Inspector Santon sat in his police van, listening to the tape from Robbins' tape recorder on a portable player. Shortly after Bigwig had finished explaining back at Josie's house, Santon had received an urgent call from Coyle, informing him that Dr Drake had been found injured in his home, following a shootout. Leaving Bigwig in Josie's care, Santon had hurried to Sydmonton. There, he had found the police, accompanied by paramedics and the Fire Brigade swarming Dr Drake's rented cottage.
Several charred corpses were being photographed, bagged and tagged, and moved out of the semi-ruined house on gurneys, on their way to the morgue. Military-grade weapons had been found on the bodies, but, like with the other shooter back in London, no identification whatsoever. According to the local sheriff, the attack had been a random act of violence that had gone terribly wrong – but Santon already knew better.
As the paramedics wheeled Drake out on a stretcher, the semiconscious scientist had placed this mysterious journalist's bag into his hands. Before Santon could question Drake what was in it, or what had happened to Johnson the man had passed out from blood loss and was hurryingly carried to the ambulance. He was taken to a local clinic and put on life support, before being airlifted to London for surgery.
While forensics swept the crime scene, Santon got to work on his own investigation. Within the privacy of his van, he had emptied the bag, examining the evidence. The tape recorder had caught his eye. Sitting in the driver's seat, Santon listened carefully to this echo from the past – thanks to Robbins, everything that Johnson had gone through on that fateful flight was right here, in the form of jumbled dialogue, distorted by multiple background noises, but audible nonetheless:
"...Weather stations report a storm entering your flight path..." Pilot Julio Andre's voice talking to Tom Shelton was clearly recognisable in the playback, "We'll be going through there SAM Control. Over." "Negative on that. Radar station reports it's too severe. We recommend you turn to heading 270 and circle around it." "Roger that SAM Control. Turning to heading 270." So far, the flight was going just as the aviation analysts had pieced it together from the air-to-ground recordings retrieved from the flight club. Then suddenly, he heard a new voice – belonging to a man, which supposedly, until now, was never on that flight.
"You're still under contract! I demand you do what I'm paying you for...!" Santon needn't ask who this was – he was finally hearing the voice of the supposedly non-existent Russell Robbins first hand! But how come there was no mention of him on the air-to-ground tapes, or in the charter documentation? Unless of course, Tom Shelton had held back something in his statement... Slowly piecing the plot together, he continued listening to the rest of the recording. Suddenly, the playback became distorted with heavy static for a moment, as if by some sort of interference. In the background, he could hear the pilot declaring an emergency.
"Mayday, mayday! 232-G to SAM Control, declaring an emergency. We've lost our bearings to instrumentation failure. Requesting emergency guidance..." At that moment, the playback went silent, as if the recorder had momentarily gone dead. That is it, Santon thought. That's when they time-jumped into the future... Then Johnson's voice reappeared, replacing the pilot's, who had apparently been incapacitated.
"SAM Control, this is 232-G, declaring an emergency! This is a mayday! The pilot is down; I need instructions to fly the plane. Does anybody hear me, over? I repeat, the pilot is down. We need help...!" Santon could hear the frightened voices of Johnson's two companions conversing, while the man struggled to restore contact with the ground without success. He couldn't help but admire that man's courage as he made a desperate attempt to turn the plane around and try an emergency landing, while his friend Dr Shaw read the onboard flight manual, giving him instructions.
"Damn, the terrain is crappy! Pull up, Al! Get us back up!" "No, it's too late now; we're going in. Everybody kneel forward and put your hands between your knees, hands over your head." Santon then heard the blood-curdling sound of the crash, followed by a loud ruckus, as the three survivors scampered to evacuate the plane, leaving their first fatality behind, "Forget him, you blithering fools, he's dead! We have to get out of here now, or we'll be joining him when this plane goes up in flames. Move it!" At long last, Santon had the full story. So Captain Andre had died in mid-flight from a heart attack; one disappearance was solved. Two more to go and he'd finally have enough proof to clear Johnson's name. He continued to listen carefully.
"Still no sign of rescue. No contact from Sergei. If only that fool McEwen hasn't crashed his chopper..." Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. That missing RAF pilot Major James McEwen and his crew had also been thrown into the future! "I don't know how long I'll be able to keep my cover under wraps..." Best Santon could figure, this was sometime in the aftermath of the crash; finding himself stranded with his would-be victims, the would-be assassin was forced to put his plans on hold, until he could figure out an escape.
"New unexpected development: it seems the reason behind this impossibly changed world is due to the fact that we've somehow time-travelled into the future. Working on escape plan. Can't keep up pretences much longer – Johnson already suspects me and will soon work it all out. I need to find a willing associate to help me take down that bastard and his friends..." The next recording was much longer and included an entire conversation between Robbins and an unknown third party, apparently recorded by accident.
"...Frith of Inle, this thing is alive! We are flying!" "I told you, Captain Vervain, I'm a man of my word. I expect better trust from now on, if you wish to see Johnson dead." It seemed Robbins had finally found his willing associate, "So what's your vendetta against that troublemaker ithe?" "Because Alan Johnson and I have a long-standing score to settle - he has yet to learn of the consequences for crossing me. My associates Tom Shelton and Sven Shertok only signed up on this for the money – personally, I'll settle with the pleasure of watching Johnson's suffering as I kill his friends one by one, like I did his family!" Santon's eyes flashed dangerously at the mention of these two names. So both Commissioner Shertok and Mr Shelton were in on this! But what was that about a long-standing score? Could there be more to Robbins' motives than what met the eye? He continued listening to the confession, feeling utterly sickened by that raving madman's gloating.
"So this…human weapon you speak of, will it benefit the General in any way?" "Black Inferno gives whoever controls it, the power to eliminate each and every single one of his enemies without blinking hard. As my old boss Sergey always said: 'Only the powerful survive.' Personally, I intend to kill Johnson, Shaw and McEwen just for the sheer pleasure of it!" A final recording painted a rather grim picture of the disaster that had followed soon after.
"General Woundwort has accepted my gift and agreed to the alliance. Johnson and his little friends thinking me dead will work perfectly to my advantage, while I reassemble Black Inferno. I still can't figure out why Red Hand never carried out its strike back in 2012 as intended; nonetheless, it will now serve me well in annihilating both Johnson and this entire talking-rabbit world in one foul swoop...!"
Santon needn't hear the rest; switching off the player, he sunk back in his seat, utterly shaken. The entire plot had finally been unravelled; the deaths of Johnson's wife and daughter, all those mysterious deaths and disappearances, the whole deal had been the work of Red Hand, in their desperate attempt to protect their precious weapon, with which they intended to push the world into a new world war. And, on Johnson's part, there was his discovery of that faraway future world of his rabbit friends, who had unknowingly dragged into this, and was now fighting to keep safe. But now, thanks to Robbins having left behind a confession of Red Hand's dirty scam - an even better source of information than Mile's lost disk -, the tables would finally turn.
Taking out his cell phone, Santon rang Coyle back in London, "I'm e-mailing you an important evidence package – I want it delivered to Judge Ruben immediately. Tell him, I want a search warrant for the Buxton estate. Make sure you leave out anything about the future; only the parts about Red Hand's plot will suffice. I also want arrest warrants put out on every person mentioned in this recording, as well as search warrants for their homes. Any updates on your end?"
"The Russian Embassy got back to us with a match for Buxton's DNA and fingerprints," reported Coyle, "The dead man is indeed Sergei Petrograd. Apparently this guy has been on the wanted-person's list in several countries, including his native Russia, for over 25 years for terrorist activities and war crimes..."
"Not anymore. What about Robbins? Any useful fingerprints on those documents?
"No, too many alien fingerprints and contaminants. We're still trying to match the handwriting against that of any known criminals or terrorists in our database, but it will take some time." Santon shook his head impatiently. They didn't have much time to spare. At that moment, a police officer knocked on the car window.
"Excuse me, Inspector, we have the pictures from that camera," he said, handing Santon a brown envelope containing the photographs from Alan's camera, which had been developed and printed at the local police station on Santon's request. Santon took the envelope, hastily tucking it in his pocket and out of sight. The less anyone knew about this, the better.
"Thanks. Any news on Dr Drake?" asked Santon, remembering Drake's importance for the future. The officer nodded in reassurance, "Pretty bad bullet wound, but the doctor says he should make a full recovery. Don't worry Inspector. Your people have men at the hospital watching over him around the clock, as you requested."
Once the constable was gone, Santon turned to examine the final piece of evidence: the photographs taken on Dr Johnson's camera. A dozen or so photographs fell out onto his lap, telling the same story he had learned from the recorder, in the form of pictures. Lining them out on the passenger seat, Santon would able to get his first look at the future world.
There was an out-of-focus picture of two giant rabbits, similar to Bigwig, standing on the edge of a clearing with the blurred outline of a giant fox springing at them; another large group of giant rabbits, including the two from the first picture, Johnson, Shaw and McEwen visible among them, posing for the camera atop Watership Down, looking close like brothers. Most of the other photographs showed them at different moments during their journey. Then Santon found several photographs of some other, unfamiliar rabbits, which he guessed were the Efrafans, the minions of this General Woundwort.
A picture of the rabbit in question sent a chill down his spine as he laid eyes on the most terrible-looking rabbit he had ever seen before, with jet-black fur, a gleaming red eye in one socket and a blind milk-white one in the other, and pointed front teeth like a rat; General Woundwort in the flesh, posing for the camera. But it was only the final photograph that made the Inspector's eyes widen in shock.
He could see an excavation site of some description, with a weatherworn missile being unearthed. He could just make out a tell-tale black-hand-held-in-a-stop-gesture-crest engraved on the side of the projectile; Black Inferno being unearthed in the future by the Efrafans. Having seen enough, he put the photographs aside.
"God help us," he muttered, finally realising what a fool he had been by not listening to Johnson from the start; there was no longer any doubt that there was indeed a terrorist faction out there in possession of a weapon of mass destruction, which had already wiped out one world, and now this one was next. Question was how much time did they have? At that moment, the constable reappeared at the window.
"Inspector, we found Tom Shelton; he's in hospital in Newbury, suffering from hypothermia." He explained how the police had fished Shelton out of a lake outside his flight club. Apparently, he had gotten into a fight with someone who had thrown him through the ice. They said they also found the wreckage of Dr Johnson's plane submerged under the ice – a little detail Shelton had failed to disclose in his original statement. Santon however was pleased. At last, he just might have gotten this case back on track. But first, he'd have to do a bit of sick visiting.
Activating the siren of his police van, he set off at full speed for Newbury hospital, where he intended to get some answers out of Tom Shelton, once and for all.
Meanwhile, back at Buxton Hall, Hazel and Hawkbit still lay strapped to the interrogation table, battered and exhausted. Sven had just about finished interrogating them about the future; a sizable stack of tapes lay on the table beside the recorder. Both rabbits, barely alive after all that torture they had endured over the past few hours, had been unable to hold back anything. The origin of their world, Dr Drake's role in the rise of the future world, the extinction of mankind, how time travel was accomplished, and everything they and Alan had been doing to change the future.
By the time he had finished extracting every last ounce of information he could get, the wheels in Sven's head were turning like mad at the golden opportunity now open to him. With Johnson out of the way, the secret of the future was now all his. And the possibilities were simply boundless. He turned to his men, "Do you realise what this information could mean to Red Hand?"
"A fortune beyond imagination, boss?" suggested Norris, thinking only of the profit these two intelligent rabbits would fetch them. Like most of Red Hand's hired guns, his only major concern was money; and he knew enough to picture the sum any scientist worth his salt would pay for a sample of such a rare and unusual specimen. Sven however couldn't give a damn about money at this point, his mind set on much bigger goals.
"You fool! Don't you see?" he barked incredulously, "We have in our hands the inside track on every major event that will determine the future. Now, if anybody had a competitive edge in reshaping civilisation, it's us!"
"Why, of course!" said Norris, finally catching on to his boss' sinister intentions, "If we play our cards right, we'll have the power to reshape the future of mankind at our own accord, instead of walking blindly towards our destiny. Just think, we started out to dismantle the European Union and create a world of National Socialism with Black Inferno, but now we can go much farther than that!"
"I see your limited intelligence is finally serving you well for a change, Norris," said Sven dryly, deeply lost in thought. Once Black Inferno had launched and carried out the strike against the world's most powerful capitols, permanently crippling the balance of power and throwing the entire world into conflict and anarchy, as per Sergei's original plan, their true mission could begin. With them in control, they could then start planning long-term; when that asteroid which would someday destroy the Earth came, the world would be ready; the allies of Red Hand would survive, while any undesirables would be left to die out, paving the way for a new world order.
"What about these two rascals, boss?" asked Norris, gesturing at the two battered rabbits still strapped onto the table. Sven gave Hazel and Hawkbit a look of pure malice, "I don't think we need them anymore; we have all the information we could get out of them." Despite their pain and exhaustion, the two rabbits paled with fear; did this mean that now that their captor had gotten the secret of their world out of them they were useless, a mere liability to be disposed of?
"So do we kill them now?" asked Samir gleefully, caressing the blade of a butcher's knife he had been sharpening. Sven considered hard. He knew the golden rule of secrecy: no witnesses allowed. However, like Norris had pointed out, these creatures were extremely valuable, so he'd rather keep them alive, as to have two live specimens to study. Their DNA alone could revolutionise genetics overnight, perhaps open new venues in animal warfare... On the other hand, he couldn't risk having their human intelligence, or his plans for that matter, reaching the wrong ears. He turned to the torturer.
"No, we're simply having them fixed, like good, docile little rabbits. Samir, once we're finished here, lobotomise them, to ensure their silence. However, make sure you don't kill them; our scientists can still use them for genetic sampling with their brains sliced up."
Brains sliced up... Oh, Frith...!
Although not sure exactly what Sven meant to do with them, Hazel nearly went tharn with horror; their captor meant to take away their human intelligence, rendering them mindless, unintelligent creatures, without the ability of speech or reason. That seemed a fate even worse than meeting the Black Rabbit of Inle face-to-face.
The psychotic Samir seemed rather disappointed that his master had denied him the fun of vivisecting the two rabbits, yet didn't argue, as he went to fetch his surgery kit to perform the lobotomy. Sven picked up the tapes and a portable icebox containing several test tubes of blood samples he had collected, which he packed in an armoured briefcase, "Norris, take this stuff to the safe and lock it up. I'm going and check if Black Inferno is good to go yet."
The two men hurried out, leaving Hazel and Hawkbit alone, dreading Samir's return. So far, there had been no sign of Alan. Was he really dead? Maybe there was nobody coming for them? How much longer could they hold out? Even if Alan or someone else did come for them eventually, it would be too late? How could he have failed his friends – failed himself – like this? Hazel could no longer hold back his tears of despair and wept.
Author's note: Coming up next, the storming of Buxton Hall. Will they be able to stop Black Inferno in time and find Hazel and Hawkbit, it's too late? What will the future turn out now? You'll soon find out!