I strode confidently towards the offices of the biggest freight/passenger line based at Sywell airfield. The pretty receptionist consulted the appointment book on the high-priced mahogany desk. "David Ransom? Go on through, Mr Watson is expecting you." I headed for the office.
"Hi, Frank."
"Dave!" My former business partner leapt to his feet. "Why didn't you tell me it was you?"
"I'm trying to keep a low profile. Look, I need to shift eight hundred people and about twelve tons of cargo from Norfolk to the German Alps, and quite quickly."
"How illegal is this, Dave?" Frank enquired slowly.
"You don't want to know. The less I tell you the less trouble you'll get into."
"Are we talking like when you got mixed up with that lunatic Yank scientist?" he said worriedly. "It took two years before Special Branch left me alone."
I sighed. Frank was an old friend, and the least I owed him was the truth, or as much of it as he'd believe. "I'm working with Johnny West and his lot. There's likely to be an awful lot of shooting, but it's HIGHLY unlikely that the security services will find out. I can't tell you all of it because you'd never believe it; Christ, I don't believe all of it myself."
"Look, Dave, I can't let you use this firm's aircraft for any illegal purpose. I was lucky to stay out of jail when it was just drugs, but you're talking about hiring out my planes to a bloody terrorist organisation... Whoa."
Wordlessly, I placed the briefcase full of used tens and twenties on his desk.
"On second thoughts..." he said slowly. The old offer-shitloads-of-cash trick's never failed yet!
Unfortunately, he insisted on accompanying the planes to the hastily improvised airfield we'd set up on the driest patch of Fenland we could find. To describe his reaction to the massive assemblage of military hardware as 'surprise' would be to make an understatement of monolitic proportions.
"Dave, you are mixed up in some SERIOUS shit!"
"You ain't seen nothing yet," I replied. "D'you reckon those Skyvans will take a small armoured vehicle?"
"They used to be Army Transport Corps, so yeah, I think so. Son of a bitch, that's a T80!"
"Yep. Got any ideas about getting it on a NATO drop pallet?"
Frank began to gibber when the portal generator came online and admitted the fighters and helicopters. It had originally been fitted to a specially adapted Marder APC, but with a certain amount of technical assistance from Mary it had been rigged up on a tripod mounting from the long-defunct Wombat recoilless anti-tank gun and attached to a portable diesel generator. A similar targeting system to that fitted to Aurora was mounted above spade grips from a heavy machine gun to aim it at a fissure and align the lasers. Surrounding the portal area were four very powerful electromagnets to repel Dust and prevent leakage.
"We'll have to widen it a bit," I told the operator, pointing to the huge Belfast cargo job. He nodded, and gestured to the rest of the crew to enlarge the 'clean zone'.
"Dave, I don't think I can cope with this," Frank said slowly. "My grip on reality won't stand much more wierdness. I want to go home."
At this point Xanthania chose to make an appearance. Frank whimpered a bit and then fainted. I sighed.
"Bugger. Can somebody call him a cab and get him home, please?"
Xanthania restrained herself from laughing, and handed John Faa a rolled map of the Wolf's Lair. "This was provided by an inside sympathiser. It shows the position of all the defences. Use it wisely."
"Thanks. We'd better get these planes loaded," he replied. "Edward?"
Eddie emerged from the back of the Belfast. "Give me a couple of hours and I can rig up a box-drop release mechanism. Don't know about the people though."
"Think you can knock up some static lines?" John suggested.
"Probably, but where are we going to get eight hundred parachutes?"
"I might know a bloke," Charlie suggested helpfully. John sighed wearily.
"You always do. That was how we ended up with four hundred RGD-5 hand grenades that didn't detonate and fifty SA-7s that wouldn't launch." Best not to ask what he wanted THOSE for. "Look, just because you know ONE reliable arms dealer does not make you-"
"It's Big Vince."
"Okay, fair enough. Didn't know he'd gone into army surplus."
"They're about as army surplus as your G3, mate!"
I had a VERY bad feeling about this. "Can we trust this Big Vince character?" I asked politely.
"His daughter's living with my older brother, so yeah," Charlie replied. I didn't think that was necessarily a guarantee, but decided against saying so. Besides, if John was ready to trust him then he was probably okay.
John pulled the Ford Cargo up outside a small warehouse in Soho, and we climbed out. "I hope he hasn't sold them yet," Charlie muttered.
"Yeah, people'll be queuing around the block for stolen Army parachutes," John replied sarcastically. His usual amiability had been rather blunted by a long journey in close proximity to Charlie in full cockney-wideboy mode.
We walked in, hearing low voices in conversation.
"What's HE want with a rocket launcher?"
"Got a few scores to settle with some former clients. Doesn't like being ratted on, y'see."
"Right. Fine. Not my problem." Somewhat more quietly: "Jesus Christ."
"Hey, Vince! Still got those parachutes?" Charlie enquired cheerfully. Vince and his client, a weaselly-looking man in a cheap suit, jumped a foot in the air. Vince rallied first.
"John! Charlie! Good to see you again!" There was much handshaking and back-slapping. "The parachutes? 'Course I've still got the bloody things. Can't get rid of them."
"Well, we need them for something," John explained. "You really don't want to know what. Eight hundred at five hundred quid each do you?"
"Perfect, mate. Be right with you." He concluded negotiations with his other client, then turned to us. "Got a truck? Good. I'll have the lads load it up for you."
"Great. By the way, who was that ferret buying for?" I asked. "One of the big dealers?"
"Worse. Nicholas van Hoogsstraden."
"You've sold NICHOLAS VAN HOOGSTRADEN a fucking ROCKET LAUNCHER?!" John yelled. "Vince, are you on crack?"
"Look, I don't like it any more than you do. You wait until he tries to fire it!" Vince grinned. "Right, we'd better get the parachutes loaded up-" There was a tremendous explosion outside. "Oh, decided to test fire it at my warehouse, did he? Hah!" Vince examined the notes he'd been given. "Fake. Typical!"
We went outside. Nothing was left of the weasel in the suit, and there was a large crater in the car park. Our truck was on fire. "Shit! That was a rental!" John complained.
Sirens could be heard in the distance. "Oh, GREAT."
We shoved the parachutes in the back of a couple of Movanos belonging to Vince and legged it just before the fire brigade and armed police arrived. "There goes another cache," Vince complained, sending a text message. The van nearly overturned, and all the windows imploded. Bits of terminally exploded warehouse rained down all around us.
"Bloody hell, Vince," I admonished once my hearing had recovered.
"Hey, at least it wasn't the place where I keep the nukes!"
"NUKES?!"
"Just kidding."
By the time we got back it was early evening, and by some miracle Eddie had got everything organised. John and I checked the parachutes very carefully, and then handed them out.
"Okay, let's get aboard and head out... What the hell's that?"
Metatron appeared over our heads, grinning maniacally. He had a small dark-haired child firmly clamped under one arm.
"Chloe!" John yelled. Isobel screamed.
"It's obvious that I can't blackmail our two heroes, but how about you, West?"
"Bastard! You're DEAD!" John yelled. "I'm going to fucking KILL you!"
"Remember who's got her, West!" Metatron disappeared in a flash.
John stood as if turned to stone. Grief and fear hardened into pure, blazing, white-hot rage. "Get the planes in the air," he said quietly yet with ice-cold, deadly menace. "We're moving out. Now."
"You heard him, let's move!" I yelled.
"Hi, Frank."
"Dave!" My former business partner leapt to his feet. "Why didn't you tell me it was you?"
"I'm trying to keep a low profile. Look, I need to shift eight hundred people and about twelve tons of cargo from Norfolk to the German Alps, and quite quickly."
"How illegal is this, Dave?" Frank enquired slowly.
"You don't want to know. The less I tell you the less trouble you'll get into."
"Are we talking like when you got mixed up with that lunatic Yank scientist?" he said worriedly. "It took two years before Special Branch left me alone."
I sighed. Frank was an old friend, and the least I owed him was the truth, or as much of it as he'd believe. "I'm working with Johnny West and his lot. There's likely to be an awful lot of shooting, but it's HIGHLY unlikely that the security services will find out. I can't tell you all of it because you'd never believe it; Christ, I don't believe all of it myself."
"Look, Dave, I can't let you use this firm's aircraft for any illegal purpose. I was lucky to stay out of jail when it was just drugs, but you're talking about hiring out my planes to a bloody terrorist organisation... Whoa."
Wordlessly, I placed the briefcase full of used tens and twenties on his desk.
"On second thoughts..." he said slowly. The old offer-shitloads-of-cash trick's never failed yet!
Unfortunately, he insisted on accompanying the planes to the hastily improvised airfield we'd set up on the driest patch of Fenland we could find. To describe his reaction to the massive assemblage of military hardware as 'surprise' would be to make an understatement of monolitic proportions.
"Dave, you are mixed up in some SERIOUS shit!"
"You ain't seen nothing yet," I replied. "D'you reckon those Skyvans will take a small armoured vehicle?"
"They used to be Army Transport Corps, so yeah, I think so. Son of a bitch, that's a T80!"
"Yep. Got any ideas about getting it on a NATO drop pallet?"
Frank began to gibber when the portal generator came online and admitted the fighters and helicopters. It had originally been fitted to a specially adapted Marder APC, but with a certain amount of technical assistance from Mary it had been rigged up on a tripod mounting from the long-defunct Wombat recoilless anti-tank gun and attached to a portable diesel generator. A similar targeting system to that fitted to Aurora was mounted above spade grips from a heavy machine gun to aim it at a fissure and align the lasers. Surrounding the portal area were four very powerful electromagnets to repel Dust and prevent leakage.
"We'll have to widen it a bit," I told the operator, pointing to the huge Belfast cargo job. He nodded, and gestured to the rest of the crew to enlarge the 'clean zone'.
"Dave, I don't think I can cope with this," Frank said slowly. "My grip on reality won't stand much more wierdness. I want to go home."
At this point Xanthania chose to make an appearance. Frank whimpered a bit and then fainted. I sighed.
"Bugger. Can somebody call him a cab and get him home, please?"
Xanthania restrained herself from laughing, and handed John Faa a rolled map of the Wolf's Lair. "This was provided by an inside sympathiser. It shows the position of all the defences. Use it wisely."
"Thanks. We'd better get these planes loaded," he replied. "Edward?"
Eddie emerged from the back of the Belfast. "Give me a couple of hours and I can rig up a box-drop release mechanism. Don't know about the people though."
"Think you can knock up some static lines?" John suggested.
"Probably, but where are we going to get eight hundred parachutes?"
"I might know a bloke," Charlie suggested helpfully. John sighed wearily.
"You always do. That was how we ended up with four hundred RGD-5 hand grenades that didn't detonate and fifty SA-7s that wouldn't launch." Best not to ask what he wanted THOSE for. "Look, just because you know ONE reliable arms dealer does not make you-"
"It's Big Vince."
"Okay, fair enough. Didn't know he'd gone into army surplus."
"They're about as army surplus as your G3, mate!"
I had a VERY bad feeling about this. "Can we trust this Big Vince character?" I asked politely.
"His daughter's living with my older brother, so yeah," Charlie replied. I didn't think that was necessarily a guarantee, but decided against saying so. Besides, if John was ready to trust him then he was probably okay.
John pulled the Ford Cargo up outside a small warehouse in Soho, and we climbed out. "I hope he hasn't sold them yet," Charlie muttered.
"Yeah, people'll be queuing around the block for stolen Army parachutes," John replied sarcastically. His usual amiability had been rather blunted by a long journey in close proximity to Charlie in full cockney-wideboy mode.
We walked in, hearing low voices in conversation.
"What's HE want with a rocket launcher?"
"Got a few scores to settle with some former clients. Doesn't like being ratted on, y'see."
"Right. Fine. Not my problem." Somewhat more quietly: "Jesus Christ."
"Hey, Vince! Still got those parachutes?" Charlie enquired cheerfully. Vince and his client, a weaselly-looking man in a cheap suit, jumped a foot in the air. Vince rallied first.
"John! Charlie! Good to see you again!" There was much handshaking and back-slapping. "The parachutes? 'Course I've still got the bloody things. Can't get rid of them."
"Well, we need them for something," John explained. "You really don't want to know what. Eight hundred at five hundred quid each do you?"
"Perfect, mate. Be right with you." He concluded negotiations with his other client, then turned to us. "Got a truck? Good. I'll have the lads load it up for you."
"Great. By the way, who was that ferret buying for?" I asked. "One of the big dealers?"
"Worse. Nicholas van Hoogsstraden."
"You've sold NICHOLAS VAN HOOGSTRADEN a fucking ROCKET LAUNCHER?!" John yelled. "Vince, are you on crack?"
"Look, I don't like it any more than you do. You wait until he tries to fire it!" Vince grinned. "Right, we'd better get the parachutes loaded up-" There was a tremendous explosion outside. "Oh, decided to test fire it at my warehouse, did he? Hah!" Vince examined the notes he'd been given. "Fake. Typical!"
We went outside. Nothing was left of the weasel in the suit, and there was a large crater in the car park. Our truck was on fire. "Shit! That was a rental!" John complained.
Sirens could be heard in the distance. "Oh, GREAT."
We shoved the parachutes in the back of a couple of Movanos belonging to Vince and legged it just before the fire brigade and armed police arrived. "There goes another cache," Vince complained, sending a text message. The van nearly overturned, and all the windows imploded. Bits of terminally exploded warehouse rained down all around us.
"Bloody hell, Vince," I admonished once my hearing had recovered.
"Hey, at least it wasn't the place where I keep the nukes!"
"NUKES?!"
"Just kidding."
By the time we got back it was early evening, and by some miracle Eddie had got everything organised. John and I checked the parachutes very carefully, and then handed them out.
"Okay, let's get aboard and head out... What the hell's that?"
Metatron appeared over our heads, grinning maniacally. He had a small dark-haired child firmly clamped under one arm.
"Chloe!" John yelled. Isobel screamed.
"It's obvious that I can't blackmail our two heroes, but how about you, West?"
"Bastard! You're DEAD!" John yelled. "I'm going to fucking KILL you!"
"Remember who's got her, West!" Metatron disappeared in a flash.
John stood as if turned to stone. Grief and fear hardened into pure, blazing, white-hot rage. "Get the planes in the air," he said quietly yet with ice-cold, deadly menace. "We're moving out. Now."
"You heard him, let's move!" I yelled.