Great Western Main Line, approximately 30 km west of London

"So how exactly are you so familiar with the intricacies of the local prison system, Jonesy?" 77 asked, his tone amused.

Jonesy grinned broadly. "Well, you see, it's on account of my business. This marks the third time I've been arrested for stealing cars," he said proudly, and then immediately raised a finger. "Let me put that in some kind of context for you. What I should say is that this is only the third time I've been arrested for stealing cars. When you count the number of cars I've stolen, that's a pretty impressive success-to-failure ratio."

"And just how many cars have you stolen?"

Jonesy sat forward in his seat, pondering. "Well, there was…" he stared up at the ceiling of the railway car as if adding invisible figures, but finally shook his head. "I've got no idea offhand, mate. Enough so that I can't keep count, that's how many. One of me friends owns what the Yanks call a 'chop shop.' But we've got rules…number one is that we only steal from Party members. Like Robin Hood, see? Besides, Party members is the only ones who've got cars worth stealing. So, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: 'Jonesy, if you're such a bloody menace to society, stealin' everything what's not nailed down and gettin' arrested for it time and time again, why aren't you either hung or locked up somewhere you can't get out of?' The answer is simple, mate: no one gives a damn. Conquering the world has made the Party arrogant…they think their system is perfect, and so they don't even entertain ideas that anyone can slip through the cracks. There are only two sentences what magistrates hand down: death and hard labor…and there are far too many people going through the camps for anyone to actually sit down and do all that paperwork. So I get sentenced and put on a train, I get to London and slip out under the fence, and no one really knows the difference. Labor camp knows generally how many people is coming in, but the blokes who do the counting are lazy and always miss a few. Meanwhile, I'm right back on the streets at work. Most people is so terrified of the government that they'd never think of puttin' a toe out of line. It keeps the crime down, yes, but it also means the officials get complacent…so when you do run into a bloke like me, a real criminal and one who don't give a damn, I can get away with just about whatever the hell I want."

"So, anyway, my latest job was this new-model Aston Martin, owned by this old Party member who was always showing the thing off…kind of the automobile equivalent of a trophy wife, right? And I'm paired up with this bloke named Martin. He's going to drive, on account of I'm too short to reach the pedals…I'm there as security specialist, 'cause I know how to get around all the modern computerized protection. Everything's just going great…then one of the night patrols comes up on us. If Martin had kept his damn head, we'd have been fine…we still had Party plates on the thing, o' course…but then Martin panics. So, here I am."

The rest of Jonesy's words were drowned out by a massive explosion and a concussion which shook the car on the rails…the two guards in the booth were both scrambling for their weapons, one of them frantically keying his radio. The train locked its wheels and slid to a halt with an ear-splitting screech, the guards falling against the front wall of the car and prisoners tumbling out of their seats. Helicopters could now be heard approaching; from the sound, it seemed that there must have been dozens. Sharp bursts of rifle fire sounded from outside, followed by the rhythmic thudding of a heavy-caliber weapon and the electric buzz of a chaingun…the two guards at the front of the railroad car were just about to throw open the exit door when the side wall of their booth disintegrated. The two men collapsed in sprays of blood; whatever had killed them had been precisely targeted, and touched nothing outside the booth. The Deepstar crew waited, IP-101 and IP-77 poised just inside the main door of the railroad car, ready to spring upon whoever might open it…if of course they proved to be an enemy. Several bursts of automatic fire stuttered just outside, bullets clattering off the steel side of the car, and then things quieted save for the persistent whump-whump-whump of rotors. There was a screech and clang of metal, the door trembled slightly, and then suddenly the side of the car was thrown open.

A man stood there, dressed in a dark green hunting jacket over which a flak vest had been thrown, his features obscured by a balaclava and ski cap. "You're free!" he shouted to the prisoners, "and you know who we are! Come with us or run for the countryside…it's your choice!" And then, just as quickly, he was gone. Instantly, prisoners began rushing for the door, the Deepstar crew and Jonesy pressing themselves back to avoid the stampede of bodies. They were the last ones out, IP-101 helping the Doctor down from the railroad car.

Men and helicopters were everywhere, all of them bearing the same dark green color scheme. At least twenty choppers were grounded next to the train, their engines idling, while as many gunships still circled in the air above, keeping watch. The troops wore improvised uniforms made up of civilian wilderness gear and military-grade armor, their weapons an eclectic mix of everything from American military to old Soviet arms. There was one universal similarity, however…the insignia painted on every fuselage and stitched on every shoulder patch. It was a white fist, clenched in defiance. "I think we found the Resistance," RP-18 said mildly.

A small number of Resistance fighters were running up and down the length of the train, each of them checking an individual car; word was passed along the line, and one man finally shouted, "He's not here!" A tall black man standing nearby, clearly an officer, swore. He keyed his radio, and the Deepstar crew was close enough to hear. "All units, this is Carver. The General's not on the train…he must already be in London." Carver shouted to the other man. "All the prisoners out?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Right! Let's pack it up! Get everyone who's coming with us onto the transports!" In addition to the soldiers, prisoners were still dashing everywhere. Those who ran for the helicopters were caught by a cordon of Resistance fighters and directed into the open bays of four massive Chinook transports that had set down nearby. Many more prisoners simply sprinted off into the open fields surrounding the railway, some of them not even bothering to get unchained first. The Deepstar crew remained near the train, Jonesy sticking close; IP-77 glanced back at his fellows and then headed toward Carver, his three fellows behind him. Jonesy watched them go, looking from the Resistance helicopters to the open countryside and back. He was clearly weighing his options, and he seemed to be having a difficult time of it. His head swiveled back and forth at least half a dozen times; finally, he shouted "OH, BOLLOCKS!" at the top of his voice and ran after his newfound friends toward the choppers.

IP-77 caught Carver at the side of a UH-60 Black Hawk, just as the officer was about to climb back aboard. "Sir! Excuse me, sir!" Carver turned, 77 shouting to make himself heard over the sound of the rotor blades. "Our commanding officer is being held prisoner in London! We have to find him!"

Another Resistance fighter was approaching, weapon raised in alarm at the figure approaching his commander. Carver held up a hand, and the soldier relaxed. "If the government took enough notice to ship him to London specifically, then there's only one place he could be…the same place we're going! Rest assured that we'll find him! In the meantime, get on the transports and we'll get you out of here!"

"I will not, sir! He's a personal friend of mine! I'm coming with you!"

"We're coming with you!" IP-101 said emphatically, now standing beside 77. "It's a matter of honor!"

"Are you boys Resistance?!"

"No, sir! Private military!"

"How do I know you're not some kind of government plants?!"

IP-77 stared straight into the man's eyes. "You don't."

Carver shrugged and reached into the Black Hawk, pulling out a pair of Loompa-sized MP5 submachine guns. He handed one to IP-101, who promptly climbed into the Black Hawk. IP-77 nodded. "Thank you, sir!" RA-48 and RP-18 started to follow, but 77 stopped them. "It's likely to be rough, Doc! You two should go on the transports!"

"I'll be damned if we're going to split up!" the Doctor replied, heaving himself onto the Black Hawk with 18's help; 77 shrugged and followed. Carver turned and started to step aboard the helicopter…behind him, several troopers reacted in alarm as Jonesy suddenly barreled through their midst and hurled himself into the aircraft as well. Carver's head whipped around, and the panting Jonesy simply pointed at the Deepstar crewmen.

"I'm with them."

A final soldier climbed aboard the helicopter, the doors slid shut, and the chopper throttled up and lifted back into the air. Had all of the passengers been human, the aircraft would already have been close to capacity…with five Oompa-Loompas on board, however, there was still room to spare. Within sixty seconds, the entire fleet of aircraft was off the ground, the four loaded Chinooks and an escorting squadron of gunships splitting off from the main formation and heading south. The bulk of the craft continued east, dozens of helicopters spread out on all sides of the Black Hawk. Carver reached forward and tapped the copilot on the shoulder. "Get on the horn and tell Sakagawa that his jamming signal worked…and that I am hereby ordering him to use the satellite link immediately. I want every scrap of communications across southern England shut down, both military and civilian. I want London completely in the dark for the next three hours…at least…and I don't want any early-warning stations picking us up and letting anyone know that we're coming. Attacking a train is one thing…attacking the planet's capital city is something else."