by John McNally
And so, instead of clearing the open dome dead centre, the rising Polaris, already at 200mph, ignited its main rocket on a tilt that drove it straight through the golden skin of the false dome – CRAAAAASSSKSKSKSHSSKLSLSSH – the entire craft suffering a massive spiral fracture from nose to tail, its constituent parts separating and exploding open like one of those bake-your-own tubes of croissant dough, but in a fraction of a second; and instead of cookie dough, fuel and metal …
FEBRUARY 22 07:26 (GMT+3). Romanian-Ukrainian airspace, 3,000ft
Seen from the air, a column of fire and disintegrating rocket engine streaked sideways from the shattered dome of the monastery like a cosmic snort.
PCARARSHSHSHHRTSFRSHSHAHAHHHHH!
“OK,” said Al, stunned in the C-130 command aircraft, “that’s definitely a sign.”
Commander King gave the order – “GO!”
“GO!” said the jump masters, and parachutes began to bloom from a dozen aircraft.
“GO!” said the commanders of special forces in the valley, and a hundred grapple guns fired claws up cliffs and over parapets.
“Allez!” ordered Henri Clément as he and five other members of the équipe bleu poised on the cliff face around the wheelhouse sprang from the rock, pulled hard on their ropes and swung up through the trapdoor in the wheelhouse floor in a move worthy of a parfum de Paris advert.
FEBRUARY 22 07:27 (GMT+3). Great Cavern, Monastery of Mount St Demetrius of Thessaloniki
In the Great Cavern, fire and fine debris rained down the shaft from the shattered dome like hell’s tickertape.
Technicians, Tyros, the medics and Siguri staggered forward to stare up the shaft.
Santiago stared too. The Master? Dead? He moaned in fear. What awful consequences might follow?
Hudson, lying in the dirt, hands still bound, broke from his daze. “Santiago! We must get away!”
Santiago looked at the backs of their Siguri captors as they walked, stunned, towards the shaft. Voices yelled for fire hoses. Sirens began to sound the invasion.
Chaos was their cover. Santiago hauled Hudson up and they ran for the monorail carts.
FEBRUARY 22 07:29 (GMT+3). MONASTERY OF MOUNT ST DEMETRIUS OF THESSALONIKI
In the dome, Kaparis woke.
There were flames and smoke all around, twisted girders. The Polaris payload bay had been ripped apart, its contents cast into the web of structural metalwork. He and Heywood were caught like flies, still strapped in their seats, Heywood’s face horribly burnt.
Kaparis saw a sky full of smoke and parachutes …
He must get out. He hit the release on his harness, then on Heywood’s.
FEBRUARY 22 07:30 (GMT+3). Romanian-Ukrainian airspace, 3,000ft
WHOOOFUMP! – WHOOOFUMP! – WHOOOFUMP!
Al looked up as the chute deployed and prayed they weren’t too late. He had no idea who or what was on that rocket, but if it was Kaparis making an exit, there wasn’t going to be much left of him …
He blanked out the fear, gritted his teeth and thought only of Finn, trapped inside that body. I’ve scoured the face of the earth for you, you glorious boy – last link to my sister, last of the Allenby line. And even if you’re getting smaller and smaller all the time, God help me, I’m going to find you …
Beside him, Delta looked down through the smoke trails obscuring their descent and made out the patchwork of monastery roofs. She saw bright muzzle flashes. At last … action. The snap, crackle and pop of a firefight as the first paratroopers landed. She braced her M27 against her shoulder, and fired a few rounds, just to say hello – DRTRTRTRT! Oh, she was ready!
Kelly guided his chute ahead of them both and picked out a suitable landing spot, wielding his own M27 one-handed. But there was little left to hit. What little opposition there had been on the rooftops had been quickly extinguished.
“On me!” called Kelly, and he hauled his chute to the right to bring them to a gentle halt on a slope of icy terracotta tiles – crunch – crunch – crunch.
FEBRUARY 22 07:32 (GMT+3). Monastery of Mount St Demetrius of Thessaloniki
In the High Chapel, the Abbot howled. The one true Master … obliterated?
Where did that leave them?
Who was in charge now?
A sudden toxic flash of greed shot through him, greed for power, as for the merest moment he thought he might assume supreme control … And then – DRTRTRTRTRTRT – his inner coward quickly returned as gunfire shot out the windows.
He scurried off as the Siguri covered his retreat – DRTRRTRTRT!
What to do? The Master’s orders were to resist till the last drop of blood was shed, but those orders were now orphans. Perhaps it would be better to preserve as much of his Master’s legacy as could be saved? Yes. That would be much more respectful.
“BACK! FALL BACK!” commanded the Abbot.
Down in the library, the Primo heard every bullet, scream and stun grenade.
He could also sense Tyro confusion and Siguri fear in their two dozen jailers.
As the first stray bullets began to whistle and crack through the ancient glass of the library windows, biting chunks from the walls, the Primo made his call.
“Now!” he cried, and seized a handbell.
Ding-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling!
As one, the Carrier children rose screaming from their shacks. They threw anything they could at their oppressors, a hail of crockery, cutlery and improvised wooden spears, followed by a thousand little fists.
Many of their captors fell immediately under the assault. Some guns discharged – DRTRTRRTT! – but they were quickly silenced, or even taken and fired on their Siguri owners, who quickly turned and fled.
A great cheering broke out.
“Barricade the doors and windows!” ordered the Primo. “Take cover!”
When Santiago and Hudson reached the top of the monorail, the Siguri guarding the entrance were nowhere to be seen, likely having thrown themselves into defending the monastery. They found tools and cut the plastic ties that bound their wrists, then ran up the stone steps towards the sound of battle.
In the catacombs, they ran straight into a party of retreating Tyros.
“Back!” Santiago cried, and he pulled Hudson down a narrow skull-studded gangway leading to the base of the disused south tower – DRRTRRTTTT! – bullets echoing in their wake.
When they reached a spiral staircase, in terrible repair, Santiago screamed “UP!” and pushed Hudson ahead of him. “Go, Hut-sun! Out!” he urged, as he pulled and kicked at loose masonry to block the path of their pursuers.
Hudson climbed, but without his glasses he was half blind. He saw light coming through what he thought was a doorway and ran straight through it …
… and found himself in cold air, falling …
SMASH! Hudson hit snow and stone and light and dark as he tumbled over and over and over – THUMP! – ending up in a deep, deeply layered, winter-long snowdrift.
His senses blended into one tremendous pain – “AAAOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!” Well, he thought, that’s it. This is what dying must feel like.
Then everything went black.
“HUUUUUUUT-SSSSSSUN!” Santiago called, uselessly, over the din of battle from the ruined tower.
He could see the gash in the snow-clad scree slope below. Hudson must have hit it and carried on down into the endless forest. He must save him!
But first he must find him. How?
Inspiration struck in the form of a scurrying rat …
To the kitchens!
FEBRUARY 22 07:38 (GMT+3). Romanian-Ukrainian airspace, 3,000ft
Seen from the screens of the circling C-130 command aircraft, troops were swarming up the cliffs and across the rooftops like ants over a wedding cake.
The success of the initial assault seemed total. They had complete control of the roof and ramparts, and some units were already pushing deep into the complex.
Commander King had every right to feel relieved. But he felt nothing
of the sort. For he already knew what Allenby would be thinking. And Allenby was probably right. In his mind, he replayed a clip of the Polaris blasting through the dome to oblivion, and hoped against hope that their worst fears would not be realised …
FEBRUARY 22 07:38 (GMT+3). Monastery of Mount St Demetrius of Thessaloniki
Al scrambled up to the base of the ruined dome. Fuel was still burning in a streak across the roofs opposite.
He looked into a tangle of metal and smoke … into a hell. Surely no one could have survived … Except the devil himself.
There!
Through a curtain of flame, Al caught a glimpse of a figure, like a great ape, swinging and grabbing its way down through the twisted girders …
Good heavens, it moves … thought Al, appalled.
THIRTY-TWO
FEBRUARY 22 07:39 (GMT+3). Body of D.A.P. Kaparis
Dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu.
Pull … Pull … Finn hauled on the tether, into the everlasting red, hauled without a hope of finding its end, dragging himself on up the line.
Then suddenly he could sense light, something glowing beyond the first few feet of rushing cells. Pull … Pull …
Yes! Just inside an opening in the artery wall ahead, in a branch off the main blood vessel. He pulled harder and reached the opening. The lights were there. The lights were near.
He turned off his helmet light and let the blood flow carry him straight down the new arterial branch towards the Vitalis. Precisely as he did so – as he careered towards the anchored submarine – he saw him.
There, plain as day in the open hold, was Pan, dagger in hand, having just cut through the guide line where it was caught in the hinge of the hold doors. He must have cut it from the reel and not realised for a few minutes – vital minutes to Finn – that it had snagged on the hinge.
A second later and Finn would have been a goner. Now he was merely hurtling out of control and untethered towards the Vitalis …
He could see Carla and Nico lashed together on the bridge. The open hold was his only chance. His adrenalin spiked and, using all his strength, Finn swam hard and mad for it. Pan looked up from the hold just in time to – SLAM – get a whole load of Finn slamming into him and knocking him clean out of the hold. With a jolt, the short tether connecting Pan to the Vitalis left them both dangling, spinning and fighting in the torrential flow.
Finn clung to Pan as he clung to life, locking his arms around his waist and digging his fingers into his wetsuit. Don’t let go, don’t let go, he told himself, while Pan, furious, tried to rip, kick and punch himself free. They heard each other’s desperate rasping breath, their grunts and curses.
Dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu, dhu-dhu.
“DIE!” croaked Pan, and he began to batter away at Finn’s helmet. Finn was unable to let go and beat him back. Pan was too strong. Finn was losing his grip …
Caught in an eddy of the flow, they spun like ballerinas for a few seconds. Then Finn saw his only, lousy, option – let go and try and race Pan back up the short tether to the hold, with arms that were already exhausted by his recent epic haul. But he had no choice.
With a primal cry and a thrash of hands, Finn monkeyed his way up Pan’s body and managed to grab the tether.
Pull! Pull! He felt Pan claw at his legs, but he wouldn’t let go. Not now.
Pull! Pull! The muscles in his arms burnt as Pan clung to him and he hauled them both up the tether. “COME ON!” he yelled to himself, and kicked back. His foot struck something hard and he felt Pan drop back.
Pull! Pull …! When at last Finn reached the hull of the Vitalis, he dared to look back …
There was Pan, right behind him, but choking on blood and plasma, which was filling up the inside of his helmet. Finn’s kick must somehow have broken it, shifted the seal …
Finn showed him all the mercy at his disposal, all the mercy Pan or Kaparis or the whole damn lot of them had ever shown.
He kicked out again.
Pan’s helmet flew off and there was a shell-burst of air from his tanks as he screamed uselessly after it into the naked flow, clawing desperately at the air line fixed at his neck, letting go of the tether as he fought to divert the bubbles, to cram them into his lungs – dangling and spinning and drowning and dying …
Finn pulled himself into the hold and out of the force of the flow, pulled until he reached the tether’s end. Then he unclipped it and let it whip out, releasing Pan’s body into the deep blackness of Kaparis’s brain.
FEBRUARY 22 07:42 (GMT+3). Romanian-Ukrainian airspace, 3,000ft
“He’s there!” Al had yelled over the radio, as soon as he’d laid eyes on Kaparis. “Send in Stubbs! I’m going in with the assault group!”
“Oh glory,” said Stubbs.
“Oh glory,” parroted Li Jun who was especially fond of him.
Stubbs and his escort would drop with a trio of super-nano detection devices he and Li Jun had knocked together in the previous two hours – a blood filter made from an old hoover, an ultrasound fitted to a nano-radar rig, and an electron microscope they had butchered and reassembled for portability.
Commander King radioed the landing master.
“Eagle to Storm One, do we have control of the drop zone? Can you accept Crown Jewels? Over.”
Stubbs rolled his eyes at his code name.
“Storm One to Eagle …” crackled the reply. “Bring him in.”
The noise level went through the roof as the drop hatch in the tail of the aircraft opened. A burly paratrooper grabbed Stubbs and hitched himself to him as a jump buddy.
Li Jun wailed.
Grandma didn’t even look up from the screens at the opposite end of the aircraft where, together with a technician who could speak Portuguese, she was poring over old medical records wired over from Brazil …
Stubbs and his paratrooper escort stepped out of the back of the aircraft and disappeared into thin air.
WHOOOFUMP!
Stubbs gasped as the chute opened – at the physical shock, but also at the sight of the snow-clad carpet of the Carpathians, and at the burning jewel they were falling towards.
FEBRUARY 22 07:47 (GMT+3). Monastery of Mount St Demetrius of Thessaloniki
DRTRTTRTT! DRTRTRTRRTRTTT! BANG!
The main force was pressing into the heart of the monastery, the defenders having fallen back to the Forum.
KATHUMP! The kitchen doors blew open on a charge and Henri and the équipe bleu burst in.
DRTRTTRTT! DRTRTRTRRTRTTT!
Pots and pans pinged and crockery shattered as they were met with a hail of fire that would have cut down a regiment. But the members of Commando Hubert had trained with the acrobats of an avant-garde circus, and each was perfectly at home in a kitchen.
The defenders didn’t stand a chance.
Yvette performed bullet-evading somersaults while firing twin Uzi machine pistols. Jacques shot out a shelf of cast-iron pots, dumping the lot on three Siguri; Marie and Helga rolled a huge cauldron as cover down the right flank to take out another three. Toni sent oil and other ingredients raining down on the fleeing remainder by shooting out the store jars above them.
Henri tasted a sauce, added a little salt.
In the Forum, the Abbot only tasted defeat. He watched the Siguri scramble out of the kitchen and fall back, the enemy closing in. While the Tyros would follow orders and fight to the death, the Siguri were all too human – they needed to be led, forced. I am no master of that, he thought.
He made a decision. He yelled, “CEASE FIRE! DEMAND TALKS!”
The Siguri were eager to oblige.
The Tyros looked at him as if he was mad. They were armed.
For a moment, the Abbot thought that maybe he’d been a little hasty. Then he knew he had.
From on high came a thunderous voice: “WHAT TREACHERY IS THIS?”
There, at the top of the Forum, ignoring every bullet, a magnificent figure staggered into view, a half-dead butler in his arms. Burnt bl
ack and blue, hair slicked back with blood, wearing a Siguri breastplate and a shredded silk dressing gown, like some steampunk warrior – Kaparis, a god among men.
“The Master! He is risen!”
A great animal roar went up.
The Abbot fell to his knees.
“HOLD EVERY POSITION! CONCEDE NOTHING!” Kaparis yelled down.
Dozens of Tyros and Siguri ran back to the posts they’d recently abandoned, the Tyros in a state of honourable rage. A gang ran to aid Kaparis in his descent, relieving him of Heywood.
“Get him to the Cavern. The medics – tell Leopold to save him or die.”
As the sounds of battle increased, Kaparis descended, his eyes never leaving the Abbot. He took an AK47 from a Siguri fighter on the way.
“A miracle …” murmured the Abbot as he staggered towards him.
Kaparis towered over him.
“Master! We fell back to this strong point! I offered to talk in order to set a tra—”
BANG.
Kaparis put a bullet neatly through the Abbot’s forehead.
It was always important to set an example. The day was not lost. It had only just begun. He could still get away. He would leave a surprise. A booby prize for a prize booby. It would require effort and sacrifice, but what was the point of having an army if they were not prepared to die?
He just needed a hostage or two, or a hundred …