'Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.'

Robert Frost

Chapter Two: The Gateway Opens

Part Two of Nine

The Opening

Thursday 18th May 1993

0802 hours

Four terrorists were standing with two hostages sitting on chairs in the middle of the room, placed back to back. A narrow window was placed in the middle of one wall, and each of the tangent walls had a door in the far corner.

The assault team had planned their attack meticulously. Getting Gareth into a sniping post would have been favourite, but one hostage had already been killed a quarter of an hour ago, a few minutes before the team had arrived on-site at the holding area, and the next killing was due within five minutes' time. Outside the door that led into a corridor were four assaulters fully clad in three layers of clothing: flame-retardant underwear, very much like racing drivers wore; NBC (Nuclear, Biological and Chemical) suits over these to protect them from any gas that might be used by either side; then one-piece flame-retardant black coveralls over the lot, topped off with Kevlar body armour, over which were strapped their ops waistcoats; respirator masks and kid leather gloves.

The other door led into a storage room in which another terrorist was ensconced. Two more similarly-kitted assaulters, Gareth Berensen and Alfred 'Froggy' Longley, had managed to approach that side of the building unnoticed, and were waiting crouched below the room's window, ready to stand and fire as soon as the attack commenced. The last assaulter, Jimmy Conley, had accompanied them and continued on to his current position, flat against the wall beside the window of the target room.

"Four minutes thirty seconds," came the team commander's voice over the radio, counting down the time to the next execution.

The assault group readied itself as the team leader tapped the TRANSMIT key on his radio headset twice in acknowledgement, each tap emitting a squelch of static. Each member of the team was equipped with thirteen-shot 9-millimetre Browning automatic pistols strapped to their hips as backup weapons, flashbang or stun grenades, filled with magnesium powder and designed to blind temporarily by their flash and deafen by their crack, but not to kill, and Heckler & Koch MP5s as their primary weapons. A short-barrelled 9-millimetre rapid-fire submachine gun, light, easy to handle and very reliable, with an up-and-over folding stock, the MP5 was the Regiment's weapon of choice for hostage rescue operations. Additionally, it was British of all things, Heckler & Koch being part of British Aerospace.

The streamlight torches attached to the MP5s were zeroed to the weapon so that the troopers could use the beam for aiming as well as simply penetrating darkness or smoke. The troopers used the torches even in the daytime as they made such good aiming aids. There were little nuts and bolts to enable you to move the torch around; you zeroed it so that when the torchlight was on the target at so many metres, the rounds were going to go so high or so low from it. In a dark room, Maglites also had a good blinding effect on the people you were attacking.

It had already been decided that firing as usual would be the formula of two fast bursts of two shots each. Although the MP5 could empty its thirty-round magazine in a couple of seconds, the SAS were accurate enough even in the confused conditions of a terrorist-hostage situation to limit their firing to two-shot bursts, with one repeat. Anyone stopping those four rounds speedily feels quite unwell. Such economy also keeps hostages alive. Some of the shooters had their weapons set to semi-automatic; however, Scudder and Jimmy had elected to keep their weapons set to full automatic. It was a personal choice, based on what each man knew worked best for himself.

The front pair of troopers in the four-man entry team consisted of Sid 'Vicious' Kay and Neville Hardcastle, who were additionally equipped with a sawn-off, pump-action Remington Wingmaster shotgun with the butt taken off, fondly known as the 'Barclaycard' after the old advertising slogan 'A Barclaycard gets you anywhere', loaded with solid heads known as 'Hatton rounds' in the cartridges rather than buckshot, and a heavy sledgehammer respectively. Their MP5s were worn slantwise across the chest, held in place by two springclips and already cocked and loaded. This left their arms free for door-opening, entering through windows or throwing stun grenades. Once that was done, a single jerk would bring the HK off the chest and into operation in less than half a second. Nev was also carrying a set of bolt cutters in case the door, having lost its hinges, was held at the other side by several bolts and a chain. He had his hammer swung back, aimed at the door's lock. It was not known if the door was locked or not, but chances couldn't be taken. Behind the 'door squad' were Ash and Scudder, MP5s up and ready for use.

Ash gave the command on the net: "Hello all stations, I have control. Stand-by, stand-by, go!"

As the second "Stand-by" was given there was a roar, then another, so close together they were almost as one as the Barclaycard blew out the door's hinges. The noise drowned out the sound of the sledgehammer, one good swing of which cleanly smashed out the lock. At the same instant as Sid pulled the trigger on the Barclaycard, Jimmy and Froggy grabbed flashbangs from their webbing. Froggy and Gareth rose, the former throwing his flashbang through the storeroom window, the latter covering with his MP5, firing a brace of double-taps and dropping the back-door guard. At the same time, Jimmy chucked his flashbang blindly through the target room's window, smashing it. The twin explosions of the flashbangs coincided with the Barclaycard's roars, combining to almost completely drown out the noise of Gareth's shots.

As soon as he'd fired his two shots, Sid Vicious stepped smartly to one side, dropped the Barclaycard and flicked his MP5 forward and out as Ash burst through where Sid had been standing and stormed the target room. These actions were being mirrored by Nev and Scudder, the medic getting out of the way and the Tyneside-born corporal rushing through. MP5s now up, Sid Vicious and Nev followed hot on the heels of the NCOs as backup.

The second he'd lobbed the grenade, Jimmy had flicked his MP5 forward and out, appearing at the window even as Ash and Scudder rushed through the door. The former Royal Marine fired off two quick double-taps, nailing the nearest terrorist. At the same time, Ash and Scudder took out two more on the move, the former hugging the wall that ran perpendicular to the door, the latter stepping smartly sideways. This cleared Sid Vicious and Nev's line of fire to take out the last terrorist together.

A klaxon sounded, signalling the end of the drill. The room's lights came on, and the SAS team promptly pushed back their hoods and removed their respirators.

"'Ey, nice one, Jimmy," Scudder grinned through the thick sheen of sweat that had built up under the suffocating layers, offering a hand to the scout and helping him in through the smashed window.

"Thanks, Scud. You did pretty well yourself, I see," Jimmy nodded at the plywood Figure 11 in question, which had two holes through the head, one a little ragged around the edges from where the second and third rounds had gone through behind the first, the other hole only a couple of millimetres from the first.

"Boss? How long?" Ash asked, keying his radio. Even though the exercise was over, he remained all business.

"Completely?" Major Ross' voice came over the radio. "Nine minutes twenty-six seconds from the holding area to completion. For the actual assault: three point one seconds from when that shotgun went off. How're the hostages?"

Ash and Nev checked the targets on the chairs. "This one's okay, Ash," the medic said.

"Yeah, this one's alive too," Ash confirmed. "Chalk this one up as a success, boss. All right lads, time for the after-action."

The other troopers filed out, discussing the exercise already. Ash shook his head, falling into step behind them. It wasn't as good as a proper 'Killing House', or Close Quarters Battle (CQB) House. In the one at Hereford, they had three copies of the same room, one for the Counter-Revolutionary Warfare team, one for the 'hostages' and the last one for the 'terrorists', usually more CRW troopers. Cameras would record what each group was doing and display it on wraparound screens set in the walls of the other two rooms. The best way to fight any enemy was to understand them as much as possible, to be able to put yourself into their position. And with terrorists, part of learning how to fight them was knowing how to be one. And the troopers of the Regiment, particularly the CRW, were among the best.

Officially, those members of the team from B Squadron had been reassigned to CRW training duties. As far as even the commanding officer of the Regiment and the Director of Special Forces were concerned, they'd been further reassigned to test and evaluate new urban warfare techniques. Ash snorted to himself. All in all, this was turning out to be one tedious assignment. There was no way of knowing what kind of terrain they'd face if they ever travelled through the Stargate, and while they were all trained for survival and combat in desert, jungle, mountainous and artic terrain, it was impractical for the team to leave RAF Benson for prolonged periods of time for refresher courses. Hence this substitute…an inadequate substitute, if the sergeant were honest with himself. Still, it was better than nothing.

They had most weekends off due to the slow nature of the work on the project, which was for most of the troopers a blessing. But whenever they were off the base, they had to carry their pagers at all times, and if they went off, well, that was it – get to RAF Benson pronto, any way you could. Just like being on CRW duty, really. You got the call, hopped in your car or on your bike (a few troopers during the Regiment's history had been members of the Hell's Angels and various motorcycling clubs) or whatever, made hell-for-leather for the base and got kitted up sharp-ish. Except, the sergeant reflected gloomily, it was unlikely that would happen any point in the near future. Such a waste of time.


Tuesday 8th June 1993

0917 hours

Sam Carter grinned to herself, triple-checking the symbols on the scrap of paper taped to the side of her computer monitor. After three months, they'd finally cracked it.

The Gate worked. Her predecessor, a Doctor Theodore Watkins, had been much closer to getting it functioning and finding the safest operational power levels than anyone had suspected. Unfortunately, he'd met a watery demise when on a particularly wet and stormy night at Laleham in Surrey he'd accidentally driven his car into the Thames and left behind a rather old and crumbling mansion in the Midlands with an extensive tabloid newspaper collection in the cellar and his notes on the Stargate for posterity. It had taken Sam only a month to develop his work to such an extent that the Project had a working Stargate.

And at long last, the archaeologists and linguists had come through for them. It had been Marie Horrocks who'd identified the seventh symbol from the tablet, the point of origin in the co-ordinates. Sam shook her head over that symbol, even as at his terminal Lance Corporal Gary Bridgman began charging up the power generators. Such a simple looking thing; an upturned 'V' shape with a small circle at the apex.

Something so simple had held them up for two months.

Down in the hangar, only six REMEs were present, clad in heavy-duty radiation suits and huddled around making last-minute checks on a robotic probe. The blast doors were sealed, and a shield had been lowered in front of the control room. They were relying on the feeds from the security cameras within. Everything else, the pedestal, tablet, blackboard, desks and papers had been removed, stripping the hangar bare.

On the overhead screens, the Stargate could be seen powering up. The inner ring slowly span, groaning gently as if in protest. Small tendrils of steam or smoke were drifting lazily from the Gate. Sam hit a key, and the inner ring stopped moving. One of the crimson markers, now glowing, sprang down from the outer ring over the symbol beneath.

"Chevron One encoded," Bridgman intoned.

Sam hit another key. The chevron marker snapped back into place, displaying the 'locked' symbol. The inner ring started rotating again.

It was crowded in the control room. Someone had installed a star chart that looked as though it was from the same suppliers that NASA used. Quite a few of the archaeologists had insisted on being present for the first dialling. General Hayes was also there, along with a major whose purpose no-one was entirely certain of, other than presumably the major himself and the general.

Ross watched expectantly as the second chevron was locked. It wouldn't be long now. Soon his team could at long last do the job they'd come to do. He smiled tightly as a third chevron thumped into place on the Stargate.

"Chevron Three encoded!"

Tricia Su was also on hand, ready to monitor the probe's telemetry relating to its payload. Various amoebas, viral cells, a petri dish's worth of artificially grown human skin cells and several ants were aboard, all to better evaluate the safety of Gate travel.

"Chevron Four encoded!" The Gate was shaking a little by now.

Carol Gladstone was making last-minute ministrations to the Cray in the back of the control room. Sam had been surprised and delighted when the computing specialist had shown her that the Cray was connected up to a much larger mainframe two storeys up, which was heavily guarded by an entire section of Black Watch.

Carol had built the thing from scratch, press-ganging the entire platoon of engineers assigned to the Project for six months solid, turning out microchips of her own design. Each silicon chip had sixty percent of the processing power of a Cray. Each board held eighty such chips; each bank held two hundred boards. The entire monstrous contraption – two hundred and thirty seven banks – occupied a warehouse-sized space that spanned three floors.

Carol had gutted and cannibalised a second-hand Cray that had first seen service with MI-6 during the Sixties and had been surplused out upon replacement. Under Carol's sometimes-not-so-gentle attentions, it had been converted into an interface between the mainframe, dubbed 'Leviathan', and the control room terminals.

"Chevron Five encoded!"

Every precaution that could be taken was being taken. Clad in radiation suits, teams of medical personnel waited outside the hangar's blast doors and the control room. Within the control room, Private Fowler flicked up a plastic cover and held his thumb poised over the ominously glowing red button that was the 'kill switch'. "Standing by!" he shouted over the Gate's rumblings. If it looked as though something was going wrong, it was hoped that engaging the kill switch and cutting all power to the Gate would at least reduce the collateral damage. Although, what could go wrong and how useful cutting the power feed, or even if there'd be enough advance warning to use the switch, were all unknown quantities.

"Chevron Six encoded!"

The Gate was shuddering violently now. Up in the control room, Doctor Chessel took a cautious step backwards. Carol spat out a particularly vile curse as her coffee mug jumped from the desk and shattered on the floor. The engineers in the hangar ran a final set of checks on the probe, to keep themselves occupied as much as anything else.

Sam stabbed at the keyboard. The inner circle stopped. The last marker descended over the symbol beneath.

"Chevron Seven…locked!"

The shaking stopped.

If you took a giant wave off Maui, and funnelled it into a cylinder, and whooshed it out of a straw…if you took the geyser Old Faithful and set it on its side…you might have an image to work with. It was blue. It certainly wasn't water.

It was light, or plasma, or something, and it vomited forth from the Stargate toward the control room. Then it swooshed back into itself, but the observers in the hangar and the control room couldn't see the back wall of the hangar anymore, except with cameras placed behind the Gate; the azure plasma stuff had settled into the diameter of the ancient monument like quicksilver covering the surface of a mirror.

Hayes nodded in satisfaction, grasping a microphone. "Send in the probe," he ordered. One of the engineers in the hangar gave the cameras a thumbs-up, then turned back to the little machine.

The probe crept up the ramp on its little caterpillar tracks, vanishing into the glittering cerulean fluid. On various computer screens around the control room, personnel monitored the so-far blank readouts of the probe's telemetry. On one particularly prominent screen, the heading "MOLECULAR DECONSTRUCTION IN PROGRESS" was prominent, accompanied by a small graphic representing the probe. On the star map, the indicator whined.

Five seconds later, blank screens exploded into life. Telemetry readouts from the probe's various devices and sensors flooded onto the monitors, and a video feed was displayed on one of the more visible screens in the room.

"Atmosphere: high concentrations of nitrogen and carbon monoxide, at least thirty percent methane—"

"Gravity at three percent Earth standards—"

The indicator tracked and panned across the star map.

"—organic samples have survived and seem to be healthy—"

"—probe is somewhere in the Northern Spiral Arm of the Milky Way—"

The Gate sputtered, then again, then died completely.


It took six hours to compile all the data gathered by the probe. At last, the various scientists, heads of department and a few officers were crowded about a briefing table.

"Right," Hayes began. "What do we know now that we didn't know yesterday?"

"Well, we know that the Gate works and it goes a lot further afield than Butlins," Doctor Chessel said dryly.

"The planet was extremely inhospitable," Sam added, "Nothing could survive there. The atmosphere's lethal, and the gravity is extremely weak."

"So an expedition with humans is out of the question?" asked the unknown major from earlier.

"I'm afraid so," Sam replied.

Doctor Harker began passing around a still shot from the probe's video feed. "There seems to be an identical pedestal on the other side. We've always known the symbols of the pedestal and the Stargate match; Marie—" she gestured to Doctor Horrocks, "—and I believe that they might be some sort of control device. Unfortunately, the pedestal we have seems to be inoperable – unless and until someone gets a close look at an operational one, we've no way of knowing how to repair it."

"Is there any way we could ascertain whether such a device is functional or not with a probe?" the major asked.

Harker shook her head. "Not with the information we have at this time," she said. "If we can get a probe to be present when someone uses a pedestal to activate another Stargate, maybe we'll find a way."

"So that would necessitate sending a team through? And if the pedestal is inoperable—"

"Or we don't know the correct symbols," Harker pointed out.

"—right, then the team would be stranded?" The major didn't sound particularly enthralled with this information.

"That is correct, yes. We could still 'dial' the world they were on, and radio frequencies seem to be capable of travelling both ways, but a team couldn't return via a wormhole we opened from Earth."

Tricia coughed politely. "Well, it looks safe enough to for human travel – the organic samples survived just fine."

"Very well," Hayes sighed. "Is there anything we can do about those vibrations? I needn't remind anyone that we are more than five hundred feet underground; a cave-in is the last thing we need."

"I think we can do something about that, sir." That was Lieutenant Mason, the officer in command of the engineers assigned to the Project. A tall, heavy-set man, a casual observer would never guess that he possessed a triple figure IQ and held a master's degree in particle physics. "I know a few people in the Royal Artillery, we can adapt some of the kit they use on the heavier guns. That ought to deal with most of the vibrations. I'll get my lads on that immediately."

Hayes nodded, satisfied. Something else solved. "Doctor Harker, is it possible that you and your colleagues will find another address from that tablet? Is it even likely that the Stargate goes other places?"

Harker looked at Horrocks, then Chessel. Receiving a nod from the former and a shrug from the latter, she turned back to Hayes. "It's possible. No guarantees, mind you, but now we know the point of origin symbol for Earth we just need to get a combination of six that work. I don't see why it shouldn't go elsewhere."

"Now we know that we only need six symbols, Leviathan should be more useful," Carol said. "It's really just a case of cracking the code, when you get right down to it. We'll need to dial 'blind' quite a lot, but once we start getting some addresses that work, I think Leviathan should be able to extrapolate from the data and start finding active addresses faster."

"One thing we need to bear in mind is, well, space," Sam spoke up. "The stars orbit within the galactic disc – they're constantly changing position, even if they do stay roughly in the same galaxy."

Harker smiled in understanding. "So in the thousands of years since the Stargate was built—"

Sam nodded. "The coordinates could have changed."

Mason frowned. "But why does it still work between Earth and that lump of rock we found?" he objected.

Sam had been considering the problem all afternoon and was ready for this one. "It could be that planet is the closest in the network to Earth," she said. "I mean, the closer they are, the less the difference in relative position due to the motion of the stars. The further away, the greater the difference. In a few thousand more years, it might not work between Earth and that planet either."

"Unless you can adjust for the displacement," Carol realised.

"Right," Sam grinned at her. "All we have to do is correct for the motion of the stars in the galactic disc. Then we should be able to arrive at a computer model that will predict the adjustments necessary to get the Gate working again. Any civilisation advanced enough to build this Gate network would be able to compensate for fifty thousand years of stellar drift. The only problem is we don't have a basis for this model – if we do find somewhere we can send people to, I'd recommend they take a real good look around for a map of some kind."

The major definitely didn't look too happy at this. "Thank you, doctors," Hayes said before the junior officer could voice any protests on the subject.


That evening, the news was not greeted enthusiastically by the SAS troopers.

"So, we en't goin'," Scudder spoke for them all.

Ross sighed. "No."

"An' even if we dae find somewhaur safe te go, there's no guarantee we'll be able te get back."

"No."

"An' the only good news is, if we dae find somewhere te go, we ain't goin' te get splatted or summat by the Gate?"

"Yes."

Gareth snorted with disgust. "Fan-bleeding-tastic," he groaned. "Even longer stuck down this shithole."

"Dunno 'bout you lot, but I never heard of there being a 'Hole Troop' in any of the squadrons," Sid Vicious grimaced. "How long before they rotate some other poor sods in, boss?"

Ross shrugged. "No clue. I think they'll stick with us for now. Could be months, could be years."

"Years!" Scudder all but exploded. "Bollocks to that, man! Seriously?"

Froggy, who'd acquired his moniker on the basis that he was widely acknowledged as the most experienced deep-sea diver in the Regiment and had in his possession a personalised t-shirt bearing the legend "FROGMEN DO IT UNDERWATER", put a bookmark in his copy of Homer's The Iliad. "So, we're stuck down 'ere, running through exercises for hell knows how long?" the South London native said calmly. "How's about some outdoor training at least, eh? I mean, it's the least we could 'ave, right? Maybe go up to Brecon?"

Ross sighed. He wasn't too fond of this piece of regulation himself, but understood the need for it. "No change, I'm afraid. We do all our training on-base for now."

The room exploded with a storm of complaints.


Saturday 10th July 1993

2030 hours

The day had started badly. Unbeknownst to anyone working at the Project, it was about to get even worse that evening.

It was, Sam Carter decided as she put down her radio handset, extremely difficult and annoying to hold an argument with someone who was two floors up and, knowing Carol, undoubtedly up to her armpits in the entrails of the Leviathan. The argument had begun over a single line of code in the random-dialling program they'd been working on, and developed into a complex and rambling disagreement about even the basic formulaic structure of the program. In theory, Carol was meant to be realigning the Leviathan and Sam adjusting the power regulation systems in synchronisation. In actuality, each of them kept having to stop every two minutes to continue their side of the dispute.

Groaning as Carol continued a long, rambling and disjointed tirade about American superiority complexes and the failed attempts to invade Canada for three years running in the nineteenth century despite a superiority of numbers, pausing every so often to curse or praise various components of Leviathan, Sam frowned at the sound of a strange rumbling noise. Peering over the computer monitor and out of the control room window at the Stargate, her eyes widened as she realised the inner circle was moving. It stopped and one of the seven markers on the outer ring slid down over the symbol beneath, glowing crimson as it did so. The inner circle began rotating again, and the process repeated itself with another marker.

Someone was 'dialling' Earth.

By now, every one of the assembled scientists and military personnel in both the control room and the hangar had their attention focused on the Stargate. One of the engineers grabbed a phone from its cradle on the wall and began speaking urgently into it. By now, the scientists down in the hangar were backing away from the ramp with almost indecent haste. Sam noted, almost distractedly, that the modifications made by Mason's team greatly reduced the vibrations from the Gate.

The seventh chevron locked.

The Stargate belched open, the 'wave' engulfing an abandoned tripod-mounted video camera. As the energy settled into place, the stumps of the tripod legs dropped to the grill mesh. Sam winced. Something new they'd have to make a note of: you didn't want to get too close when the Gate was opening up.

Then someone stepped – no, more marched – through the Gate. Several armoured someones, in fact.

Chainmail undershirts seemed to cover most of their bodies. Each wore an ornate breastplate, which was joined by a well-forged gorget to a helmet fashioned in the shape of an outsized serpent's head, the eyes glowing a baleful vermilion hue. Fine chain loincloths flowed from their belts, heavy metal boots and bracers adorned their calves and forearms. Each carried a staff, about six feet in length and bedecked with intricate patterns and symbols. A pod-like bulge was at the upper end of each staff, a paddle-shaped protuberance at the opposite end. Grasping the staffs at smaller swellings upon their shafts, the intruders, six in all, filed down the ramp.

Those scientists and techs still in the hangar halted in their tracks as though enthralled, unwilling to disturb the tableau unfolding before them.

The Gate's event horizon rippled again and three more figures stepped from the wormhole. Where most of the intruders' armour was a dull-grey colour, the central figure's armour was tinted with a decadent gold. Their helmets snapped abruptly open.

They were human. Or at least, they looked human enough.

The apparent leader and one of his guards looked to be of African descent; the other guard was Caucasian, bearded and appeared to be older than his companions. Each guard had a golden tattoo crudely depicting a double-headed serpent upon his forehead.

Their leader's eyes flashed gold, and he spat out a command in a language Sam had never heard before. Unbeknownst to the astrophysicist, it hadn't been spoken on Earth for almost ten thousand years.

Immediately, the front pair of intruders transferred their staffs to a single hand, reaching for their gauntlets and removing curved, serpentine-looking devices. With a faint whining noise, the upper portions of the devices snapped upwards, looking for all intents and purposes like snakes' heads. Taking aim at the nearest couple of engineers, the weapons spat blue spiralling bolts of energy. The engineers spasmed as the blasts hit them, slumping to the floor. The other intruders twisted their staffs' handgrips, snapping open the tips of the weapons with a whine of energy and a crackle of golden light dancing around the parting pod segments.

This immediately spurred the hangar into a hive of activity. A couple more engineers made to grab their fallen comrades, one going down to an energy blast himself, the other managing to dodge as the serpentine weapons fired, shots scattering everywhere. The hangar cleared swiftly, the intruders marching relentlessly from the ramp, firing as they came. One grabbed up a fallen figure in a donkey jacket, and then a blast from one of the staffs tore through the control room window. Sam ducked, diving beneath the computer desk as glass shards came raining down.


Boots pounding, the platoon thundered down the corridor, speed taking priority over stealth. Captain Robert Trentford waved off Corporal Sachs' squad toward the steps leading to the control room, and signalled for Corporal Stockbridge to take his section to circle around and secure the other blast door.

Such reports as had reached the guard station had been vague: intruders in the Gateroom, shots fired, personnel down. Numbers, equipment, hell, even species – all unknown.

Trentford was relatively young, having graduated with honours from Sandhurst only five years previously and swiftly risen up the rank ladder. It was a tradition in his family that at least one man from each generation serve his country as an officer and a gentleman, although the Great War had wiped out sixteen men and boys by the name of Trentford in the trenches and left only one, Robert's great-grandfather, to continue the family line.

For his part, Robert was optimistic and rather enjoying his service, even despite the fact that he was currently stuck with the night shift guard detail. It was, in his opinion, unfortunate that the Black Watch hadn't been posted to the Gulf during the war and thus he had yet to prove himself in combat, but there was always the chance that he could get himself assigned to a United Nations peacekeeping task force in the future. And he seemed to have a golden opportunity today. Lieutenant McIntyre, the commander of Eight Platoon, had been hospitalised after an attack of appendicitis, and three other members of the platoon, including Sergeant Lennox, were on leave, necessitating Trentford, the company's second in command, to stand in as the platoon's Officer Commanding.

SA80s ready and Trentford at their head, Corporal McAllen's squad reached the easternmost blast door. At Trentford's curt hand signals, two troopers raced to the far side of the door. Carrying the squad's L86 Light Support Weapon variant of the SA80, Private Dalgliesh was the first in through the blast door, McAllen only a step behind him and Trentford with two more troopers backing them up. Across the hangar, Stockbridge's squad was breeching the other blast door.

An energy blast tore through McAllen's body armour, throwing him to the floor. Dalgliesh dove for cover behind a desk, overturned in the scientists' haste to leave the hangar, and came up firing. Trentford joined him, assessing the situation as the blast shield came down in front of the control room. At least Sachs had things under some sort of control, then.

Nine hostiles, equipped with directed-energy weapons – Trentford's common sense insisted this couldn't be possible, but his training told him to simply accept the impossible for the time being and get on with more important things – and a bunch of engineers taking casualties. By the looks of things, there was someone in a donkey jacket and an engineer being manhandled by the trio at the back of the pack and there was a strange golden glow, but between the weapons fire and dodging for cover he could neither see nor hear what was going on properly.

Trentford keyed his radio. "Stockbridge! Hold your position and give us covering fire, as soon as we've got the casualties out of here Sachs can seal the place off!"

So saying, the captain opened fire as the second four-man 'brick' of the squad fired around the gaping blast door. Dalgliesh emptied his LSW into the nearest hostile without achieving much beyond scratching the armour's paint. Across the hangar, one of Stockbridge's troopers fell as a staff blast tore into his stomach, lifting him briefly off the ground and casting him against the wall behind him. Cursing richly in his native Glaswegian brogue, Dalgliesh slammed home a fresh box magazine and fired again, raking his fire lower this time. One of the intruders dropped as his legs were cut out from beneath him, a final burst catching him in the abdomen. Another energy blast caught Private Williams in the head, liquefying flesh and the bone beneath, grey gristle spilling from the grisly wound.

Trentford vaulted the desk and dove behind a stack of crates, poking the bullpup's muzzle through a small gap and opening fire. A volley of blasts caught one of Stockbridge's troopers in the midsection, sending him sprawling with a small fire burning in his gut. This was, without a doubt, the worst tactical situation Trentford could imagine. The enemy's armour was tough – not completely bulletproof, but it was hard-going finding a weak spot – his men were short of cover and to make matters even worse, the enemy had hostages.

The enemy troops switched their focus to McAllen's – to his – squad. Making the best use possible of the doorframe, the Black Watch troopers poured fire back at the intruders. Energy blasts caught two of them and hurled them out of Trentford's sight, then another punched through the desk Dalgliesh was behind, killing the support-weapon carrier.

Reloading, Trentford came up, aiming at the nearest intruder's abdomen/groin armour. The hostile dropped. He was distantly aware of two more of the hostiles dropping from fire from Stockbridge's squad. Trentford took aim again, drawing a bead on the sod in the gold armour with the frankly disturbing gold eyes who seemed to be in charge. The bullpup assault rifle kicked against his shoulder as he opened up on full auto, and the enemy leader shouted a curse, clutching at the growing crimson patch over his stomach and sagging, his guards immediately supporting him. Another of the intruders stepped between Trentford and his target, taking the last of the clip harmlessly on his breastplate. Swearing fiercely with frustration, Trentford dropped behind his crates again and set about reloading.

There came a swooshing noise that he realised must have been that Stargate thing the scientists were working on down here – he hadn't heard it dialling over the weapons fire. Glowering fiercely, the guy in the gold armour barked another command, sealing his helmet. His guards followed suit and took up the apparently unconscious bodies, and the trio vanished through the wormhole, carrying two unconscious forms with them. The last two intruders, outnumbered and outgunned, retreated slowly, firing steadily as they walked backwards up the ramp. Another of Stockbridge's men fell, howling like a banshee as he took a shot to the lower abdomen. With that, the enemy turned and stepped through the Stargate.

The wormhole flickered once, then twice, then died away.

Trentford slumped against the crates, keying his radio again and shouting in vain for medics. He had eight dead troopers for four of the enemy.

He had tasted combat, and its flavour was bitter with death.