Chapter 3

Even on the brightest of summer days, the road running through the densest part of the forest-was always shrouded in deep shadow. This late in the afternoon, with dusk falling, it was almost pitch black. "The ideal spot for a murder" thought Police Constable George Wilkins as he pedalled his trusty bicycle on his beat.

Perhaps one day, he mused, his Sergeant would let him have his own car, perhaps a Morris Minor, so that he could keep his helmet on. He was still baffled about the fact that they had been christened 'panda' cars.

He hopped off. Wasn't this where old Josh Hoskins did his poaching?

Like most village Bobbies, he wasn't above accepting the odd rabbit or partridge for the pot, no questions asked. But that was when he was off duty, down the pub in the evenings.

Now, though, he was on duty and the Duke had been complaining bitterly about the poaching.

Wilkins propped his bike against a tree and then strode into the forest, making sure he made as much noise as possible. That way, he reasoned, he could quite truthfully claim that he had attempted to catch the poachers in the act, but that they had eluded him.

Moments later, Wilkins paused. Something was wrong. He listened. Nothing. Apart from leaves rustling in the breeze, there was silence. Normally the forest would be alive with birdsong.

Then he became aware of a high-pitched electronic burbling sound. In all his years with the force, Wilkins had never heard anything like it before.

He shivered, but not from the cold. The sound seemed to emanate from the deepest, darkest part of the forest an area steeped in local folklore.

In the pub, Wilkins was always amongst the first to laugh off the oldwives' tales of apparitions and mysterious happenings. Now, though, he was beginning to wonder if there might not be something in the tales after all. For a brief moment he hesitated before his police training overrode his fears.

Switching on his torch, Wilkins strode towards the source of the sound.

"Here you are Keith, the ideal story. " Ford looked up. Dennis Hooper, one of the sub-editors was standing in front of his desk, a slip of paper in his hand held out as if it was a peace offering.

Ford took the paper and skimmed quickly over the contents.

"Look, Den," said Ford as he put the paper down. "Surely this is one for the Defence Correspondent. "

"Normally, I would agree with you. " Replied Hooper. "But, A, Phil's still on sick leave and B, if you read the note properly you'll see what I mean. "

"Doug hasn't put you up to this has he?" Ford suspected that this might be one of Turnbull's ploys to divert him from the awkward subject of U.F.O.s

"No, Keith," Replied Hooper "He hasn't seen this one yet. "

Ford picked up the note again and read it thoroughly.

"At 1632 hours GMT," Ford read, "a Bloodhound missile of Number 41 squadron, Royal Air Force, West Raynham, was test-fired at a remotely piloted Gloster Meteor. The missile detonated successfully and both aircraft were destroyed. "

"I still don't get it. " Ford said as he looked up.

"Don't you see? The Air Ministry doesn't usually release details of test flights. "

"Go on. " Ford prompted slowly. The light was beginning to dawn.

"Look at the actual wording: 'Both aircraft were destroyed', not 'the test was successful'"

"You've got a point" Ford said thoughtfully.

"Add to that the fact that the crew of the local lifeboat reported seeing a Meteor ditching in the sea off Cromer at around five p.m. and you've got something pretty odd going on. "

"Now wait a minute," Said Ford. How did they know it was a Meteor?"

They didn't," replied Hooper, "but I recognised it from the description they gave. And besides," he added, "The colour scheme is pretty distinctive." Aircraft intended for Target practice were painted in garish colour schemes, usually yellow and black, totally unlike the normal drab grey and green camouflage sported by military aircraft

"If what you say is true," Ford said slowly, "that leaves us with an interesting puzzle; exactly what did that missile hit?"

"Right!" Smiled Hooper.

On all his years in the Force, Wilkins had never seen anything like this; It had been by the merest chance that he'd made the grisly discovery; Ducking under a low branch, he'd noticed a huddled form lying at the foot of a giant oak.

The face had been smashed to a pulp. Wilkins started to search in the pockets of the large overcoat that shrouded the still form.

There were no papers, but Wilkins' gloved hands soon found what felt like thin pieces of wire.

He pulled them out and examined them. Snares.

There would be no more free rabbits or pheasant in the pub on a Saturday night; Josh Hoskins' poaching days were over.

The snares were covered in blood. Strange. Then Wilkins realised that his gloves were wet. Quickly, he pulled open the coat and recoiled in horror. The body had been opened from the throat to the navel.

Wilkins scrambled to his feet, his stomach lurched and he fought back the urge to vomit.

As he turned to make his way back to the road, he noticed a pale greenish glow coming from a clearing, virtually in the centre of the forest. The mysterious sound, much louder now, also seemed to be coming from that direction. He paused. Such a murder should be reported as soon as it was discovered. But then again, he reflected, another few minutes would not make much difference to Josh. There was evil here and as a representative of the Law, it was his duty to investigate it. Pausing briefly to straighten his tunic, he strode towards the glow.

Turnbull looked up as Ford put his head round the door.

"Ah, Keith," He smiled; the morning's bad feeling all but forgotten. "Come in. "

He gestured to an easy chair and Ford sat.

"I've been thinking, Doug, about what you said earlier," said Ford "And I think you're right. I have been overdoing it a bit. So I was wondering if I might take some leave. "

Turnbull beamed. "Of course! When would you like to start?"

"Tonight?"

"Sure. "

"How long do you want?"

"I was thinking of a fortnight. "

Turnbull consulted the calendar on the desk in front of him.

"Tell, you what. Let's make it a full month. On full pay, of course. How does that suit?"

Ford stood, his mouth hanging open in astonishment.

"I…er…that is…Th…thank you" he stammered.

Turnbull smiled again "Well, that's settled then. "

"Oh, by the way," Turnbull added, As Ford got up from the chair, "Have you decided where you're going yet?"

"I thought Norfolk. " Replied Ford, holding the door open.

"Good idea. Just what the doctor ordered, a few bracing walks. "

"I'll bring you back a stick of rock"

Turnbull chuckled as Ford pulled the door closed after him.

Wilkins had never seen anything like it in his life.

"Oh my Lor'!" He whispered. "What is it?"

Less than a hundred yards away, in the centre of a clearing, the UFO glowed green in the darkness.

As he moved closer, he could make out the shape of the thing.

It appeared that the thing had been damaged; some of the plates around the middle were missing and vapour wisped from several places around the circumference.

Wilkins' fear had been replaced by curiosity. What on earth could it be?

He decided to look around the other side of the object. He began to circle cautiously around the clearing.

The Land rovers pulled over to the side of the road. Waterman stepped down from the lead vehicle, unfolded a map and laid it on the bonnet. He gazed at it thoughtfully as the rest of the search party, a detachment of the RAF regiment, gathered round. The map had been divided into large squares. One-by-one, the squares had been crossed through as each area was searched until there were only four left.

"Hmm, Woodcock Wood," Waterman muttered to himself, reading the legend on the paper. "That's going to take some searching. "

He looked toward the forest. It seemed to block the road ahead. Waterman knew that was not the case; the map clearly showed the road cutting through the woodland.

He looked at the faces around him. Although the troops were tough, the fatigue was beginning to show. He glanced at his watch, then made his decision:

"OK. We'll take a break here. Thirty minutes. "

With all but this small area to cover, he reasoned, his men deserved a break. Anyway, with the damage that the object had sustained, what harm could it do?

Wilkins knew it. With their silver - coloured helmets and red leathers, the figures intent on their repairs could only be Hell's Angels. He'd come across them before, roaring down the country lanes, smashing up the pubs and terrorising honest, law-abiding citizens. This time they had gone too far. He stepped from the behind the trees.

He could see it now; capturing a dangerous gang, single-handed. He would be bound to be promoted. He glanced down at his sleeve, imagining the three stripes.

The figures, intent on their mysterious activities, still had not noticed him.

As Wilkins got closer, he noticed that the silver helmets seemed to have dark visors. He laid a gloved hand on the shoulder of the nearest figure.

"I am arresting you in the name of…" his voice died away as the figure straightened and turned to face him.

A cold emotionless face stared at him through a thick green liquid.

These were no bikers.

Wilkins backed away. Then he noticed another of the figures. It was holding a strange silvery device. From the way the figure held it, it could only be a weapon.

Terror stricken, Wilkins turned to flee. Another figure, holding a small device, blocked his path. Dodging away, Wilkins ran for the safety of the forest. As he ran, he fumbled for his whistle. The Alien took aim.

Wilkins put the whistle to his mouth. If only he could summon help.

The Alien squeezed the trigger.

Wilkins blew. As he did so, he was aware of an electronic whine. The sound got louder and louder until it was boring into his brain.

The whine filled his senses. His legs felt like rubber, his heart was pounding. He could feel the pulse, like a steam hammer, pounding in his head.

He stumbled and fell. A great wave of nothingness engulfed him.

"What's that?" Waterman held up his hand for silence. Faintly, the sound of Wilkins' whistle reached the party from deep within the forest.

"It sounds like a police whistle, sir" Replied Harker.

"You're right. " replied Waterman. "Someone's in trouble. "

Through his binoculars, Waterman could see the damage sustained by the UFO. The search for the source of the frantic whistling had proved fruitless. The Police bicycle had been found, but of Wilkins there had been no sign. On reaching the clearing, he had split his force into four teams, positioning them round the clearing. Ever cautious, he had ordered them to stay under cover until he had assessed the situation. "We certainly winged it," he whispered to Harker, crouching beside him in the undergrowth. "It's sustained a fair amount of damage. What beats me is how 'Dog Two' failed to destroy it. "

"But what on earth is it, sir?" Whispered Harker. "It's like nothing I've ever seen before"

"I don't know. It's certainly not one of ours"

"Could it be some kind of satellite?"

"I wouldn't have thought so. Those vanes would have been burned off during re-entry"

"Then how did it get here? It's got no wings. "

Before Waterman could answer, his Walkie-Talkie crackled into life.

"Hunter Leader, This is Hunter Two, over. "

"Hunter Two, go ahead. "

"Hunter Leader, we've found…a body. " Waterman could hear a tremor in the other man's voice. "It's been mutilated…" There was the sound of someone breathing deeply, obviously in an effort to control nausea.

"Hunter Two, this is Hunter Leader. Please repeat. Your last transmission was garbled. Over.

"Hunter Two to Hunter Leader. " Hunter Two's voice was calmer now, more controlled. " I say again. We've found a body. It's been mutilated and dumped in the undergrowth. From his clothing, I'd say he was a tramp or something. Over. "

"Thank you Hunter Two. Out. "

Presumably, if the sound they'd heard had been a police whistle, the officer had found the body. But why use his whistle to call for help? Surely it would have made more sense to go to the nearest village and call from there.

Before he could pursue that line of thought any further, his radio crackled into life: "Hunter Leader, This is Hunter Four. I can see a figure walking towards the object. Seems to be wearing overalls and some form of helmet. Over.

"Could be one of the crew. " Thought Waterman. He made a decision; "Hunter Four, This is Hunter Leader. Grab him and hold him 'til I get there. Use minimal force. Out.

Waterman turned to Harker. : "Keep watching the object and stay under cover. "

Before Harker could reply, the sound of distant gunfire rattled across the clearing. It was a strange, high-pitched sound.

Immediately following it came the familiar crack of Self-Loading Rifles.

Waterman's radio crackled into life: "Hunter Leader, Hunter Four. We're under attack. They're firing explosive bullets. Over. "

"Hold on as long as you can," Ordered Waterman. "Reinforcements are on their way. Out."

Hunter Four was on the other side of the clearing. To reach the group, would mean skirting round the clearing. With the thick undergrowth, it could take several minutes to reach them. He consulted his map, on which he had marked the positions of the four groups and made his decision: "Hunter Two, You are closest to Hunter Four. Give them some back up. Out"

"Hunter Two, Roger. "

His gaze was drawn back to the UFO. It now seemed to be pulsating gently

Flight Sergeant Jenkins, Leader of Hunter Two, winced at the throbbing pain. The Alien bullet that had so narrowly missed his head instead had pierced his shoulder, which was bleeding profusely. So far, the score was Humans 1, Aliens 1; Corporal Roberts, chest blown apart by a single shell, lay slumped against the ruins of a tree

The final Alien lay concealed in a thicket.

He was obviously more cunning than the other and was going to be a lot more difficult to capture. It was during an earlier attempt to flush him out that Jenkins had sustained the shoulder wound.

Jenkins sank to the ground. His fingers found a suitable stone. He hefted it in his hand before hurling it to one side of the thicket. A volley of shots thundered into the place where the stone had landed.

Waterman laid the binoculars down once more. The UFO continued to pulsate gently.

He picked up the radio and pressed the 'transmit' button.

There was a brilliant flash and Waterman's ears were filled with a colossal roar as everything went black.

Ford pulled up behind the last Land Rover, his journalistic sense twitching. There was definitely something strange going on; why else were there police roadblocks up all over the place? By consulting a map and turning into a side road, he'd been able to slip inside the cordon. Military Exercises was the official reason given, but he'd also heard talk of a village policeman having gone missing. Were the events connected? Then again, there was still the question of what the Bloodhound missile had hit. Had it come down here?

There seemed to be intermittent flashing coming from the depths of the forest. There was obviously something strange happening.

He doused the headlights, turned off the engine and grabbed for a torch and his camera before heading into the forest.

The blackness lightened, to be replaced by a fuzzy greenish oval. A voice, apparently coming from several miles away echoed around his head. His nose seemed to be full of the sweet, acrid smell of scorched wood. His head throbbed as if a team of road menders had set about it with their pneumatic drills.

Finally the words he was hearing began to make sense; "Are you alright?"

The voice was familiar but in Waterman's dazed state, he couldn't place it.

He blinked and gradually the blur resolved itself into a human face.

The face, too, was familiar, but in his dazed state, Waterman's mind was a blank.

"Have I been out long?"

"About two hours. " replied Ford. Long enough to get some very clear photographs of the UFO. The glow had been bright enough for Ford not to need the flashbulbs in his pocket.

Steadier now, Waterman looked around for the Walkie Talkie. Finally he found it, or rather what was left of it, at the foot of a tree.

"So what happened?" asked Ford, gazing at the blackened, smouldering remains of the tree.

"That did. " Replied Waterman, jerking a thumb at the brilliantly glowing UFO.

Ford's jaw dropped. He stood up and immediately dived for cover as a hail of bullets whined past his head.

Waterman grabbed his arm. "Steady, sir" he cautioned Ford. "I've already lost one man. I'd hate to lose a civilian. We'd best lie low until reinforcements come. If our radio check is late, Base should send help. "

He looked at his watch and swore; somehow it had been smashed. He suddenly realised that Ford was muttering to himself. "What was that sir? He enquired.

"I was vowing to get even with those butchers" Ford replied icily. "They murdered my wife."Straker had looked in on Henderson on his way home. Henderson had taken him to meet Jackson and the flying visit had somehow become an impromptu planning meeting.

After an hour, it finally came to a close and Straker stood to leave.

"Oh, by the way," Henderson added, almost as an afterthought, "It looks as if we have a security problem. " Straker frowned and sat down. "What kind of problem?"

"The Press. I had to move pretty quickly to suppress a documentary about UFOs. " From what I understand, the reporter didn't take it too well. Not surprising really, His wife, Claire, disappeared about two years ago. Her mutilated body turned up a couple of days later"

"Is that all? The man's overwrought. If necessary we can 'persuade' him to keep quiet. "

Henderson was surprised; Straker sounded very callous.

"Commander, this man's good. If there's a story, he'll get it. To him, this one's personal. There was a UFO sighting at the time of his wife's death. He holds them responsible. "

"You seem to know a lot about the case, sir. "

"I ought to, Commander," Henderson replied grimly "Claire was my God-daughter. "

Waterman hefted a pebble in his hand, judging the weight. He tossed it high into the air. The bushes where it landed disappeared in a hail of explosive shells.

"Did you see it?" asked Waterman.

"Yes," Replied Ford. "Just behind those trees, about forty yards, I'd say. "

"Right," Muttered Waterman, "Listen carefully. This is what we're going to do…"

Four hundred miles north, just outside the granite-faced sprawl of Edinburgh, reposed the buildings of the British Geological Survey. This late in the evening, the buildings were in darkness. Most of the offices and laboratories were silent. All save one, deep in a basement.

Humming quietly to itself, a seismograph recorded the minute vibrations that signified the movements of the Earth.

The pen was almost motionless as the paper unrolled beneath it, the ink trace showing barely a wiggle.

Suddenly, the pen swung wildly first one way then the other. Soon, a wild zigzag covered the paper trace as colossal energies were released.

Minutes later, the pen settled down. A momentary spasm hit the pen as the Secondary Wave, refracted through the Earth's crust, reached it from the other side of the world.

The pen settled down once more, the trace showing barely a wiggle.

The next morning, scientists would be busy examining the paper trace, scratching their heads and busily calculating which unfortunate part of the world had been devastated by this, the most powerful earthquake yet known.

After half an hour's discussion, Straker had agreed to Henderson's solution. It would also be a good test for SHADO's new Psychiatrist, Jackson.

As he lay in bed, Jackson found himself reviewing the day's events. Despite himself, he smiled. Somehow, in this strange country, within the space of a morning, he had been transformed from a refugee into a person, with a new identity, a home and a career not so very different from that he had so recently left.

Not so long before, the people of this small island had helped his countrymen defeat an existential threat. He would always be an outsider here, yet the people seemed accepting of the refugees who came to their shores. This was a country whose people he could respect. He had heard that many Prisoners of War had refused to return home, preferring to make their home here.

If the documents and reports he'd been reading were true, the existential threat faced by his countrymen paled in comparison with the threat faced by the whole world. The role he'd been offered would be the most important that any man could hope to fulfil. He vowed that he would not let his new colleagues down. He considered the people he'd met. Although the meeting had been brief, he decided that the tow-haired Commander Straker was serious and dedicated. The new wedding ring suggested that he'd only recently married. How would he reconcile his role of Commander with that of husband and later perhaps, father? As he finally drifted off to sleep a final thought occurred to Jackson; it was clear that Straker was subordinate to Henderson so why was the older man concealing feelings of envy towards his junior?

It had taken Waterman ten minutes to skirt around the dense undergrowth of the thicket. Now he crouched, only yards from the Alien, waiting for the right moment.

He glanced up from the bush in which he'd hidden. Less than ten feet away, back turned towards him, the Alien stood, barely concealed from Ford by the trunk of an oak.

The second hand of Waterman's watch swept up towards the 12…

Ford hefted the rock in his hand and looked at his watch: 5…4…3…2…1…NOW!

Waterman could hear the commotion as Ford hurled the rock into the bushes. The Alien turned, levelled his gun and fired

Waterman sprinted from cover and leapt…

There was a dull thud as Waterman's shoulder made contact, bringing the Alien to the ground. The two wrestled fiercely, rolling across the woodland floor, each trying to gain the advantage. Then, suddenly, it was all over: With a crack, the Alien's faceplate hit a stone and fractured. A dark green liquid poured from the helmet.

The Alien's limbs twitched convulsively for a few moments. Then he lay dead.

Waterman could only look on with increasing horror as the face of his enemy aged. Within seconds, the smooth impassive features had changed to those of an wizened old man.

"My God!" Exclaimed Ford. He had run to help Waterman as soon as the struggle had started. He had seen the Alien's rapid ageing. "He looks ninety. What the hell happened to him?"

"Beats me," replied Waterman "But I'd hate to go like that. "

He bent down to pick up the Alien weapon that had been tossed aside during the struggle. It glittered eerily in the reddish glow from the UFO. He hefted the weapon. It was far lighter than any firearm he'd ever handled.

He examined it for a moment.

"You know," He said after a moment, "It's not like any gun I've ever seen before. It's not made of normal gunmetal, for one thing. " He paused for a moment, deep in thought. "We'd better collect some samples to send to the boys at Farnborough. Perhaps they'll know…" He broke off. Something was wrong.

"What's up?"

"I don't know," Replied Waterman. "Something's wrong. "

Then they both heard it: the gentle burbling from the UFO had ceased, to be replaced by another, sinister sound. An electronic whine that seemed to both rise and fall in pitch at the same time.

They looked toward the UFO. A brilliant orange had replaced the gentle green glow. A veil of smoke had begun to appear around it.

Instinctively, both men dived for cover.

With a brilliant flash and ear splitting roar, the UFO exploded into a million glowing shards, reducing the undergrowth to a fine white ash.