entering the furnaces of hell, compared to the air-conditioned coolness of the foyer of the Hilton Hotel in downtown Durban from which the tall white man in his mid-thirties had just emerged. He stopped momentarily to take off his tracksuit top, revealing a white T-shirt embossed with the words "I qualified for the Boston Marathon and you didn’t!" His sinewy build and the way he carried himself revealed that he had earned the right to wear the shirt.
 
The middle-aged, black doorman, in his inappropriate-for-this-current-climate regal maroon uniform and peaked cap, watched the man in envy and used his forefinger to pull his collar away from his neck. "It’s the berg wind that is making it so hot. It always comes before the summer rains."
 
A boyish grin spread across John Marshall’s face, momentarily counterbalancing its slenderness and causing his hazel brown eyes to glint. He nodded in acknowledgement to the doorman, the side-swept fringe of his sandy hair waving slightly as the breeze caught it. "If I were you, I’d go back inside."
 
The doorman ignored the comment. “You need a taxi to take you somewhere?"
 
"No, thanks. I’m going to be speaking at the conference after lunch and a walk will help release some tension. I would have preferred a run, but it’s out of the question in this heat," replied John. "Which way is the Indian Market?"
 
The doorman pointed straight ahead. "You be careful now. It can be dangerous in town."
 
"Right, that’s what the folks back in the States warned me about before I came to South Africa."
 
Within minutes of setting off from the safe confines of the hotel, John came to regret not having heeded the combined wisdom of two continents. A drama that would impact on his life like a meteorite strike, forever changing its course, unfolded before his eyes. Three black youths, street kids by the looks of them, were jostling a frail old Asian man. There was something about the man that reminded John of Gandhi. Not his appearance– unlike Gandhi, he was clean shaven, wore a threadbare robe with loose white trousers underneath, wore no glasses and had a full head of gray hair– but there was something about his manner. John was not the first to have picked up on the old man’s aura of piety and wisdom: the people who frequented that part of town and were accustomed to seeing him wandering around the streets had come to call him the Maharishi .
 
Situated on the eastern coast of South Africa, with the Indian Ocean lapping on its shores, Durban was a melting pot of the West, the East, and Africa. It was home to the largest concentration of people of Indian extraction outside of India.
 
At the Indian Market, the fabrics and piles of spices displayed on the stalls formed a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors. The humid coastal air was heavy with the pungent aromas of ginger, turmeric, cumin, and curry. A Babel of conversation hummed through the passageways as Indians, Blacks, and conspicuously few Whites went purposefully about their business. A few paces east of the entrance of the market, in the street leading up to it, the flow of pedestrians was hardly disrupted by the disturbance taking place. Everyone simply kept their distances as they skirted past the milieu.
 
Don’t get involved. It is not your problem, John kept reminding himself. He had lived in New York long enough to know not to intervene when there was a mugging. But in New York, muggings didn't usually take place in the middle of the day on a busy street, and there was never a cop too far away if something did happen. It had always been John’s policy not to meddle in other people’s business, unless, of course, he was paid to do so. But he felt remiss simply standing by and watching.
 
The disturbance suddenly became a commotion. The Maharishi started shouting for help and kept repeating "Leave it! " He was referring to an outsized locket hanging from a chain around his neck. The largest of the three street urchins had thrust his hand down the front of the Maharishi’s robe and grabbed the locket from its place of concealment. The youth tugged mightily at it as his two companions restrained the Maharishi’s frail arms.
 
The Maharishi resisted with unexpected vigor, shouting out and looking beseechingly at the gawkers in the crowd who began to gather around the spectacle. John was nudged towards the front of the circle of onlookers by curious spectators who had arrived behind him. He stood only a pace or two to the side of the struggling quartet. As he turned to move backwards, he was blocked by a wall of jostling oglers, who watched the incident playing out before them with zombie-like fixed stares.
 
The scene reminded John of something from the National Geographic channel: the herd of powerful, horned buffalo grazing on while one of their own was brought to ground by a trio of scruffy lionesses.
 
Suddenly, the largest of the three attackers thrust his free hand towards the Maharishi’s stomach in a stabbing motion. The Maharishi cried out as he was struck. Just as quickly, the youth drew back his arm as if preparing to thrust at the Maharishi again. A crimson patch of blood had already formed on the Maharishi’s robe at the point of contact. John now saw the blade that had been concealed in the youth’s hand.
 
"Stop it," shouted John, to his own amazement and that of the mesmerized zombies, who turned their gaze to him in unison. Once segregated by the South African government’s policy of Apartheid, the onlookers, no matter what their races or origins, had merged into a single, fungal life form.
 
The three attackers were just as surprised that something had broken the rhythm and dared to breach the unspoken rules. The two younger boys had no appetite for a fight and both found gaps in the wall of onlookers behind them through which they disappeared. No one tried to stop them from fleeing.
 
The larger boy, no more than fourteen, was not as easily thrown. He spun around to face John, his knife now openly displayed in a threatening manner, looking to see who dared challenge him. The adrenalin raging through John’s system gave him enough false bravado to lunge forward, as if to attack. His sinewy frame did nothing to suggest he was a force to be reckoned with. Only his height of six foot one placed him at an advantage over the knifeman. The boy, obviously a hardened street fighter, stood his ground momentarily and then capitulated. He turned and sped off in the direction his companions had taken.
 
The crowd parted readily to let him through and then closed up like the Red Sea after the flight of the Israelites. The onlookers’ attention focused once again on the Maharishi, who had staggered backwards, one hand still clasping the locket and the other now at his wound. After covering a few paces, he collapsed to the pavement. The section of the crowd behind him ebbed backward to make space for him.
 
John managed to escape from the gravitational pull of the throng and now stood at the side of the Maharishi, who moaned in agony, blood oozing out around his fingers. Not even his obvious discomfort made the Maharishi ease his grasp on the locket.
 
Committed to action, John knelt next to the Maharishi. "You’ll be alright now– they’ve gone." The Maharishi’s face distorted with pain and distress. He had a look of terror and desperation in his eyes as he turned to face John. John gently lifted the Maharishi’s blood-soaked hand and placed his own folded handkerchief over the pumping wound, applying pressure on it.
 
The Maharishi’s brow creased as he peered up at John. John had the strange sensation that he was being read, as if by a s