Down: Trilogy Box Set (129 page)

Kyle saw the delegation entering and elbowed Trevor awake. “Showtime, Mr. Jones.”

“Kyle, you’re a fucking machine,” John said. “Two days without sleep.”

“That’s nothing,” Kyle replied. “Two days without booze. That’s the impressive statistic.”

“We’re here to see guns and ammo,” Marsh said, “not an alcoholic with a limp.”

John reacted with fury and bumped his chest into Marsh’s. “I think it’s about time I kicked your sorry ass, you know that?”

The sleeping SAS troopers were on their feet now, looking on.

“Let’s do it then,” Marsh shot back. “Right here, right now.”

The other captains jumped in, separating the two men before fists began to fly.

“For Christ’s sake, Alan, put a sock in it,” Yates said, shoving Marsh back. “We’re all on the same team.”

“Same team?” Marsh spat. “Not even close.”

Trevor held an object in his hands wrapped in a cloth. He winked at John but spoke directly to Marsh. “You want to see guns and ammo, mate? You’ve come to the right place.”

With that, he removed the cloth and held up a fully assembled rifle, the pale wood of the stock and handgrips set off against the matte-black steel of the receiver, barrel, and iron sights.

Kyle handed Trevor a steel magazine, heavy with bullets and said, “This alcoholic with a gimpy leg is proud to present you boys with the official AK-47 hellcat model, capable of semi-auto or full-auto firing modes, complete with thirty-round banana clips and 7.62X39mm cartridges.”

“Let’s have a look,” John said.

Trevor seated the magazine and passed it to John who tested its balance in his hands and looked down the sights.

“It looks and feels right,” John said, passing it on to Yates for inspection.

It passed through other hands before winding up with Marsh who gave it a once-over and said, “All I care about it whether it goes bang when I pull the trigger.”

“Then let’s go outside,” Kyle said, taking it back.

William and all his forge workers joined the line of men exiting the forge. Outside, John found a tree about fifty yards away and using one of the forge knives, pinned a piece of scrap leather to it.

All the soldiers assembled for the show.

Kyle lined up the shot and said, “The gunsmith’s the guy who ought to take the first shots in case the receiver blows up in his face.”

“Jesus, John, is it safe?” Emily said.

“Have faith,” he replied. “It’ll work if the primers work.”

“The professor was quite confident.”

“In that case you’d better stick your fingers in your ears.”

Kyle pulled back the bolt and let it snap forward. He put the butt stock against his cheek and peered through the front sight. His finger curled against the trigger.

Birds took flight from the surrounding wood when the huge boom cracked the air. The piece of leather moved slightly. Kyle smiled and pulled the trigger five more times in rapid succession, the leather rippling with each impact.

Nightingale was awake at the first shot. He got to his feet and came over to Emily and said giddily, “The primers work, Emily! They work!”

“I never doubted you, not for an instant,” she said, delighting him by planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Now for full auto,” Kyle shouted above the ringing in his own ears. “I don’t recommend it, ’cause there’s only so much ammo, but here goes.”

He flipped the selector switch and held the trigger back. The rifle spit out the remainder of the magazine in a hail of deafening fire. When he was done, he removed the magazine, made sure the gun was empty and shouted, “This hearing thing is over-rated! This baby sure makes some noise!”

William ran to the tree and returned waving the shredded piece of leather.

“What a marvel!” he said. “My forge did that! My forge!”

The soldiers began whooping and yelling. John squeezed Emily’s arm and went over to his brother.

“You are a fucking all-star,” he said.

“What did you say?”

He shouted this time. “I said you’re a fucking all-star. A deaf all-star.”

“I do three things well,” Kyle said with tears welling. “Build guns, drink, and fuck up relationships.”

“Come here,” John said, enveloping him in a bear hug.

Marsh and the other captains came over to check out the blistering-hot rifle that reeked of gunpowder.

“I guess I owe you and your brother an apology,” Marsh told Kyle. “Bloody well done. Provided all of them work as well.”

“Apology accepted,” Kyle said. “They’ll all work. Will they jam more than a usual build? Probably. But we’ve got ourselves a Turtledove situation.”

“What’s that?” Captain Gatti asked.

“Harry Turtledove. One of my favorite writers,” Kyle said. “He wrote a book called
Guns of the South
, where some racists use a time machine to bring a bunch of AK-47s back to Civil War times. That’s all the Confederates needed to turn the tide against the Union army. Lee won and Grant lost. Alternative history.”

“We’re writing the history this time,” John said. “What do you say we pack up and move out?”

“One more little trinket to help us move in the right direction,” Kyle said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out five brass compasses and gave one to John and one to each of the captains. “In the middle of the night while we were making primer caps and bullets I had William make these.”

“How’d you magnetize the pins?” Captain Greene asked.

“Easy. Rubbed them against the silk maps. Old camping trick.”

Marsh stuck out his hand. “We’re going to make you an honorary member of A Squadron,” he said. “If any of us make it out of here.”

The captains organized a trial firing of each rifle. All of them but three worked perfectly, and with some filing and fussing, Kyle made these work too. All the magazines were loaded with a double-stack and the rest of the ammo was divided into four sacks. Each group was issued eight rifles and one sack.

Kyle went back inside the forge and returned with a surprise: three more rifles under his arm. He gave one to John, one to Trevor, and kept one for himself.

“Had a little extra time,” he said. “Made a few extras.”

John shook his hand and Trevor said, “Thanks, mate. Outstanding.”

“Sorry I didn’t make one for you, Emily,” Kyle said. “I’m probably coming off as a sexist pig.”

“That’s quite all right,” Emily said with a smile. “I really don’t want one.”

As they rolled up their blanket Emily told John, “We can’t take Ted with us, you know. He’ll never make it.”

“The plan was to bring him back to Leatherhead and try to send him through.”

“I doubt he’ll survive even that. He can hardly hold his head up. The trip will kill him.”

John watched the chemist for a while. He was sitting against a log looking frail and dazed. “What do you suggest?”

“That.”

She was pointing at Mrs. Smith ambling up the path from the village with a small basket of food for Nightingale. She came up to him, engaged in conversation, sat beside him, and got him to munch on a crust.

“Think he’ll go for it?” John asked.

“His job’s done. He’s sick and worn out. I’m guessing he will.”

Emily was right. Nightingale admitted that he had awoken with considerable trepidation at the thought of doing hard traveling, on a horse, or astride Moose’s shoulders. But always the gentleman, he announced in Mrs. Smith’s presence that he wouldn’t presume to force himself upon her hospitality.

As it happened, the old woman beamed at the idea and said, “Well, I’d be delighted to take in Mr. Nightingale as a lodger. I’ve been alone for a very long while and a bit of company would do nicely. He’ll be safe and sound with me.”

Emily gave the chemist a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a hero, Ted,” she said. “I’ve never met a braver man in my life.”

“You really think so?” His cheeks, the only part of his face not yellowed by jaundice, turned pink.

“Take it from me,” John said. “Soldiers put themselves into harm’s way after training and indoctrination. “You were cold-called for this assignment and you didn’t hesitate. You’re the real deal.”

“The real deal,” he said, rolling the Americanism over his lips. “How marvelous.”

Moose was summoned for the trip down the hill. The huge soldier cradled the chemist in his arms.

“Hang tight,” John said. “We’ll be back for you. I can’t say when exactly but we’ll be back.” John looked at Mrs. Smith and wagged his finger at the professor. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

A Squadron was ready to pull out.

John thanked William for his help but the forger said, “Don’t thank me, John who is not from here. Thank King Henry. Will you be seeing his majesty?”

John smiled. “Not right away. But I’ll be sure to tell him how great you were. If I don’t see you again, keep using that good Swedish iron.”

The plan was simple. They marched to the river as one. Once there Gatti’s C Group would peel off right away, using the stashed rowboats to move rifles and ammo across. The men would then march back the way they came to Leatherhead.

The rest would head east on foot until they found boats to commandeer. They would sail downstream as far as Dartford where Greene’s group would march north to Upminster and Marsh’s men and Trevor would head south to Sevenoaks where Trevor would seek out the lost schoolboys of Belmeade. Yates’s men together with John, Emily, and Kyle would approach Dartford to look for the MAAC scientists and VIPs. Then John and Emily would head east, seeking a way across the channel.

Tramping through the meadow, John said to Emily, “This has been a good start.”

“Better than we might have expected.”

“We need to be honest with ourselves. The mission’s too aggressive. We always knew that. There’s no way we can save everyone: the MAAC people, the kids, the civilians in all the hot zones.”

“I know,” she said. “As harsh as it sounds, we’ve got to keep our eyes on the prize.”

“I know,” he said. “Paul.”

“Even if one or both of us has to be sacrificed trying.”

The river came into view and he took her hand. “Day by day you’re becoming a warrior, did you know that?”

The others were angrily glaring at him but Trotter was standing his ground.

“Tell me what you would have done differently?” he asked.

Every one of the Earthers assembled in the banqueting hall turned dormitory was angry and scared. The women were weeping.

George Lawrence had lost considerable weight and had taken to wrapping himself in his blanket throughout the day for warmth. “I certainly wouldn’t have been Suffolk’s pimp.”

“How dare you!” Trotter fumed. “As your representative I have had to make hard decisions to save lives.”

“Self-appointed representative who lives apart from us as their fair-haired boy,” one of the scientists called out.

“And what about Brenda’s life?” Chris Cowles asked. She was sitting on her cot holding a trembling Kelly Jenkins.

“Her suicide is a tragedy,” Trotter said. “She went into this clear-headed. None of us had much of a choice. We are prisoners and our captors, at least some of them, are animals.”

Trotter had sown the seeds of Brenda Mitchell’s death. She had placed the drapery cord around her neck but he might as well have been the one to do it and kick away the stool. He might not have been proud of it but he was proud of his prowess in playing human chess. He had sacrificed Brenda as one might sacrifice a knight to set up a checkmate. He had done black work at MI6 as recently as the fatally botched assassination of Giles Farmer and he had always slept soundly.

“Here’s the way to go about it,” he had suggested to Suffolk. “Threaten to kill our security men if this Brenda woman won’t agree to sleep with you. Make it her decision. Play on her altruism.”

“What if she refuses?” Suffolk had asked.

“Then hang them and threaten one of her friends. I’d suggest Chris, the older woman.”

“Are they not your men?” Suffolk had asked with a knowing smile.

“They’re MI5. Different agency altogether. Hardly know them.”

Trotter had used Smithwick for the gambit, pulling her to one of the corners of the dormitory.

“You can’t be serious?” she had said.

“I’m just the messenger, Karen,” he had replied gravely. “This Suffolk chap approached me and told me he wanted Brenda delivered to his quarters. When I told him to stuff it, he delivered the threat. I don’t know what to do. You’ve got to talk to her.”

“I hardly know her. Chris is the one who’s bonded with her.”

“Then talk to Chris first. He said he’d hang our MI5 minders if she doesn’t play ball.”

The discussion with Brenda had not gone down well. She reacted by entering a near-catatonic state, refusing to leave her cot and hardly eating. After two days the Earthers were told to look out the windows onto the earthen courtyard. Everyone but Brenda watched in horror as the agents were hung from three gallows.

That evening Trotter had informed Smithwick that Suffolk had upped the ante. Chris would be hung in the morning.

Trotter had watched from afar as Smithwick sat beside Brenda whispering bad tidings. The young woman hadn’t said anything but an hour later, when Chris was using the privy, she had picked herself off her bed and had shuffled to the door to announce to the guards that she should be taken to the Duke of Suffolk. When Chris returned and had learned what she had done she became hysterical.

All had been quiet for a day until Cromwell appeared at Trotter’s rooms, interrupting his supper of roast game.

“Cromwell,” Trotter had said, slightly drunk. “Come and join me. I think it’s rabbit or at least I hope it is.”

“Your young woman who was Suffolk’s wench has hanged herself.”

“What? Really?”

“Indeed. Suffolk is angry. He has lost a concubine. I am angry. I have lost a scientist. I have seen too little progress in the deciphering of your texts.”

Trotter had more wine. “Best thing that could have happened.”

“Why is that?”

“They’ve been slow-playing me too. I think they’re all in on it. Campbell Bates and the rest of them. They’d rather talk about escaping than getting down to work. They’ve got this mentality that one doesn’t aid and abet the enemy and you most certainly are the enemy.”