by John McNally
“Needle!” demanded Kaparis.
The Swiss Cheese wielded a new monster needle capable of penetrating the sternum.
“Allow me!” said Leopold, staggering in and swiping it off him.
As the dot slowed in the subclavian artery to swing into the carotid that led up to the brain, Leopold let out a bellow and drove the needle down through Kaparis’s chest like a stake through the heart of a vampire – “ARRRRRRRRRGH!”
The needle missed and the green dot was pumped straight up the carotid artery at speed.
“It’s heading for the brain!” yelled the assistant surgeon.
“DAMN YOU!” roared Kaparis, as he watched the green dot fly north.
“Nearly there!” yelled Nico.
All was red rush again. Carla steered as best she could, trying not to hit the walls, as Nico, at the map of red lines, shouted out directions.
“We’re past the jaw! OK, let’s pull over … hit a side road!”
Carla swung left and found the wall of the mighty blood vessel. At the first opening she found, she shot the Vitalis forward, then swung it round 180 to stabilise it in the flow.
“Are we there yet?” Finn asked.
“We’re there yet,” said Nico, struck by the absurdity of it all. “We’re in Kaparis’s brain.”
To Finn, it didn’t look that different from anywhere else they’d been – just a blizzard of blood in the headlights. But the idea of it …
“What do we do now?” asked Carla.
Finn smiled. “Let’s mess with his head.”
Dr Leopold, the Big Swiss Cheese and his surgical team, the Siguri – even Heywood – all quailed. They had seen Kaparis angry before, very angry, but then he had been trapped in an iron lung, with not even his head visible beneath its optical array.
Now they saw the full ghastly range of his presence and his expression, the anger of his entire being, twisting and twitching with rage.
“GET IT OUT!” Kaparis foamed.
The Swiss Cheese had to come clean.
“If we stick a needle directly into your brain, we’ll do far more damage than a dozen Infinity Drakes.”
“You, sir, do not know DRAKE!”
Heywood had already been to check the chamber and confirmed the nano-scale Apache had disappeared. Somehow, Drake must have escaped the belly of Raffles, boarded the helicopter and flown it into the hot area, to hijack the mission.
Kaparis had already ordered the lizard to be shot.
“Leopold!”
“Master?”
“What could they do to me?” he demanded, suddenly gripped by mortal fear. “What damage?”
“None, Master.”
“What?” said Kaparis.
“Don’t worry, sir. As soon as they open the airlocks, they will get a nasty surprise,” said Leopold, and beamed.
23% LCA REMAINING. APPROX. 64 MINUTES
In the hold of the Vitalis, Pan breathed. He had taken the air tank from the first Tyro crew member to reach him in the airlock. He had clung on in the hold as the craft shot off with the hold doors open. Then he had allowed himself to be shut in.
He had waited, listening – listening oh-so-hard for any sign of activity at the airlocks, willing Infinity Drake to come out. Come out, come out, wherever you are …
It was no longer just duty. It was personal.
All he had to do was hate, and wait.
THIRTY
FEBRUARY 22 06:50 (GMT+3). Carpathian Mountains, Romania-Ukraine border
It was snowing again. Not heavily, just enough to obscure the advance.
In his snow hole, Henri Clément packed the last of his kit. The Commando Hubert members had been ordered to new positions, with instructions to target the timber wheelhouse.
Already Henri’s mouth was watering. He savoured fine violence in the same way he savoured fine wine. Around him the forest teemed with silent killers. Nearly a thousand special forces, ground troops from five different countries, were converging on the monastery, on skis, in Arctic camouflage, and from all points of the compass.
At Kluge airbase, a twenty minutes’ flight south, airborne troops were being assembled, supplied, drilled and briefed.
FEBRUARY 22 07:04 (GMT+3). Body of D.A.P. Kaparis
Finn headed for the airlock.
Dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu.
They had parked the Vitalis high in the arterial system, in as narrow a place as they could get into and still turn the craft around. Already an indistinct whale song vibrated through the hull – sounds filtering into the brain, from the outside world, through Kaparis’s ear.
Exactly where Finn was heading.
Before they blew up the craft and killed Kaparis, or disabled him, or whatever it took to stop him getting away, Finn wanted to say goodbye and let him know who was about to pull the trigger. Carla and Nico had been reluctant to go along with this part of the plan, but both knew, with Finn and Kaparis, it was no longer rational. It was personal.
Nico checked the guideline comms link console and activated it. “It’s live to the bridge. It says there’s four hundred metres of tether on the drum, just enough to get you to the ear.”
“Don’t let go of it!” insisted Carla, helping him on with a new tank of gas. “And make sure you come back! We haven’t come this far just to lose you to a bit of name calling.”
Finn unhooked the lock bar on one of the airlocks.
“I promise. I just want to get close enough to deliver a personal message.”
He still couldn’t get over Carla at this scale. She looked doubtful.
“Carla! I’ll be OK.”
He locked on the helmet, checked the regulator and the scoot, then closed the airlock door. The blood-side valve opened and in a moment the chamber was flooded with warm plasma.
He opened the door into the hold. It was spooky in the dim light, the framework of empty cable racks like a skeleton. He pushed himself through the liquid to the reels of communication lines, the umbilical tethers. Line #1 was already gone, so he attached Line #2 to his belt.
“OK, I’m on. Open it up.”
“Got it,” replied Carla from the bridge.
With a whirr, the great hold doors began to open. Red light appeared and blood cells poured in. By the time the doors were fully open, he was already outside and balancing in the bloodstream on the scoot. He swerved round so that they could see him from the bridge.
“Take the third blood vessel, the narrowest one,” said Nico over the comms line, pointing out an opening in the artery wall. “Follow it all the way down and you should reach the hard labyrinth in the inner ear. Good luck.”
With a final wave, Finn switched on the light attached to his helmet, angled the scoot and powered through the blood flow into the vessel. In the hold, the umbilical tether unspooled from its reel, whizzing round as it played out its line.
And an unseen figure swam past into the open airlock …
FEBRUARY 22 07:14 (GMT+3). Great Cavern, Monastery of Mount St Demetrius of Thessaloniki
With an effort of will, Kaparis sat himself up on the operating table, swiping off the high-end medical equipment attached to him.
He felt magnificent. Heywood draped a silk dressing gown over his shoulders. “Sir, the escape vehicle is ready,” he reported.
Kaparis looked over at Hudson. He would still need the boy as a hostage until he was certain.
“Good. Bring the boy. And bring something to pick up signals from the Vitalis.”
The Siguri had not picked up any definite sign of attack from the G&T yet, but Kaparis expected that if they had the guts, which he very much doubted, Allenby and King would attack at dawn.
“Prepare the Siguri and every Tyro for the assault. The Master expects every man to fight to the death, to the very last drop of blood.”
“And the Carriers, Master?”
The Carriers had been locked in the library all night after the two dangling spies had been found. Clearly there had been resi
stance bubbling under the surface of all that apparent obedience. He had no doubt who would be behind it: their blind king, the one they called Primo.
“Burn the library down at the first sign of attack. And let them know their fate beforehand so they will have some time to regret their treachery. It will fuel their screams.”
“And Santiago, Master?” asked the Siguri chief.
Kaparis looked at the cowering wretch. It was a life hardly worth the kill – and yet … No, he had an idea. They were fond of him, the Carriers.
“Take him up to the library and kill him. Make the Primo pull the trigger.”
Santiago wailed and Heywood gasped – “Bravo!” His Master was back to his best.
“To the Polaris!” Kaparis ordered.
In the anterior tympanic artery in Kaparis’s brain, Finn sashayed like a snowboarder down the twisting blood vessel on the scoot. The further he went, the more the walls closed in, the louder the whale song became.
Nico’s idea was that, if Finn could reach the bony labyrinth of the inner ear, he could make direct contact with it with his helmet, and it would act as a sound box, so the whale song vibrations would make sense. If so, he should be able to shout back and be heard too.
The artery suddenly split into several smaller tributaries and Finn had to take his pick and crawl up towards what he hoped would be bone.
“It’s tight now. I’m crawling along,” he reported.
“Keep going until you reach a white membrane. It should be covering the bone,” replied Nico.
And just as she said it, Finn saw the membrane up ahead, shining like ice.
“Got it.”
His body was almost plugging the narrow vessel now, the blood cells having to wriggle past.
“OK, I’m there. I can feel something, slight vibrations …”
He dragged himself forward a few last inches and touched his helmet to the bone, and sound instantly exploded through his head, clear as day.
But it wasn’t from the outside. It was over the comms:
“ARRRRGGH! HE’S BACK!”
Screams in his helmet. Nothing but screams and struggle.
“Carla! Carla, what’s happening?”
Finn heard one last blow, then … a familiar manic cackle …
Kaparis twitched, stopped. He could hear something … something deep in the itch of his innermost ear. Screaming?
“Pan?” said Kaparis, as if recognising a long-lost son.
There was a last strangled yelp and the itch was gone.
Finn scrambled madly backwards, back down the blood vessel, back towards the craft.
Not Pan … not with Carla and Nico in the Vitalis … surely not …
TCH-KASH! An electronic whiplash smacked up the comms line and exploded in his ears, followed by sharp pain as the line attached to his belt suddenly tightened and yanked him immediately down – down at tremendous speed – down, crashing fast against the tight tide of blood, Finn on the spinning, twisting, powering end of the line.
He SLAM-SLAMMED off the arterial walls, trying to stop, wanting to scream as he cut through the blood flow, the jellyfish red cells pummelling his torso – dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu – dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu – blood blood blood – thumping and roaring as he SLAMMED round another arterial junction.
The new vessel he entered was wider, the pressure intense but not as violent.
Finn took a moment to draw breath, nailing the obvious – Pan was back.
He must have hidden. Must have attacked Carla and Nico. Must have taken the Vitalis, dragging Finn along now like a distant water-skier …
Then there was a change …
Dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu …
The blood still thumped and roared, but he was no longer being dragged along. He seemed to be stable in the flow. The Vitalis must have stopped. Anchored?
Get back to the ship, Finn thought. Get back now.
The scoot was dragging at his left ankle, useless in such a strong flow. He reached down and flipped the clasp and it went spinning off into the darkness. He grabbed the guide line in front of him instead and began to pull himself up it, hand over hand, over and over, faster and faster.
He had to do it. He had to reach the Vitalis.
Kaparis staggered forward on his own two feet and reached the Polaris escape vehicle.
Heywood was waiting, and had thoughtfully mixed him his favourite cocktail.
“Heywood, you are the truest servant any man could find.” Kaparis angled the straw round to take a sip and suddenly felt soaringly relieved and pleased with himself. He was moving again, and he had cracked Boldklub, and he always so loved a daring escape.
And what a future to escape to! He had solved Ethan Drake’s Time = Place conundrum.
There was so much to be done in the seven cities, the seven wells.22
He was helped into the payload bay of the Polaris and a harness was brought down over his head. Heywood would take the seat opposite. Then Hudson was dragged into the escape vehicle by two Siguri and crammed into the small space on the payload-bay floor.
“Ow! Is that really necessary?” he asked.
FEBRUARY 22 07:21 (GMT+3). Romanian-Ukrainian airspace, 5,000ft
A blistering white-gold sun crested the horizon, mighty engines roared, and a fleet of aircraft banked left as they approached the target area.
A fleet capable of unleashing half an army.
Within the C-130 Hercules command aircraft, Al and Commander King watched screens that showed the magnificent and forbidding Monastery of Mount St Demetrius of Thessaloniki, as seen from a dozen different angles by the forces on the ground.
All that those forces ranged against it were waiting for now was the final order.
Journey time to target was seven minutes.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” demanded General Jackman on screen.
Commander King looked across at Al as he buckled himself into a parachute harness.
“A sign,” answered Al. And King knew what he meant. The troops, the technology and the weaponry at their disposal were of the highest calibre. And yet they were about to make a desperate gamble. They needed something more. They needed to believe in their own luck.
“Sir! The dome!” a technician called, and there it was.
The great dome was beginning to split in two.
THIRTY-ONE
FEBRUARY 22 07:22 (GMT+3). Great Cavern, Monastery of Mount St Demetrius of Thessaloniki
The Polaris was eased up the launch ramp until it was almost vertical, pointing up the shaft towards heaven. Around the Great Cavern an alarm was sounding, and technicians and others were taking cover. Although the first stage of the rocket launch was powered by compressed air, the force would be enough to rip any fool standing close enough to pieces. The main rocket engine would not ignite till they had cleared the dome.
Computers ran ten thousand automatic checks.
Santiago watched alongside the two Siguri deputised to take him to his death, sheltered behind a bank of computers. He cried. He had let down Hut-sun. He had let down the angels. He had let down the Primo.
Inside the payload bay of the missile, trapped between the devil and his ridiculous butler, the boy prisoner Hudson issued a chilling warning.
“Um, I don’t know how long this is going to take, but I should warn you – I suffer from travel sickness.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Kaparis.
“It’s just, if I haven’t got a bag, things could get messy …”
“Have we got a bag we could put over his head?” Kaparis asked Heywood. But Heywood wasn’t listening. Heywood was concentrating manically on the sound being emitted from the Geiger counter behind his Master’s head.
“That’s code, sir! Morse.”
.--. .- -. / .-. . --. .- .. -. . -.. / -.-. --- -. – .-. --- .-.. / -.. .-. .- -.- . / -.. . .- -..
“‘Pan here … regained control … Drake dead.’ He’s done it, sir
! He’s done it!”
“HAAAAHHAAA! PAN!” cried Kaparis, just when he thought the day couldn’t get any better. “Throw the idiot out! We don’t need him any more! Be gone, imbecile!” he roared, as Heywood opened the payload door and shoved Hudson rudely out.
Thump – thump – THUMP – “Ow!” said Hudson as he tumbled out of the missile, bounced off the launch ramp and finally hit the cavern floor.
“Take him with the other idiot and have the Primo shoot them both!” ordered Kaparis to the Siguri who ran forward to grab him.
The payload door of the Polaris shut again and a single piercing BAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRP signalled the start of the countdown.
Hudson rubbed his eyes. Well, at least I won’t throw up, he thought, as he was dragged off by his Siguri guards. He stumbled, hardly able to see a thing. Somewhere in the Polaris he’d gone and lost his glasses …
“Ten … nine … eight …”
Kaparis was so, so pleased. The adapted Polaris engines would propel them to Mach 6 and allow them to splash down in one of six pre-programmed, lakeside locations …
“Seven … six … five …”
They would be three hundred miles away by the time the G&T realised they had lost them on radar, the stealth-coating making the missile entirely undetectable once it had slowed and begun to fall.
Where would they go? Which base next?
“Four … three … two …”
The Ethiopian Highlands? Atlantis? Babylon?
“One …”
How he loved a countdown …
“Zero!”
PSCHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRORORORORRORORRRR – compressed air exploded from jets at the base of the missile and shot the Polaris up the launch ramp – RORRORRRORR – along four embedded rails – RORRORRRORR – one for each of the stubby fins on the rocket’s tail – RORRORRRORR …
In one of which had fallen Hudson’s pebble-thick prescription glasses.
The tiny, momentary drag that the glasses caused as they were vaporised, in such a tiny, tiny fraction of time, was just enough. Just enough for the guidance computers to have to react and adjust the angle of thrust – once, twice, three times – as the Polaris picked up speed and began to ascend the shaft; oscillations that were exaggerated in tiny increments as it rose in the compressed airflow, confusing the guidance programs further, so that by the time the missile reached the end of the shaft it had wobbled fatally off course.