Sam didn't get a wink of sleep the night following her first meeting with Dr Drake. She and Stonecrop had spent most of the day up at Buxton Hall, as the scientist filled them in on the details regarding their little errand in the future. Although Sam and Stonecrop had both agreed whole-heatedly, if not with a tad bit of scepticism, the job, they soon realised, was far easier said than done.
The only way into the future was by air. One of Santon's double-agents had informed them that the gateway was due to open next week, and with the Crowley already on the move, they would have to make preparations fast, if they were to beat the bad guys to their goal. Drake had purchased a two-person motor glider, which Sam would have to learn to fly with only a week's worth of hard training.
The informant had also warned them that the gateway would close up immediately after Crowley went through, the enemy being intent on keeping the secret well under wraps as much as Drake was; Black Inferno would then slingshot around the sun, returning in exactly one year to reopen it once again, for the expedition to come back. This meant that Sam would be spending a whole year in the future and would have to be trained accordingly.
Drake and Santon wasted no time, looking around for flight instructors. Unfortunately, applying for a PL wasn't something that could be done so easily indiscreetly, and on such short notice. Even if Sam could qualify for solo that fast, there was no way her disappearance could go unnoticed by the authorities, which might risk exposing the secret of the future. Finally, on Sam's suggestion, they had come up with Mike McEwen, a veteran pilot and keen glider flyer, just like his son and grandson had been, to train her.
The very next day, Sam had entered her first-time flying course, under Mike's instruction. Since Sutch and Martin's flight club had closed down, the Newbury Council had set up another flight club at Greenham Air Force Base, where Major McEwen's rescue squadron once operated years ago. Using Mike's chartered glider, her lessons began in earnest.
Learning to fly for the first time wasn't a particularly pleasant experience for Sam, who had a bad case of acrophobia, and had never even been on an aircraft before in her life. Mike, on the other hand, who was a life-long natural flyer, could handle the glider like a bird could handle its wings.
Under his professional instruction, Sam slowly got the hang of operating the controls, handling the pitch, trim and roll. She found flying the glider was actually pretty straightforward, if not requiring a fair bit of practice to fly straight and level. Likewise, learning to read the six basic flight instruments – artificial horizon, altimeter, airspeed indicator, chronometer and compass – in sync, to be able to navigate without the luxury of a GPS or radio, was also only a matter of doing some simple math, but, again, required plenty of practice. In spite of her progress, with such limited time, Sam couldn't help but feel like a rookie of rookies in the wrong place.
Whenever she wasn't training with Mike, she and Stonecrop would attend a series of lectures Drake had arranged for them up at the lab. Aside from having them learn to fly, just to make the journey out, the scientist was also making sure that they both took a crash course in the Lapine language and other aspects of the lagomorphs' culture, which he figured they would need, especially Stonecrop. Their teacher was none other than Drake's wife, Simmone, a brilliant professor of linguistics, who had spent the last four years building on the fictional language Mr Adams had invented for his book, slowly reshaping it into a fuller language, which the firstborn lagomorphs would someday adopt as their own.
Stonecrop thought of this as a bit of a joke, having to learn a fictional language which wasn't even complete yet, well in its infancy. However, Simmone had pointed out that there was always the possibility that Alan and his companions might be dead, or else had abandoned English over Lapine, in which case, without knowing the proper native language to communicate, they'd have serious problems fitting in.
Santon, the League's security expert, had taken it upon himself to brief the pair on each and every person whom they knew had ended up in the future, including all the members of Johnson and McEwen's groups, Jamie McEwen and Kenny Shelton, as well as the passengers and crew of Flight 571, with strong emphasis on anyone whom they should watch out for. Likewise, he filled them in on the names and descriptions of the rabbits they might meet, more specifically the ones Dr Johnson had brought back with him. Also, he had instructed them both to exercise heavily every day until departure, to achieve the appropriate physical condition they would need in the wilderness of the future world.
All in all, it was a busy week for Sam and Stonecrop, with lots to learn, and very little time to get it done. At night, they'd return late to the boarding house to sleep, too exhausted to even think of the excitement of what lay ahead of them over the next few days.
A week later, things seemed to finally be on a sound footing more or less: Sam had completed her first solo flight and, although she was still pretty amateurish with take-off and landing, the latter in particular, at least now she could fly. She and Stonecrop had also learned by heart a dozen or so Lapine words and phrases, and how to use them, but still had a long way to go before they could qualify for fluent speakers. But, at least they had made a promising start.
On the evening before their day of departure, Sam joined the McEwens to dinner in the garden as usual, while Stonecrop had his on a large plate Elizabeth had put out on the lawn for him. However, her appetite was unusually absent as it slowly dwelled on her that this was her last night in this world, making her feel almost like a person about to commit suicide. In just under 24 hours from now, sometime tomorrow afternoon, she and Stonecrop would be setting off on their journey.
Sam often thought herself as adventurous, but this was one adventure she couldn't possibly look forward to without some serious qualms. Drake had warned them that once they'd crossed the warp they'd be completely on their own to find Watership Down, where Hazel's warren was. The memory of Johnson's story, including the mention that his group, as well as Major McEwen's, had suffered great losses only by going through that time warp, in addition to the many fatalities they had sustained throughout their journey, kept flashing back in her mind, making her feel very uneasy.
"I heard you're leaving tomorrow, dear," said Elizabeth. The McEwens of course knew nothing of all this; Sam had told Mike that she had ultimately decided to turn down the job Drake had offered her and was going to try her luck elsewhere, while, in fact, tomorrow she and Stonecrop were scheduled to have their medical evaluation at Buxton Hall, before their departure. "You must come and visit us again someday."
"I sure will, thank you, Mrs McEwen," said Sam, wondering whether that would ever come to pass. After all, by this time tomorrow, like the Time Traveller with his Time Machine, she'd be on her way to a new future world, from which she wouldn't be returning for a whole year – if she were still alive by then that was. In the midst of her uneasiness, she didn't notice Mike watching her carefully, as if making some kind of connection.
As Elizabeth took the dishes inside, giving them a moment of privacy, the old man took her aside for a little chat. Passing her a glass of ice-tea, he looked at her carefully, "Sam, I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest with me, please. You aren't really pulling out, are you? Dr Drake is sending you to wherever James and Jamie had gone, is he not?"
Caught by surprise, Sam didn't know what to say as she stammered, "I don't know what you mean, Mike…"
"Come on, girl, don't you play dumb with me," said Mike firmly, "It doesn't take a genius to figure it out: all those secret meetings with him up at his lab, you wanting to learn how to fly on a moment's notice, and now you suddenly pulling out for no apparent reason… It's fairly obvious, isn't it?"
Finally, Sam nodded, "Please, Mike, I can't tell you about it. I've sworn to absolute secrecy…" To her utmost relief, the old man smiled.
"That's all right, Sam, I won't ask you to break your promise to the good doctor. I only want to ask you a favour." Making sure his wife was out of earshot, he turned back to Sam.
"I don't know exactly where it is you're going; whether it's the future, or some other Wonderland isn't important to me. But, if you do see my son or grandson or Josie, I want you to give them our regards, and tell them that we'll never give up on them, should they ever decide to come back." Sam weekly nodded, glad that old man Mike wasn't going to try and push her any further into revealing where she was going. He was simply asking her to help him and his wife find a sense of closure to the loss of their family, and she would make sure to honour his request.
Stonecrop sat out on the lawn, looking at the stars, lost in his own thoughts. Ever since meeting Dr Drake, he had finally come to realise the mystery surrounding his mysterious background: he never did have any parents at all. All his life, he had figured that, like many orphans, he once had parents who had either died or abandoned him before he could even remember them. But, the fact was, he never did have a mother or a father to begin with. He was born through scientific means, out of some random blood donor rabbits out of the future. He had no family tree, no ancestors, no identity, nothing. And that hurt, it hurt a lot.
It spite of this miserable realization, however, it soothed his heart to know there were in fact others like him out there. Dr Drake had confirmed Alan Johnson's written account, that the future Earth was indeed inhabited by intelligent, humanoid rabbits just like him. He had no hope of seeking out his true parents there, as they had never even existed; but at least, he would soon be meeting his own kind for the first time, the world from which he had originated, so to speak. The thought felt utterly exciting, but, on the other hand, it also felt somewhat unsettling.
Would he be able to even fit in that strange world? After all, he was a city rabbit at heart, born and raised in the world of humans. Hell, at times he would even forget that he was a rabbit, until he looked himself in the mirror and remember that he was not born of this world. But from what he had been hearing from the Drakes, this future world was nothing like the 21st century. While the adventure greatly appealed to him, now that the time had almost come, he wasn't quite sure if his future lay out there at all.
"Bloody hell, what am I worrying myself for?" he muttered to himself with a smirk, "Once they realise where I'm from, I'll probably have more fans begging for autographs than a damn Manchester United football champion!" Unfortunately, his self-reassuring sarcasm didn't help much to ease up his sense of uncertainty as to whether he was heading off to a place that he could actually call his homeland, or whether he was merely leaving it behind…
And so it was the very next morning that Sam and Stonecrop bed the McEwens goodbye and, all packed and ready, hit the road once again. Their trek to Buxton Hall felt surprisingly pleasant and refreshing, their excitement building. Today was their big day.
Drake and Santon were expecting them as usual up at the lab. The facility had its own state-of-the-art infirmary, complete with trained medical staff, which were ready to receive Sam for her medical tests, to determine whether they were healthy enough to endure the physical and mental challenges of their mission. The physician took Sam's chest film, cardiogram, and blood sample for analysis, and gave her all the necessary immunisations to keep her from contracting any diseases before her immune system could adapt to the future environment, before sending her on to her next appointment with the campus psychologist.
Meanwhile, Drake and his veterinarian worked on Stonecrop. After Stonecrop was also immunised against Myxomatosis, RHD, and other common rabbit diseases with a series of specially synthesized vaccines Drake had developed specifically for lagomorphs, the two soon-to-be time travellers were ready. As they waited for the final results of their evaluation to come through, they joined Drake in his office for the final briefing.
The scientist had set up a projector and whiteboard, showing a satellite view of the New Forest region. On a nearby table lay an assortment of items, which was their equipment. Drake zoomed in on a marked spot in the heart of New Forest.
"Our informant tells us this is where Black Inferno is expected to beam its electromagnetic pulses – the same location where the original warp had been in 2012. The pulse will then react with the electromagnetic debris left by the falling bombs from the war to create another warp…"
Drake had already explained during their first meeting that, according to several physicists whom he had consulted over the years, it was theorized that it was the electromagnetic pulse of the firing weapon-satellite reacting with the unobtainium - electromagnetic matter of a new rare atomic element - mined by the Chinese on the moon to use in their warheads, which created enough energy to distort the space-time continuum, creating a wormhole, and thus allowing time travel. Originally accomplished by a naturally-occurring solar storm hitting the Earth and causing the unobtainium fusion, it would now be accomplished by Black Inferno's solar-pulse ion cannons.
"…All you have to do is reach these coordinates on a westerly heading and then the 'ripple' in time should catapult you forward to the 28th century. You'll be ending up in exactly the same location, only eight centuries forward in time. Then, all you have to do is make a one-eighty turn and double back, towards Watership Down, where Alan and his group said they were headed."
"What if there's no place to land? What if we get lost and can't make it there before we run out of power…?" asked Sam, beginning to have serious doubts as to whether she could pull all this off without experience and without even radio guidance.
"If worse comes to worse, then you just roll over and bail out," explained Santon, who had been thinking along the same lines and working on solutions for such a contingency, "If your radio fails, then you can draw attention by using your signal flares." Although Sam had covered the emergency bailout procedure with Mike in theory, there had been no time to practise it. And Stonecrop, whom Mike had only let Sam take up in the glider once during her first solo, for good luck, couldn't even handle the chute without hands. Luckily, Santon had worked out a solution to that problem too.
"Stonecrop's deploy will be tied to a 3-foot long cord," he explained, "If you have to bail out, the tug on the cord should deploy the chute for him once he's clear of the glider. It's a chance you'll just have to take."
Drake next turned to their equipment on the table: a utility knife, three signal flares, flashlight, space blanket, a couple of protein bars, canteen, and a small first aid kit - the absolute essentials to survive in the wilderness long enough to find Alan Johnson's colony. Only a basic survival kit, in addition to Sam's scanty wardrobe and personal belongings in her backpack, and their parachutes, which was as much as the limited weight allowance of the glider permitted them to take along.
Santon walked up to Stonecrop with a peculiar cigarette case-shaped gadget with a blinking red light, which he fastened to his collar.
"Tracer," he explained, "In case you get separated in the event of a bailout, you can track him on this." He handed Sam a cell phone-like devise, its screen marked with a cross divided in notches, which marked the holder's distance and direction from the tracking device in the form of a blinking red dot.
"And this," said Santon, "is your insurance policy, in case you run into any unwelcome company." He passed Sam a tiny revolver, often referred to in the trade as a ladies' gun, which Sam pocketed with trembling hands, never having been particularly fond of guns, "Should you run into any trouble on the ground, all you have to do is pull the trigger. Also, I'm going to need you to hand over all your IDs. Everything, if you please."
Sam reluctantly handed over her passport, driver's license, credit cards, and any other card or document of identification she carried, wondering why she was literally being stripped off her identity all of a sudden. Noticing her perplexity, Drake explained, "It will make it easier for us to cover up all traces of this operation by 'erasing' your identity from the records. You won't be needing a passport where you're going. Only this." He passed Sam a military-style pair of dog-tags, bearing her full name, birth date, and blood type. Her new identity - the only kind which actually worked where she was going anyway.
Soon, the results of the medical tests had also come through, confirming that both Sam and Stonecrop were of sound mind and body, and good to go for their mission.
"Now then," said Dr Drake, once the briefing was complete, "It's time to sign your contract and to discuss your fee for this job." Sam thought this rather peculiar; what would she be needing money for in a place where she couldn't even spend it?
"Sam, in return for your services, I'm offering you a place among Alan Johnson's colony, with Stonecrop. I barely know you, but I have every reason to believe you have earned that place. If you choose, you may remain there and make a new life for yourself; otherwise, if you prefer to return once the warp reopens next year and wait out the Apocalypse with us, I promise you a place here in the League." He passed her a hermetically sealed envelope, lined with plastic, to protect it from humidity during the journey. There was no postage stamp or address; only the words: 'For the eyes of Dr Alan Johnson only.'
"I have included a letter of introduction for you, as well as my own message of warning to Alan, about Crowley," he said, "You are to put these documents into his hands, and his alone. I have every confidence that he and his friends will honour my request of admitting you. However, I ought to remind you one more time that this assignment involves numerous risks and even more hardships. Once you've crossed through the warp, my responsibility ends. You'll be completely on your own to fulfil your mission. Are you up for this?"
Pen in hand, Sam stared down at the document, which was her official contract, outlining all the terms and conditions over several pages. Her hand quivered, hesitant to sign. This was it; at this point, she could either go ahead with this crazy escapade or turn it down. Was this adventure really worn putting her neck on the line? Maybe it was better if she left it in the hands of a real professional? Then again, this could be her one and only chance of getting Stonecrop back where he truly belonged, so he could be free – a place where she might find happiness as well. Finally, banishing her fears, she signed it.
Drake stood and shook her hand, "Congratulations, Sam. And don't you worry; I am pretty sure someday you will treasure this moment as the time you made the best decision of your life. I know Alan certainly did."
"Are you going to tell her now, Doctor?" asked Santon, his tone suddenly frosty. This sudden change in attitude in the Inspector caught Sam by surprise. She stared at each of them in turn. What was going on here?
"Tell me, what?"
Drake cast Santon a glare, before slowly turning to face Sam with the truth, "Sam, there is something else I think you should know before you go. Something that might come as a bit of a shock to you..." Sam flashed back to her first meeting with Dr Drake, where Santon had cautioned the scientist to reconsider before entrusting her with the secrets of his project, on account of her being potentially untrustworthy, because of something he had dug up concerning her background.
"What is this all about?" she demanded, starting to get really annoyed at having something like this withheld from her. Why was Santon so suspicious of her? "Has it got something to do with my brother and Dr Johnson…?"
Realising there was no way out, Drake turned to Santon, "Charles, would you and Stonecrop please step outside for a moment? I'd rather explain this in privacy." The Chief Inspector nodded and walked out the door, ushering a bewildered Stonecrop out as well, closing it behind them. Drake then turned to face Sam, his usually pleasant expression now cold and stony…
Sam rejoined Santon and Stonecrop in the cafeteria half an hour later. Stonecrop frowned as he noticed his step-mother now looked horribly downcast, her eyes puffy, as if she had been crying.
"Whatever is the matter, Sam? What was all that about?"
"N…nothing, Stonecrop. I'll tell you later…" Sam stammered, trying to hide her sadness. Whatever Dr Drake had just been telling her in there, she definitely wasn't keen to discuss it any time soon. "Come on, we have to get moving."
Their equipment and belongings at hand, they followed Santon outside, where a waiting car was ready to take them to the airstrip, where their glider awaited. The race was on; the only question was which side would make it to the finish line first?
Meanwhile, up in Scotland, it was a busy day going on at Lossiemouth Royal Air Force Base. A military-owned triple-engine DC-10, converted to a prisoner transport plane, stood on the edge of the runway, awaiting its convict passengers.
With a small army of armed Marines patrolling every inch of the base, a procession of men in military attire and carrying kits, flanked by dozens of heavily armed escort guards, were marched out of the barracks and made to stand at attention on the tarmac for a roll call. Today was moving day for some of the country's most notorious military convicts to the newly opened Red Glasshouse, the UK's new high-security military prison on the Isle of Wight.
The prisoners standing at attention were a nasty lot: former conspirators of the Shardik scandal, collaborators to the Red Hand Brotherhood, or just random spies and assassins for the Chinese during the war, among other high-profile military offenders. Their uniforms, originally bearing the insignia of different ranks, as well as military decorations, were now stripped bare, bearing nothing but a dull prisoner's nametag. These men were no longer even regarded as soldiers; only convicted criminals, who stood little to no chance of ever knowing the outside of a prison again. And indeed, they didn't belong in civilised society.
Aside from being traitors, the newly selected inmates for the Red Glasshouse were, by nature, very unpleasant individuals. Assassins, fascists, turncoats, militia henchmen, war criminals, and terrorists, all with the blood of countless of innocents on their hands. Few felt remorse or redemption for what they had done; only an unceasing desire to return to their careers of crime at the first given opportunity. Combined with their advanced training in warfare tactics and strategies, they were literally a powder magazine waiting to explode.
While the prisoners stood waiting to be boarded, shooting their guards hateful looks every now and then, several trucks, which had just arrived at the base, stopped in front of the plane to deposit their cargo: used or worn-out military equipment cleared out from local barracks left over from the war, now shut down, including clothing, cooking and cleaning utensils, medical equipment, tools, and even weapons, to be reused in the prison.
As soldiers loaded the sealed containers onboard, stowing them in the cargo hold, the Marines performed a roll call, calling out the names of each of the prisoners, ticking them off the passenger list one by one, as the guards escorted them onboard, chaining them to their seats. With the tightest of security measures in place, and with each and every member of security well trained and experienced, even better than the Efrafan Owsla itself, at first glance, it seemed like nothing could possibly go wrong. Alas, that was only an illusion.
Nearby, the flight crew and escort squadron, assigned to guard the prisoners during transport, passed through the security checkpoint: Captain Leo Gallagher; co-pilot Don Travis; Marine Major Thomas Haywood, squadron leader; Lt Henry Hirsh, MoD supervisor and representative; and a twelve-man marine squadron, charged with delivering this flight of scumbags and their trash to their new home. Nobody was aware of the fact that there was a hidden mole lurking somewhere within that crew, with orders to make sure that the most fool-proof prisoner transport in history didn't go as planned.
With the prisoners all seated in their aft cabin section behind locked gates, securely restrained to their seats with handcuffs and leg shackles, and with the cargo all secured in the hold, the pilots announced their departure. The Marines and Hirsh sat up front, in what was usually the first class section on a jetliner. Soon, the convict transport plane was airborne, heading south over the British Isles, towards the Isle of Wight prison island off the coast of Hampshire.
The flight was halfway to its destination. Ordering his second-in-command to take over for a moment, Major Haywood joined Hirsh, who was pouring himself some coffee in the galley. This observer had come along for the ride at the last moment, much to Major Haywood's displeasure of having to babysit a non-combatant on this flight. But orders were orders. And that wasn't the only thing bothering Haywood.
Being a seasoned soldier, who had seen combat many times before, Major Haywood could sense something strangely off about this Lt Hirsh fellow. Looking at him from afar, the man seemed rather nervous, yet was doing a good job of not showing it. Nonetheless, Haywood didn't like having him on this plane, not without knowing what the hell was on his mind.
"So, tagging along to make sure we deliver those scumbags to the Glasshouse on time, Mr Hirsh?" asked the Marine, putting aside his weapon, and helping himself to a Dr Pepper from the icebox. How he wished he could have a cold beer, but the book made no exceptions for on-duty combatants and alcohol. Hirsh looked up, startled.
"Just making sure standard military protocol is followed, Major," he said curtly, sipping down his coffee, apparently trying to avoid conversation. Realizing he was getting nowhere, Haywood turned to return to his seat. He had better keep a sharp watch on this Hirsh character. The sooner they were on the ground the better.
Meanwhile, in the back a prisoner called out for the guard's attention, saying he needed to use the loo. Haywood nodded his permission. One of the Marines punched in the code in the electronic keypad that operated the gate locks, allowing a second Marine to enter the prisoner section, leaving his colleague to guard the open gate.
Releasing the prisoner, whose name was Stuart, a former Corporal charged with mutiny and murdering his CO, from his cuffs, he marched him up the isle to the prisoners' single lavatory in the rear of the aircraft. In contrast to the forward ones, this was an open cubicle, leaving little privacy for these high-security convicts, which were, by order, to be watched every minute they were not shackled to their seats.
Stuart undid his pants and took a seat on the john, but not to do his business as his guard assumed. As it happened, he had secret instructions for a different mission, which his associate on this flight had made sure to slip him before he was brought over from the detention facility where he was previously incarcerated.
Making sure the Marine wasn't looking at him, he carefully removed the toilet role from its housing, reaching for something concealed inside the cardboard cylinder. At first glance, it looked like an ordinary ballpoint pen; except, inside it, where the ink tube was supposed to be, there was a .22 caliber pistol cartridge with a tiny hammer and trigger rigged to the clip - what a firearm expert might call the typical zip gun.
Slipping the weapon up his sleeve, Stuart flushed the toilet and stood to return to his seat. With the Marine flanking him, he casually walked back down the aisle, his eyes fixed on what was going on up front, waiting for his accomplice's signal to strike…
Up front, Hirsh had also left his seat, supposedly to use the loo, to set his own part of the plan in motion, away from any prying eyes. Locking the lavatory door, he set to work. Reaching in the locker above the basin, he unscrewed the plastic container of pink liquid soap from its squirter. Reaching down the bottleneck with his fingers, he traced the tip of something wrapped in plastic wrapping, keeping it dry from the soap. He pulled out a peculiar cylindrical device filled with holes like a piece of Swiss cheese, with a spoon attached by a safety pin to the top – something otherwise known by experts as a type M84 stun grenade. Not a powerful explosive capable of catastrophic fragmentation, but certainly capable of wrecking havoc in a closed space like the cabin of this plane.
Reaching into his holster, making sure his own service revolver was cocked and ready, he cautiously opened the lavatory door ajar. Grenade in hand, he pulled the pin out, and, making sure he had a clear shot, he tossed it right down the centre of the aisle, where the unsuspecting Marines sat. Then, he hurryingly shut the door of the lavatory, plunking a pair of disposable rubber earmuffs used by soldiers in the artillery, which he had smuggled onboard as part of his plan, in his ears. Not a second too soon, all hell broke loose…
Back in the prisoners' seating area, Stuart watched Hirsh slip into the lavatory. This was the time. Casually reaching into his sleeve where he had tucked the zip gun, he pulled back on the clip, cocking the hammer. The instant he saw the stun grenade roll down the first class aisle, he spun round, setting off his weapon in the surprised guard's face, killing him instantly. Before the body of the dead Marine had even hit the aisle floor, with lightning-speed reflexes, Stuart had seized the man's weapon and ducked behind the nearest row of seats, just in time to escape the shockwave of the ensuing blast…
Up front, Haywood and his men never knew what hit them. The flash bang of the stun grenade sent the entire squadron to their knees screaming, blinded or with busted eardrums, others knocked out cold from concussion. But that was only the beginning of the party. Before anyone could recover, the real massacre had started, as the dazed and confused soldiers suddenly found themselves being shot at from opposite sides: the turncoat Hirsh on one side, and the escaped prisoner Stuart with his dead guard's gun on the other.
Some of the Marines finding themselves momentarily alive because of their bulletproof vests, attempted to retain control. One of them barely managed to undo the safety catch on his weapon and shoot Stuart dead, only for Hirsh to kill him a second later from behind. Caught in this inescapable death trap, within seconds, the cabin was awash with the blood spilt from a dozen murdered marines, which had just lost their last battle.
Up in the cockpit, behind their locked door, Captain Gallagher and co-pilot Travis heard the ear-splitting bang of the grenade going off through their headsets, followed by the ensuing gunfire. Gallagher, realising there was trouble, barked into his headset, "Mayday, mayday! We have a security breach onboard! Repeat, this is RAF-911, declaring –"
He was cut off in mid-sentence as he felt something cold being pressed sharply against his temple. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his colleague, the third accomplice in the hijacking, holding his own zip gun, which he had drawn from its hiding place under his seat the instant he had heard the commotion break out in the back, fixed on him. The last thing Captain Gallagher ever saw in this life was the flash of the firing bullet, which blew his brains out all over the cockpit.
Smirking at his dead victim, Travis quickly disabled the plane's transponder and radio beacons, causing them to vanish from the radar sweeps. Over the radio, he heard the Air Force flight controller on the ground attempting to regain contact, asking Captain Gallagher to repeat his interrupted last message, warning them that they had just vanished from the scope. Keeping com-1 open to keep monitoring ground control, Travis switched over to another, secure frequency on com-2.
"Jetstar-680, this is RAF-911, reporting recruiting package secure. Repeat, recruiting package is secure." A different voice on the other end answered him.
"Roger that, RAF-911. Approaching your position now from your four o'clock." Looking out the side window, Travis saw the small Lockheed jet fly up alongside them, "Divert from your original flight path and come to heading 190 at flight level 15,000 for escort, over." Travis complied and changed course, following the Lockheed southwest, towards the forbidden zone of New Forest. At that moment, a shaky and dishevelled Agent Hirsh entered the cockpit.
"How are we doing?"
"Everything going according to plan, sir. I've got Mr Crowley awaiting your report." Putting on the dead Captain Gallagher's headset, Travis reported.
"We've secured the plane, boss. No unwanted survivors left. But we lost Stuart in the shootout…" His boss's voice answered back this time.
"Good job, Hirsh. My belief that you allegiance still lies on our side is momentarily restored. Twenty minutes to intercept. Make sure you stick to the schedule. Mr Travis, patch me into the intercom." Hirsh sighed in frustration at the lack of praise; the only reason Crowley had recruited him to be his inside man in the hijacking was because Hirsh was yet another former enemy collaborator, but who had managed to worm his way out of trouble by framing his associates. With Crowley blackmailing him with a threat to expose him if he didn't cooperate, and with a promise of a generous share in the spoils of this crazy escapade, Hirsh had unwillingly decided to revert back to his old life of crime, one which he had been desperately trying to bury for years now.
Meanwhile, back in the main cabin, the prisoners had all been freed from their restraints and free to roam around the cabin of their hijacked plane, gloating over the bodies of their murdered guards. Many were busy stripping the bodies off their combat vests and weapons, which they distributed amongst themselves, some even going as far as to taking their wallets, watches and wedding rings as trophies, kicking and spitting at the dead men in malice. One of the prisoners, a former master-at-arms, had picked the lock of the arms' chest and was distributing the arsenal of assault rifles, bayonets, and hand grenades among the gang of newly recruited mercenaries.
The chatter over who had orchestrated this spectacular mass escape plan on their behalf was cut short as Crowley's voice boomed throughout the cabin on the intercom, which Travis had patched through, addressing his new recruits over the radio.
"I want the attention of ever man onboard. Gentlemen, at this moment you're probably wondering who has just cut your incarceration short. That would be me, Colonel Harry Crowley, your new commander and leader. Some of you, I believe, I've had the pleasure of working with before, and I look forward to doing so again very soon; any newcomers, I look forward to welcoming you under my command, so that you may prove your worth to me on this mission. Rise and shine, gentlemen. Let's make history!"
Cheers and applause broke out among the criminal mercenaries, which had just found themselves freed from prison and under the command of one of the most notorious hired guns in the world, whose reputation ran deep among the likes of them. On Hirsh's instruction, several men descended to the luggage compartment, and began fastening parachutes to the equipment, which they'd need for their ground operations. In the main cabin, parachutes were also being distributed around, as the crew prepared for bailout. In the tail section, a technician jettisoned the tail cone, opening up the emergency escape ramp. Another twenty minutes and they'd home-free…
Onboard the Lockheed jet, which the transport plane was now following, Crowley sat at his desk inside the luxurious cabin of his private jet, which had been converted to a mini-lounge, fitted with state-of-the-art electronics, a mini bar, pull-down bed, and of course his personal weapon's locker. Like most high-profile mercenaries of his breed, Crowley liked to travel in style, with all the luxuries his dirty money could buy. Sipping his drink, he turned to an armoured laptop fitted with a satellite antenna sitting on his desk, which his employer had supplied him with.
Entering an access code, he brought up a digital graph of Black Inferno, currently in lunar orbit, its ion cannon trained on Earth, fixing on the coordinates inserted by remote in its guidance system, preparing to fire. On his screen, Crowley got a green light that the satellite was armed and locked on target. Picking up the intercom, he spoke to his pilot.
"How much longer, Simmons?"
"Ten minutes to intercept, sir. Transport plane following right behind. Travis reports the men are suited up and ready for bailout."
Satisfied, Crowley hit the execute key, activating a ten-minute countdown to the first of two firings; one for now, and one timed to occur in precisely the same location 779 years ahead – interconnecting two distant eras across the valley of time in the process, via the ensuing wormhole. The gateway, he knew, would only remain open for a minute or two so they could pass, after which the wormhole would dissipate, sealing up the gateway and barring any unwelcome third party from following them through; and from anybody escaping back here to mess things up for them. Whatever awaited them on the other side, they were in control. Their mission: the reclamation of Earth for mankind!
Sam felt a nervous wreck as she piloted the glider Drake had purchased for this mission – ironically, a near-identical model to Jamie McEwen's - across the dead zone over New Forrest, an airsick Stonecrop struggling to make himself comfortable in the cramped back seat, trying not to puke. They had taken off from the abandoned former Sutch and Martin flight club airstrip, where Drake had kept the specially modified glider hidden, a little over an hour ago, making their way south towards New Forest.
Starting off from where Dr Johnson had done all those years ago, Sam couldn't suppress a sense of awe, realising they were finally coming down the home stretch. Any minute now, the warp, or whatever Dr Drake had called it, should materialise out of thin air, and they would learn what it was like to be first-time time travellers. And then, the real adventure would begin in earnest.
Santon had wished them luck and left them, rather hurryingly, to 'avoid attracting any prying eyes lurking out there'. Before he had however, he had taken Sam aside for a little talk of his own.
"I realise this new piece of information Drake revealed to you must be causing you doubts as to whether Johnson and his friends will accept you now," he had said, "My advice to you is that you don't reveal your surname until the time is right. Remember that." Sam had tried pointing out, just what the hell good that was supposed to do her, but Santon had turned and left them without another word.
Although the glider had a radio, Sam had been warned not to use it, unless it was an absolute emergency, with Drake and Santon tracking them on GPS via the Tracer on Stonecrop's neck. After all, someone who supposedly didn't even exist anymore breaking radio silence on an open frequency would attract too much attention if intercepted – not to mention alert any spies that Drake was sending his own agent out to warn Alan Johnson and his rabbit friends that their world was being threatened by invaders. That was of course if they didn't kick her out first, when they realised her dark secret…
Stonecrop, meanwhile, was lost in his own thoughts, trying to take his mind off his churning stomach, wishing he hadn't had such a big breakfast. Finally, he was on his way…home? Was that the correct word for it? Frankly, he couldn't really figure out how he felt. The human world had always been his home and now he was leaving it behind for good. Would he and Sam like it there in the future? The idea of meeting others of his own kind suddenly felt a bit scary to think of. And then there was Drake's final talk with Sam before they had left, which she had utterly refused to discuss with him. What had the scientist told her that she didn't want to talk about, even with him…?
Distracted by their thoughts, neither of them noticed the two planes suddenly enter their supposedly clear airspace. Hearing the roaring sound of the approaching engines in their baffles, Sam looked over her shoulder just in time to see the Lockheed pass only a few feet above them, with the DC-10 following close behind. Although neither aircraft touched them, the wake turbulence stirred up by the massive jet planes tearing through the sky was too much for the fragile plywood glider, which was sent into a violent spin.
Sam and Stonecrop both screamed in unison as they suddenly found themselves rolling around, as if being caught in the column of a killer tornado, completely out of control. The last thing Sam saw was a loose chunk of the glider's severed wing flying free before her eyes, realising that she had come all this way only to be killed in a mid-air collision. As such, she never saw the warp suddenly materialise out of thin air, creating a distortion the space-time continuum, and swallowing up all three aircraft into the void, catapulting them into the depths of futurity…
Meanwhile, back at Buxton Hall, Drake and Santon were watching Sam's flight via a GPS uplink tracking Stonecrop's Tracer on screen which Drake had ordered set up in his office for this purpose. Although not as good as a proper radio and transponder might have been, they couldn't risk it, as anyone could intercept their signal and give their game away. The Tracer was the safest option.
The two men watched as the glider entered the Forbidden Zone over New Forest, before turning westerly, just as Drake had instructed Sam. Suddenly, they saw the signal moving to and fro, almost as if the glider was being thrown about in midair, which, unbeknownst to either of them, was Crowley's air convoy strafing them. Drake and Santon of course had no way of knowing that, as they turned to stare at each other in alarm, wondering what was going on. Then, they saw the grid the glider was flying in suddenly become obscured by static, which was Black Inferno's artificial wormhole materialising. When the static had cleared, the signal was gone, implying they had gone through…or had they not?
A moment later, Santon's cell phone rang. The Chief Inspector walked away for a moment to take the call, which was an informant he had hired in the RAF on Drake's request to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. When he came back, he was frowning in disappointment.
"RAF Air Traffic Control has just reported that convict transport plane inbound for the Isle of Wight has vanished. Intelligence satellites tracked it following a smaller, unidentified plane into the Forbidden Zone…straight into Sam's flight path. I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm so sorry…"
For an instant, Drake was speechless with horror; what if his messenger was indeed dead and Crowley was on his way to the future together with a bunch of escaped thugs? Had their efforts all been for naught? Deciding not to despair just yet, remembering how Alan had gotten into much tougher scrapes than this and lived to talk about it, he turned back to Santon.
"No, that Sam is a too strong-willed a girl to go out like this. They've made it through…I just know they have," he said to the sceptical Santon, "Now it's up to them to protect the future." He walked over to his office window, staring at the fading Aurora visible in the distance, over New Forest, which was dissipating as quickly as it had started a few minutes ago.
"God's speed, Alan. The battle to defend what we believe in is now coming to you and your friends…"
Author's note: Finally, we're shifting back to where we left off at the end of the first story. Coming up next, our first glimpse at the human/rabbit colony and how it evolved over the four years following the Battle of Efrafa. Most of the original characters will be returning, as well as a whole bunch of OC characters of the latest generation. Enjoy and please, please, review!