Armageddon?? (109 page)

One
other advantage of using the Hunter was that it was a good aircraft to teach
newly qualified pilots and ground crew on. The RAF had also been lucky that the
Hunter had survived in such prolific numbers and that there was no great
shortage of spares. Besides learning to manufacture some spare parts on a lathe
was good training for some of the conscripts. Some Hunters had already joined
the Tornado F.3s and Hawk T.1As in performing Combat Air Patrol duties over the
UK while the small number of FR.10s and similar Photo Reconnaissance variants
had already proven themselves to be a useful Tac Recce asset to CINC-Combined
UK Land Forces.

One
other somewhat newer aircraft the RAF had considered was the English Electric
Lightning. The problem with this aircraft, however, was that apart from the
former Saudi and Kuwaiti aircraft, they could only carry out the air to air
mission and were rather lightly armed for the anti-Harpy role. . Still, the air
force could not really afford to ignore a potential combat aircraft, at least
not until more Typhoons, Tornado GR.4s and the new Hawk FGR.2 were delivered.
Even the Tornado F.3 had managed to diversify into the anti-Harpy mission and
the RAF was now looking at adapting some of the F.3s it had brought out of
storage to carry other types of air to ground ordnance Given his experience
working on the Lightning it was inevitable that as well as his duties which
involved training National Servicemen Flight Sergeant Archibald would also be
assigned to the Lightning Training Flight that had been established at
Scampton. Once he was able to hand over supervision of the trainees to a
sergeant he drove over to the dispersal of the LTF, which was currently made up
of four two-seat T.5s and five F.6s. The air force was hoping to get a few more
F.6s and F.53s operational, but for now this small force was it.  The first
problem after restoring the aircraft that the RAF had faced was arming them,
while 30mm ADEN shells were plentiful enough and still in production, there
were not exactly lots of Red Top missiles around. Back in the 1970s the RAF had
trialed fitting AIM-9 Sidewinders to a Lightning F.6 as a possible replacement
for the Red Top, though the MoD had decided that there was no money available
for such a modification to an aircraft soon to leave service. Now the armorers
of the LTF were working on fitting AIM-9Ls to their aircraft and getting
missile and weapons computer to talk to each other.

“How’s
it going?” He asked another Flight Sergeant armorer once he had arrived.

“It’s
not bloody well going, Jack. The ruddy missile will fit.” He said pointing to
an AIM-9L attached to the nearest Lightning. “But the bloody plane’s weapons
computer, such as it is, doesn’t want to know. Damned thing has less processing
power than my watch.

“I
don’t suppose somebody has found a bunker full of Red Tops so we can knock this
on the head by any chance.”

“Sadly
not, this is something we’ll need to crack on with. You be nice to the
Lightning and it will eventually do what you want it to.”

Archibald
shook his head, perhaps the Lightning was going a step too far. It was just at
the awkward point of development, too complex to run as a simple gun-truck like
the Hunter, not complex enough to carry modern equipment. That brought him to
the next item on his list of duties, one he was looking forward to. He had to
go to Nottingham and pick up a cache of electronics equipment and technicians
then bring them back to this base. It really was amazing what the RAF had
stashed away over the years and, in many cases, forgotten that they ever had
it. Perhaps the idea of a bunker full of Red Top missiles wasn’t so outlandish
after all. Anyway, he had to take a small convoy of trucks over and that was
the pleasant bit. Just over 100 kilometers and petrol rationing meant that the
roads would be clear. A pleasant drive in the countryside was just what was
needed to take thoughts of the Lightning’s balky computer out of his mind.

Three
hours later, he was on the outskirts of Nottingham, doing the unthinkable. He
was asking directions. His little convoy had managed to take a wrong turning
and somehow got hopelessly off course. The problem was that somebody, in a fit
if excessive zeal or perhaps ingrained memory of anti-paratrooper precautions
from World War Two, had taken down all the street names. Rather than waste
precious petrol he’d stopped at the first large store he’d seen, a garden
supply center, and gone in to find out where he was and what he had to do to go
where he was supposed to. His uniform had got him some quick attention.

“Twelve
sacks of fertilizer.” The voice came from behind him, from a man speaking to
one of the service clerks.

“Any
particular kind sir?”

“Nutrafin.”

That
made the staff pay attention and Archibald’s ears pricked up. Nutrafin was an
ammonium nitrate fertilizer and, while not exactly a controlled substance any
more, it was an ‘object of interest’ when purchased in bulk. Twelve sacks of
the stuff were more than slightly ‘bulk’. That made the purchase more than
slightly ‘interesting’.

Discretely,
Archibald turned around and looked at the would-be purchaser. He was unkempt,
dirty, disheveled, well, a man who spent his time working on other people’s
gardens and didn’t get paid more than a very basic wage could well look like
that. There was something else about him though, something that Archibald
couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was as if he wasn’t quite here, as if a
part of him was detached. Perhaps he was educationally sub-normal and this was
the best job he could get? But if that was the case, why would he have been
trusted with what had to be a major purchase?

“I’m
afraid we’ll have to get an order that large from the warehouse Sir. It’ll take
a while, would you mind waiting? Or perhaps you’d like to come back for it?”

“I’ll
wait. And hurry up, the Goddess is waiting.”

Normally
a remark like that would have added at least 30 minutes to his wait time but
the garden center staff had noted there was something odd about this man as well
and wanted him out. Archibald sympathized with them but the incongruity of the
remark nagged at him. A worker might well refer to an imperious and demanding
female manager as “the goddess” but there was something in the man’s voice that
belied that explanation. There had been an echo of love. Adoration even? For a
brief second Archibald toyed with the idea that the man might be the bottom in
a BDSM relationship but his sordid appearance didn’t fit that either. Then his
distanced attitude clicked in Archibald’s mind. He’d read an intelligence
report about the gorgon incidents around Sheffield, how they appeared to be
able to control people, even those who were wearing their tinfoil hats. Eye
witnesses to the two doomed police officers had remarked on their distant,
remote appearance. And the gorgon had vanished despite an intense hunt.

“Look,
do you have a large-scale map of the area in your back office? That would make
sorting me out a lot easier.” Archibald spoke easily and was relieved that the
on-the-ball manager picked up the hint.

“Yes,
of course Flight Sergeant. Should have thought of that myself. Come with me.”
The two men walked away, into a back office where there was no map but which
did possess a telephone with an outside line.

“Thank’s.
Can you stall that man until I get help?” The manager nodded and quietly left
for the warehouse. Delays were about to multiply drastically. After all, nobody
could work slower than a British worker when he put his mind to the problem.
Behind him Archibald picked up the phone, punched “9” and then dialed the
number for the service hotline.

“This
is Flight Sergeant Archibald here. Could I speak with the duty officer please?”

“Captain
Mannock here Sergeant.”

“Sir,
I’m at the Moors Garden Center, just outside Nottingham. A man’s just come in
here, asking for twelve sacks of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. He’s an odd one
Sir, I may be all wet but I think he’s entranced. He’s acting just like the
descriptions of those two coppers the gorgon killed. And nobody buys that much
ammonium nitrate for their back yard.”

At
the other end of the line, Richard Mannock drummed his pencil on the desk. It
was weak, certainly, but this came from an NCO, almost certainly a recalled
veteran. Such men did not jump at shadows. Anyway, the leads on the missing
gorgon had dried up and there was nothing else to follow. And if gorgons could
entrance people, then it was possible they might be able to exploit their
knowledge. Most people knew how to make ANFO.

“Well
done Sergeant. Can you follow him when he leaves?”

“I’ve
got RAF trucks here Sir, bit obvious for a tail. Hold one.” He covered the
mouthpiece with his hand and looked at the manager who was just re-entering the
room. “We think we’ve got a line on the gorgon that did for Sheffield. Have you
got a van or car I can borrow? And a cell-phone?”

“We’ve
got the garden center van, its just a plain white one. And you can have my cell
phone. But the petrol?”

“If
the van’s full and we get the gorgon, I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry
about petrol again. Thank’s mate.” Archibald took his hand off the mouthpiece.
“Got both Sir. We owe the garden center manager who’s arranged them. Owe him a
lot.”

“Noted
Sergeant. Get on with the tail and don’t be seen. Call us when you’ve found
where he’s going or if you lose him. We’re sending a team down now, they’ll be
there in an hour or so. Even if this guy isn’t entranced and its something
else, its still worth looking into.” The telephone clicked and Archibald
guessed that wheels were already starting to turn very fast.

“Here’s
the keys Flight Sergeant.” The manager handed them over and Archibald left by
the back door, clutching a local map in one hand. A few minutes later, the
suspect finished loading the sacks into the back of his car and, with the rear
suspension sagging dangerously, left. Archibald eased out and followed him,
trying to keep at least one car between them. It wasn’t hard, the man was driving
slowly and steadily, apparently not paying any attention to what was happening
around him. That caused a few outraged honks from horns but he apparently
ignored them.

Eventually
he turned into the driveway of a detached house in what looked like a council
hosing complex. He got out of the car and opened the garage door, allowing
Archibald to see more sacks of fertilizer stacked up inside. The Sergeant drove
past, stopped a hundred yards or so down the road and then got on the
cellphone. This time he got straight through to the duty officer.

“Captain
Mannock Sir? Sergeant Archibald again. I’ve followed the suspect to his home,
there’s a lot more fertilizer in his garage, saw it as I drove past. The
address is.” Archibald fumbled the map for a second. “18 Grays Lane, Clifton
Council Housing Estate.”

“Good
man. An emergency response team is already on its way down. Wait where you are
and they’ll be with you soon.” Mannock hesitated slightly, the Sergeant had
done well and he didn’t want to sound as if he was putting the man down. “We’re
sending in the heavy mob so they can do the rough stuff. We need you to
identify the man from the garden store after they’ve finished cracking skulls.”

Archibald
grinned to himself, he’d been in the RAF long enough to recognize a tactful
‘stay out of their way’ when he heard it. “Very good Sir. Message understood.”

He
settled back in the driver’s seat and, on a whim, opened the glove compartment.
To his delight there was a Mars bar and a Twix pack in. Munching on the chocolate
and watching the house through his mirror, he almost missed the sight of two
Chinook helicopters passing overhead.

B-1B
“Dragon Slayer” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, Approaching
Dis

Major
Curtis Trafford shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing that it was going to
get a lot worse. He had been airborne for ten hours, Dragon Slayer pounding
north, over the sea of murk that represented the dust clouds covering Hell.
They had traveled more that six thousand miles since take-off and he was
already aware that he was now deeper into Hell than any living human had ever
gone. He also knew that his status in that respect was increasing every minute
as the B-1s continued their marathon flight and that meant the aircraft’s fuel
tanks were steadily being depleted. Coming up was their first refueling point,
the tankers were already closing in on the agreed rendezvous point and their
beacons showed clearly on the navigational displays.

The
aerial refueling arrangements were a thing of beauty. The tankers themselves, a
mix of existing KC-10As and newly-modified KC-10Bs, had already refueled once
on the way to the rendezvous and would have to refuel again on the way back.
The arrangements for the next refueling of the B-1s, after they had completed their
strike were even more complex, the KC-10s would have to refuel twice before
making the rendezvous with each of their tankers themselves having to be
refueled in mid-air on the way. Overall, more than 100 tankers were assigned to
this mission and that didn’t change the fact that it only needed one of the
B-1s to develop problems with its air-to-air refueling system and that aircraft
would be inevitably lost. The only air base that could take them was 6,000
miles behind them and there were no alternatives or emergency landing fields.