Disclaimer: see Chapter 1
Chapter 5
A bright shimmer broke the dullness of early dawn as T'Pol and Malcolm transported down to the surface, Malcolm with a cautious phase pistol in hand. The surrounding landscape was washed out and pale at the start of what promised to be a warm summer's day.
They checked their scanners to confirm they were alone. No human bio-signs showed. They had set down in a wooded area near to the camp and only animal life was present in the vicinity.
Hoshi had discovered from the transmissions she intercepted that there was little private transport available - at least, she thought that was the situation. She had cautioned that it was difficult to find out much of substance in the short time she'd had for study. The public bus system in contrast was well developed and frequent. The plan was for T'Pol and Malcolm to wait until a bus passed the road leading to the base, then walk up to the entrance as if they had been riding on it.
T'Pol was wearing a close fitting navy skirt and jacket with a pink blouse. The clothing was uncomfortably restrictive - the old fashioned materials had no give in them - adequate but no more than that. Phlox had disguised her pointed ears with his customary skill and they would pass as human unless subjected to the closest inspection. A small hat pulled down over their tips provided an additional precaution.
She stood alertly, her scanner held at the ready and her eyes raking their surroundings. As she waited, she considered what line of conversation she should take when they initiated contact with the inhabitants. It would be a difficult task to draw out the information without raising suspicions.
Malcolm had been surprised on first donning his outfit on the ship and looking in a mirror. With gray flannel pants, white shirt, navy tie and that dubious tweed jacket, he looked like one of those clean cut Englishmen that appeared in Trip's old movies. All he needed was a pipe and he would be a perfect!
The damp morning air carried a chill and Malcolm was grateful for the warmth of the tweed, despite his misgivings over its suitability for his role. He found the woodland smells incredibly evocative. This 'Earth' might not be his own planet, but it was so close to it. He could almost believe he had made it home from their apparently hopeless mission to the dreaded Expanse. His eyes slid over the dew-laden grasses, mossy banks, damp earth - the unmistakable landscape of Earth. Was it wrong to feel a flicker of pleasure, although Trip and Travis were missing and God knew when, if or how they would find their way home?
Malcolm cast a final look around, then sat down on a low rock and pulled out his ID card. He had already read it several times but felt a compulsion to examine it once more. The forgers had used a recent image to generate the photograph and the rigors of the Expanse could be read in the serious face that gazed out at him. A weariness was clearly apparent in his features, those tired eyes.
A shiver ran up his spine. He was unused to such self-examination. Sometimes there was just too much for a person to confront. Better to leave it alone, allow it to diminish rather than indulge in unsettling introspection. He shied away from those memories that had etched their way onto his face.
"Remarkable work," he commented instead, turning the card in his fingers but T'Pol didn't answer. He shoved it back in his inside pocket, then got out their 'orders'. T'Pol had made them wide-ranging; they ordered any military personnel to give them virtually any assistance they required. "Do you think these will be okay?" worried Malcolm. "Won't they be wary of such open-ended instructions?"
T'Pol gazed down at him. "In my experience, stating that one's mission is classified is advantageous in deflecting further comment and inquiry. Being given a wide remit is consistent with our deception."
"Good point," admitted Malcolm. "And people don't like to cross spooks."
T'Pol raised an elegant eyebrow in query.
"Uhh... a term for secret servicemen," said Malcolm.
"Indeed? I agree. That would be especially true in a wartime setting. We also require flexibility. It would be difficult to be more precise without making potentially unwarranted assumptions."
Malcolm grunted and put the orders away.
The light was growing stronger now. Malcolm felt a familiar flutter of anticipation as he waited to go into action. He wanted to get up and pace, but restrained himself. Only the barest jigging of his left leg betrayed his impatience. He wondered if T'Pol felt it also but her face was impassive, unchanging. How could she be so calm? Even for a Vulcan, it must be hard. Particularly in these circumstances. His mind wandered to this Earth and his own. Would he ever see his own again? His family and friends there? Then he thought of those he'd lost. The Captain... He slammed down on the guilt he felt about the Captain's death. Now was not the time. That had to wait until Enterprise was safely home and he could relinquish his responsibilities.
A low growling resolved into the straining engine of a bus as it came trundling along the road. It passed their position without slacking pace.
"We should go," said T'Pol.
Malcolm nodded. He called Enterprise to report their status then concealed their equipment - scanners, phase pistol and communicators - in a rabbit hole. If they were unable to return for it, they would rely on emergency beacons built into the heels of their shoes. The beacons were set up such that a sharp sequence of taps would activate them to alert the operator on Enterprise so they could be transported away - or so they hoped. Malcolm still felt naked without his weapon.
T'Pol led the way, making for the road, with Malcolm following. A turn in the road brought the camp into view ahead of them.
It was surrounded by a daunting barbed wire perimeter fence with additional defenses ranged behind it. Tall watchtowers were located at intervals along the fence with dark shapes of lookouts moving around them. No doubt they also housed powerful searchlights for nighttime use.
The gatehouse at the entrance to the camp was a substantial brick-built building. Next to it was a checkpoint barring the access road. There were three soldiers in khaki uniform at the checkpoint, one manning a swinging barrier across the road and the other two standing to the side with rifles slung over their shoulders.
The soldiers didn't look to be on especially high alert, thought Malcolm. Perhaps in these parts the war was a distant thing and they had become complacent. He fervently hoped that was the case. But then, if Trip and Travis, not to mention the shuttlepod, had been found, wouldn't there be a more visible security. Perhaps that was what he wanted after all? Not peaceful calm.
Malcolm sighed. There was no point in second-guessing. He had to concentrate on the job at hand and try to stay ahead of the game. He glanced at T'Pol. She looked so cool and self-possessed. Being a Vulcan was a definite advantage for an intelligence mission.
A loud roar filled the still air as a truck came storming past, forcing T'Pol and Malcolm to jump back off the roadway. Malcolm had never been that close to an old fashioned vehicle before and was taken aback at how noisy it was. Experiencing history first hand, as it were, was a strange affair. To think that once the whole planet had been choked with such vehicles. How had people been able to stand it?
The soldiers at the guard post dealt with the vehicle, checking papers and looking in the back. Then they opened the barrier and waved it on its way.
As the two Enterprise officers reached the checkpoint barrier, a fourth guard of higher rank - a Sergeant - came out of the gatehouse to intercept them. "Papers," he demanded brusquely, giving them a hard stare.
They handed over their ID cards and the orders telling them to report to this camp: codename Alpha Charlie 5.
The Sergeant minutely examined T'Pol's ID card and compared her face against the picture in the pass. He handed it back with a salute. "Ma'am," he said.
Opening Malcolm's pass, he read the information and jerked his head up sharply. "It says here, you were born in Portsmouth, England. That right? You English?"
"Yes," said Malcolm. The least said the better. He knew that much.
"So, what are you doing here?" said the Sergeant.
"We have come to see your commanding officer, Sergeant," said T'Pol smoothly.
The Sergeant looked at Malcolm's ID card again. "This appears to be in order," he muttered. "Don't know how, though."
Malcolm stood uneasily, aware that the other guards were glaring at him. This is madness, he thought, not for the first time. How could they possibly get away with it? What had possessed him to offer this as a plan, to argue that it was a plan with a realistic chance of succeeding?
"Okay," said the Sergeant at last, waving them through. "Holliday, escort these people to see Colonel Jones."
"Yes, Sergeant," said Holliday, a lanky dark haired individual.
The Sergeant pursed his lips. "Walker. You better go as well. Get Sanchez to send someone else back here to cover."
"Yes, Sergeant," said Walker, falling in behind.
The small party made its way through the camp. Everywhere there were signs of activity - soldiers drilling, motor vehicles, weapons being worked on. Malcolm would have been fascinated by it all at any other time, but in the present circumstances, he would be quite thankful to do what they came for and get out as soon as possible.
T'Pol swept her eyes over the busy scene also, watching out for any discrepancies, any clues. She saw nothing untoward.
They arrived at their destination - a redbrick building several stories high and with white stone steps leading to a substantial polished wooden door. Inside, the small entrance hallway led to a larger, more open area. Several clerks - men and women, all in uniform - sat at long desks behind a waist high barrier, hammering away on manual typewriters. Others scuttled around with barely a glance at the new arrivals. It was all so unreal -just like a movie, thought Malcolm, gazing at the wooden paneling lining the walls.
While the two Enterprise officers stood waiting, Holliday had been talking to one of the desk clerks, showing him their papers. He turned to T'Pol and Malcolm. "This way."
Holliday led them down a corridor and into a bare room, lit by a single overhead light bulb and containing a table and several chairs. "Wait here," said Holliday, closing the door and leaving them alone.
T'Pol and Malcolm stood in silence. Malcolm was nervous. He was beginning to wish he did have a pipe on him. It always seemed to help people to calm down in the movies. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jacket. Calm, confident, collected, he told himself. Believe the legend. He was a hot shot intelligence officer; this was an unimportant camp in the middle of nowhere. His mantra started to take effect. This had to work.
They waited for what seemed a long time. Only minutes probably, thought Malcolm. No doubt T'Pol knew exactly how long it was.
The door opened and a tall, lean dark-haired man entered. He was wearing a smart World War 2 officer's uniform - a Colonel - Colonel Jones presumably. A soldier followed, closed the door and stationed himself in front of it.
Without any preliminaries, the Colonel glared at the two Enterprise officers and ordered, "Sit."
T'Pol sat down with Malcolm following suit after a brief hesitation, taking a chair next to her. The Colonel remained on his feet on the other side of the table. He had their documentation in his hand.
"I have your papers here." The Colonel flourished them. "Miss Pollard, Mr Reed. According to these, you are to be given every assistance in your mission. It doesn't say what that mission is. I find that strange."
"That is because it is a classified operation, Colonel," said T'Pol calmly.
Jones narrowed his eyes. "Hrumph. I see. Curious. Almost as curious as the provenance of these papers."
"Curious?" said T'Pol.
"Apparently, these come direct from the Chief of Staff - the Head of the Army himself, General Barrington."
"That is correct," replied T'Pol truthfully. That was where they apparently came from.
"Did the General give you these in person?"
Malcolm remained as still as he could. What if this Colonel knew the General? He might ask some awkward questions.
T'Pol eased his fears. "No. An aide, Major... Tressler, I believe, gave us our orders.
Jones nodded. "I see. " He read through the orders once more then looked down at T'Pol. "So - why are you here?"
T'Pol said, "I cannot reveal that unless we are alone." She shifted her gaze to the soldier at the door.
Jones shook his head. "The guard stays. I can vouch for him - he is very discreet."
T'Pol looked at Malcolm who gave a small nod. "Very well," she said. "Mr Reed?"
Malcolm adopted a relaxed posture and said with a touch of arrogance, "We were sent by Headquarters because of the intruders. You are to assist us, Colonel." He casually flicked a bit of non-existent fluff from his jacket sleeve.
T'Pol watched carefully to gauge the Colonel's response to this agreed opening gambit.
Jones stiffened. He stared at Malcolm. Then he said, "Intruders?"
Malcolm replied languidly, "Intruders, strangers...whatever you want to term them. I hope we won't have a problem with your co-operation, Colonel?"
"Which strangers would these be?" asked the Colonel slowly.
T'Pol steadied herself. This part was crucial. She said, "The two strangers who were apprehended nearby observing the township."
The Colonel stayed stone-faced - completely non-reactive. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a short bark of humorless laughter. "Interesting! Well... we will see. I confess, I have some difficulties with your orders, but we will return to it later. I have even greater difficulties with you," he said, suddenly turning to Malcolm. "As you can imagine."
Malcolm stared blankly back while his mind worked furiously. What on Earth did that mean?
"What is a limey collaborator doing here?" The words came laced with venom. Jones' eyes were hard, his face taut.
Collaborator? thought Malcolm in confusion, risking a sideways glance at T'Pol, who looked as perplexed as a Vulcan ever could be.
The Colonel took a step to the table and slammed his hands down onto it, causing Malcolm to jump. "I should have you shot as a spy," he snarled.
"Now wait a minute..." said Malcolm leaning back, all casualness fled.
Colonel Jones lurched forward and seized Malcolm's lapels, half pulling him up out of his seat. Jones shouted, "Shut it! I've had my fill of you duplicitous Nazi Brits. My boy died fighting you people." He gave a shake, and let go the jacket, shoving Malcolm away. Breathing heavily, Jones stepped back and scowled at Malcolm.
Malcolm sat frozen in wide-eyed absolute shock, horrified at the implication of what he'd just heard. Nazi Brits? What had happened in this twisted world? Where had it gone wrong?
T'Pol saw her companion's inability to act. She said smoothly, "Mr Reed has full protection. He is under orders also."
Jones turned to her and spat out, "An English intelligence officer? Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe!"
"It is true," insisted T'Pol. "You can see for yourself from the papers." She glanced at Malcolm who was sitting white faced. He needed time to regain his senses. She improvised, drawing on information gained from movie nights, "Mr Reed is a member of the Resistance. He hates the Nazis also."
Malcolm shook off his rigidity and took his cue from her. "That's right. I hate what they've done just as much as you do."
The Colonel leapt across the room, drawing back his hand as if to strike him, but then paused and dropped it. He said in a low, dangerous voice, shaking his index finger at Malcolm, "Don't ever tell me you hate them like I do. You haven't lost a boy, have you?!"
"No," shot back Malcolm. "But I've lost a country." And it was true. Whatever the story was, it was clear Britain was no longer a free land and had fallen to Nazi tyranny. Malcolm felt sick to his stomach.
The Colonel met Malcolm's stare for a long moment, then turned back to the papers. He said quietly, "I'm going to validate these orders. I've never seen anything like them and I won't take them at face value. We will talk after that."
The Colonel left the room, the soldier remaining on guard in front of the door.
Malcolm stole a glance at T'Pol but said nothing. He was impressed by her quick thinking, but desperately wanted to talk to her about this place, for her analysis of the situation. He couldn't believe that Britain had fallen in this reality and it shook him to his core. Hit at his self-belief, in a way. It might have been an old war where he came from, but it had insinuated itself into his psyche - stupidly perhaps... clinging to the past.
He tried to put this unwelcome revelation to one side, to think instead of how they might progress from this situation to a point where they could actually find out what had happened to the others. He fervently hoped Hoshi would be able to jam the camp transmissions. The timing was tricky.
After ten minutes or so, the Colonel returned. "There will be a delay, it seems. We will have to be patient. In the meantime, I'm afraid I can't keep you together. Ma'am," he said to T'Pol, "I'll have refreshments brought in to you. Mr Reed..." he gestured for Malcolm to follow him out of the room.
Malcolm stood reluctantly. He said to T'Pol, "Will you be okay?"
"Do not worry," she said. "When our orders are validated we will be able to proceed with our mission."
He gave her a quick half smile, then left with the Colonel.
The Colonel led Malcolm from the waiting room, down the corridor and around a corner. Two soldiers, MPs, were waiting there. They sprung to attention when the Colonel appeared.
"Here he is," said the Colonel.
To Malcolm's alarm, one of the MPs produced a pair of handcuffs. "What's this for?" Malcolm said stepping backwards.
The Colonel gave a twisted thin lipped smile. "A precaution."
Malcolm's hands were cuffed behind his back. He offered no resistance, although he did not like this turn of events at all. The Colonel watched with grim satisfaction as Malcolm was led away.
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Archer stirred as he saw the orderly make for him. He gestured for water. The man assisted him to sit up and held a cup to his mouth. Archer drank, reveling in the cool flow down his damaged throat. He closed his eyes as he savored the sensation. He had learned to ignore the panic that threatened to overwhelm him every time he tried to grasp at his memories. He was gradually finding pieces returning, although they made no sense. A join-the-dots puzzle where at the moment he had only the dots.
He felt that soon he would begin to know who he was. He took comfort in that and ignored the negative hateful inner voices that threatened insanity.
The medical officer had said that he would improve. He had to believe that.
TBC