Down: Trilogy Box Set (123 page)

When neither John or Trevor answered right away, Slaine had said, “I want to make it clear that this is not an official government request. I know full well that the primary mission is to shut off the spigot of Hellers from the other side and to extract information from that Loomis fellow. But if there’s a way …”

John had spoken for both of them when he said, “Those boys could still be close to the Sevenoaks hot zone. Alternatively they could have gone off on their own or been taken away from there. There’s no way of knowing.”

“I understand that some of you will be operating near the Sevenoaks zone,” Slaine said.

“We will and we’ll be sure to look for them and try to send them back through if we find them. You’re right, it’s not our primary mission but we’re going to do whatever we can to repatriate these boys and any children we find.”

Slaine put his glasses back on, rose, and extended a hand. “As a father, that’s all I could ask for.”

One day prior to departure John had visited the secluded country house in Hampshire to ask a favor of King Henry. When he arrived, Henry had been in the bath for over an hour and from the hall John had heard the monarch loudly singing madrigals.

“He’s in fine form,” John had said.

“You’ve no idea,” Gough had replied.

“How’re you holding up?”

“Me? Despite being away from my family, I’m fine, more than fine. Being able to question him systematically is a boon to historical research. It’s fundamentally altering our view of the Tudor period. For a man of over five hundred years, his memory is quite keen.”

“Should we expect a new edition of your biography sometime in the future?”

“Only if the pope is Catholic,” Gough had replied.

“How long’s he likely to be? I’m on a tight schedule.”

“No telling, really. Announcing you won’t help. He famously kept people waiting at court and he’s no different now. But I’ve got a trick up my sleeve. Hang on a minute.”

When Gough had returned to say that the king was emerging from his bath John asked him how he’d done it.

“I’m afraid I’ve created a bit of a monster. The other day I casually mentioned that there were many TV shows and movies about his life and he demanded to see one. The MI5 research department was very helpful and they had the 1970 mini-series sent over,
The Six Wives of Henry VIII
. Well, he devoured that, binge-watched it, as they say and now he’s started the HBO series, the one with Jonathan Rhys Meyers. He thinks he’s a splendid Henry. I told him the next episode was ready. He’ll be out shortly.”

Henry had emerged in a rather fluffy robe, his purplish, scarred legs poking out, to find John waiting in his bedroom.

“Why it is John Camp!” he had said. “Have you come to watch this actor portray my person? It is quite marvelous though I have told Scholar Gough that the lack of verisimilitude is legion. As example of this, I can assure you that Anne Boleyn was not near so fetching.”

John had explained what he needed and had to goad a reluctant Henry into cooperating. He had brought supplies with him: special paper, ink, and a quill pen and when Henry had written the letter and signed it he asked John a burning question.

“Tell me, Master Camp. How long do you intend to keep me within this gilded cage?”

“I don’t know the answer. Do you want to go back?”

“Back to Hell,” Henry had said, his voice trailing off in thought. “What man who possesses his faculties would want that? Yet, I know it was my fate to be sent there and it is my fate to return. When I am ready I will surely demand my release but I am not of this mind as of yet. I have work to do with Scholar Gough to correct errors of record regarding my reign and while I do so I would partake of your excellent food and drink and gaze upon your—what is it called again?”

“Television,” Gough had said helpfully.

“Yes, that.” The king had then summoned John closer with a crooked finger. “I did something to benefit you,” he had whispered. “Now do something for me. Have them bring me women who resemble the actor who played Anne Boleyn, or even better, the actress herself.”

John had laughed. “No promises but I’ll see what I can do.”

“In all seriousness, I must return to my realm before long. You have a monarch, as gracious a queen as any country might possess. There can only be one ruler at a time. And I have tossed about in this wonderful and soft bed at the thought of my throne being usurped in my absence. Cromwell would have it. Suffolk would have it. The snakes will be a slithering, that you can be sure. You travel on the morrow?”

“In the morning,” John had said.

“Tell them, one and all, that their king is well and will be returning. Tell them there will be fearsome wages to pay for the crime of treason and usurpation. Tell them that.”

On the evening before the mission John had returned to his flat with a bag of take-away curry from one of the only restaurants in the Dartford area still open for business. Despite the logistical problems he had insisted on one last night of normalcy and he had gotten a ride from Credenhill on what he had come to call his heli-taxi. With the evacuation of Greater London in its early chaotic stages, helicopter travel was the only way to reliably travel provided the pilots didn’t get too close to the hot zones. Heathrow and the other London airports had been closed. Rail, underground, and coach service were still on. Trains and government-chartered coaches were packed with evacuees heading to temporary resettlement centers in designated army bases around the country. Trevor had opted to return to Brixton to help his parents pack their belongings. With gawking onlookers shouting in anger he waved goodbye to them as his helicopter lifted off from nearby Brockwell Park to ferry them to Manchester to stay with relatives.

Over the course of the evening, Kyle and then Emily, had also joined John.

“All done?” John had asked Kyle.

“Done and packed. Gimme a shower beer, bro. I haven’t washed in days.”

“You know that ripe smell you’ve got going on?” John had said. “That’s nothing to what’s coming. By the way, you’re going to be having curry tonight. I got a mild one for you.”

When Emily had arrived she was greeted with a passionate embrace.

“Where’s Kyle?” she had asked.

“In the shower. How’d your day go?”

“For what it’s worth, CERN now has full, remote operational control of MAAC. They can sit in Geneva and safely run the collider. Hopefully, that will prove useful.”

“Hopefully.”

“All we need now is to find Paul Loomis and, not to overuse the word, hopefully, he’ll really know what to do. Is that curry I smell?”

“It’s not from our usual but hopefully it’s all right.”

She had smiled and said, “A good curry and one more night together in our wonderful bed. What else could a girl hope for?”

The day finally arrived. Early in the morning John, Emily, and Kyle were ferried by helicopter first to collect Trevor in Brixton and then to a rally point just south of the River Mole, a large park in Fetcham, a town adjacent to Leatherhead. The SAS helicopters had already landed and A Squadron was mustering. Ben had also arrived, shepherding a doddering Professor Nightingale who seemed to be the only one in the park sporting a smile.

All the travelers were wearing an approved wardrobe of one hundred percent natural fabrics, including wooden buttons. Army quartermasters and tailors had done the work for soldiers and civilians alike. Everyone had his dental work attended to in the preceding days. Their backpacks were canvas with leather straps, their boots leather with cotton stitching and natural rubber soles. The five critical backpacks, large, heavy, over-stuffed affairs, were allocated to John and the four group captains. Kyle had lobbied for one because, after all, they bore the fruits of his labor, but John had gently persuaded him that his bum knee made mobility hard enough without the extra weight. There had been considerable debate about weapons for the SAS troops. Everyone was aware their guns and knives wouldn’t make it across but there was concern among SAS brass about adequately dealing with hostiles within the hot zone prior to transfer. John had argued that the men would have to make do without guns when they crossed so he wasn’t too worried about getting to the transfer point but the army didn’t want any unnecessary risks. There had been some discussion about carrying assault weapons into the hot zone but the notion of leaving a pile of rifles behind for Hellers to find inside Leatherhead hadn’t been palatable. The final decision was to procure sixty biometric smart handguns keyed to the palm prints of the SAS men which, when left behind, would be useless to foraging Hellers or civilians.

As small drones circled overhead Emily introduced herself to Professor Nightingale.

“Ah, yes, I was told there’d be another scientist on the journey,” he said.

“It was very brave of you to volunteer,” she said.

“My days on this side of the grass are limited,” he said. “A young person such as yourself, you’re the brave one. Tell me, how awful is it over there?”

“I won’t lie. It’s pretty bad. There are some noble souls among the Hellers, men and women who did evil but, in my judgment, aren’t truly evil, but most of the people you’ll encounter are vile.”

“I’m told a different set of natural laws is operative,” he said.

“If you’re able to keep your revulsion in check I think you might find some of it fascinating.”

“Not many scientists there, eh?”

“Not many at all, I’m happy to say. There’s one I need to find.”

“Your Dr. Loomis.”

“Yes,” she said, “Paul.”

John mingled with the troops. Captain Marsh, good to his reputation, objected to John inspecting his A Troop.

“My men are properly kitted out and ready and don’t need you having a butchers, mate,” he said.

“I’m sure they are,” John said, moving to B Troop where he had a decidedly friendlier reception from Captain Yates. Yates had his men stand at ease while John chatted with them, admired their SAS shoulder patches with the Who Dares Wins mottos stitched onto their jackets with cotton thread, and had a look at one of the biometric pistols.

“They’re in fine form,” John told Yates. “If you’d like to let them lob in a question or two, I’m open to it.”

“Yeah, why not?” Yates said. “Can’t see the harm.”

One of the men, a lance corporal named Jarvis, asked in a Geordie accent, “Will I really have to ride a horse? I hate the bloody creatures.”

One of his mates answered, “We’ll ride. You can muck out the stables for the rest of us.”

John smiled, and clapped the soldier on the shoulder. “You never know, but if you have to, a fine specimen like you should do fine. Trevor Jones over there never rode a day in his life and wound up covering some serious territory on horseback when he went over.”

Captain Gatti’s C Troop and Captain Greene’s D Troop got the same treatment and while John was talking to a knot of D troopers, Major Parker-Burns climbed onto the bonnet of his Husky and called A Squadron to formation.

“Men,” he shouted when they were lined up, “you are embarking on a mission unlike any the SAS or indeed, any regiment within the British Army, has ever undertaken. I can hardly imagine the circumstances you will shortly encounter, the perils you will face, the challenges you will endure. While training for this mission has been bare-bones, A Squadron is the finest, best-trained, most nimble, and fearsome group of men in her majesty’s service. And what is your mission? It is nothing short of saving this great nation from an existential threat as great as any which has faced Britain. When you return, not if, but when, you will have entered into the annals of the SAS and your accomplishments will be celebrated until the end of time. I only wish I had been given permission to join you but rest assured, you are under the command of your superb officers and will have the able assistance of some fine men and one brave lady who will accompany you as mission specialists. Now that the appointed hour is upon us, I wish you Godspeed and safe return.”

Gatti’s C Troop had the point with A and B Troops just behind and flanking, and D Troop at the rear, the fourth element in a diamond formation. A corporal in D Troop, a ginger-bearded giant whom the lads called Moose, had been tasked with carrying the chemist on his back.

“How much do you weigh?” the soldier asked Nightingale.

“Just over nine stone,” the professor replied, waiting for his piggyback. “Will you be able to carry me, do you think?”

“Nine stone? I’ve had shits bigger than you.”

The one thing they had neglected to game out was where the civilians would march in the formation so John hastily made the call. He tucked Emily, Trevor, Kyle, and the professor just in front of D Troop for maximal protection.

“Where are you going to be?” Emily asked.

“Right by your side,” he said. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Ben came over and wished them well. “Make sure you return, all right?” he said.

“We’ll try to come back with all our bits,” Trevor said, giving him a hug. “Don’t envy you your job. You’ve got a damn sight more Hellers to deal with this time around. Don’t let them get the upper hand. We’re counting on you.”

“We’ll prevail,” Ben said. “We have no choice.”

As they began marching toward the bridge over the River Mole, Trevor said with a sigh, “Once more into the breach.”

“Ah, you know Shakespeare,” the professor said from high on Moose’s back.

“Do I?” Trevor asked.

“Why yes,” Nightingale said. “Henry the Fifth, Act Three, I believe. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead!’”

Moose cocked his neck and said, “What’s he going on about?”

They marched at double-time until they crossed the bridge when Captain Marsh at the point slowed the formation to a walk. They had come off the bridge too bunched up for his liking and he ordered them to fan out along Bridge Street.

It wasn’t long before they encountered the first bodies. It was late spring. The daytime temperatures were not very warm but the corpses had begun to bloat and discolor. The soldiers glanced at them but they had all seen worse in deployments to the Middle East and Africa.