by Glenn Cooper
It was eight hours earlier in Oregon. He was so far removed from the rhythms of Kyle’s life that he had no idea whether he’d be home. He expected to get voice mail but a husky voice answered.
“Yeah?”
“Kyle?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“It’s John.”
“Fuck.” It wasn’t a friendly curse. The last time they had spoken was six years earlier at their father’s funeral. It had been a visit wholly devoid of brotherly love.
“Yeah, fuck.”
“Why are you calling?” Kyle asked brusquely.
“Checking in. It’s been a while, bro.”
“Yeah. You sick or something?”
“No, why?”
“You sound funny.”
“I’m all right. Worn out is all.”
“Where are you these days?”
“England. Near London.”
“Still doing embassy security?”
“I quit. You?”
“Same old same old, you know, the shop.”
“Never got married?”
“No way. I’ve got a girlfriend, sort of. You?”
“Same, but mine is more than sort of.”
“If you quit your job why’d you stay over there?”
“I got a new job a few years back. In charge of security at a government physics lab.”
“Aren’t they having some kind of situation over there? I don’t pay a lot of attention to the news but people are talking about some kind of a cluster fuck.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m calling.”
“You involved in it?”
“Big time.”
“What’s it to me?”
“I’m putting a team together. I need a guy who can do what you do.”
“Sit around and drink beer?”
“The other thing you do.”
“Oh yeah? Why would I want to fly half way around the world to help you?”
“It’s not about helping me. It’s about a once in a lifetime opportunity to do something important. Dangerous as shit but highly kickass.”
“I’m listening.”
“You always said you wanted to do some of the things I used to do.”
“I couldn’t pass a physical then and sure as shit can’t pass one now.”
“No one’s going to give you a physical. If you want in, you’ll be in. Come over to the UK to talk about it.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“You’re out of your mind. I can’t afford a ticket and even if I could I don’t have a passport.”
“A chopper can pick you up in Bend in a couple of hours. You’ll rendezvous with an air force jet to bring you here. No passport needed, everything will be handled by the state department.”
There was a pregnant pause and Kyle finally said, “We’re not exactly on the best of terms, remember? I’m not real sure I want to hang out with you.”
“I need you to come over and hear me out. This is going to sound over the top but believe me, it’s not: for the sake of the human race you and I need to bury the hatchet.”
Emily was soon slumbering in his bed. John was at the point where exhaustion had given way to a restless agitation. It took a few more beers to mellow him out enough to turn in. The bed was soft. Her body had warmed and scented the sheets. He wanted to touch her but he didn’t dare wake her. Before frustration set in he was asleep too.
John was yelling, “Mike, don’t!”
Mike Entwistle was stooped over the bearded prisoner, his knife against the man’s plastic wrist ties. They were inside the ruined mud-brick farmhouse in Afghanistan amidst a pile of Taliban bodies.
The prisoner was the only one to survive the mortar fire. His squad of Green Berets had been tasked with extracting a high-value target, a Taliban commander named Fazal Toofan, but the mission had gone to shit. John had lost too many men so he lit up the farmhouse. If they couldn’t take Toofan alive, he wanted to make sure he was dead.
The prisoner had shouted in good English, “Please help me. Guys, I am interpreter for American soldiers. Taliban took me. I am injured. I can’t feel my legs.”
Before Mike could react to John’s plea, he had sliced through the plastic tie with an upward flick of the serrated blade.
The prisoner reacted with astonishing speed.
He had been hiding a cocked pistol between his legs and in an instant it was in his hand.
He fired at point-blank range into Mike’s head. John felt his friend’s blood splattering his face. As the Afghani twisted his waist to fire the next round at him, John sprang forward and smashed his face with the butt stock of his rifle. He crumpled, motionless.
The rest of his squad gathered around Mike but there was nothing to be done.
“He said he was a terp,” one of John’s men said. “He’s no terp, he’s Tali. Let me smoke the fucker.”
“Don’t,” John said, staring at Mike’s bloody head. “Cuff him, hands and feet. Double-check the bodies to make sure they’re all dead. We’re taking this motherfucker with us. When our bird lands, get a body bag for Mike.”
He sank to his haunches and allowed himself to lose it. He didn’t give a damn if his men saw him cry.
7
Cromwell had been correct. This Whitehall Palace bore no resemblance to the vast stone palace that Cardinal Wolsey had lavishly expanded for his own use in the 16th century. That Whitehall Palace was said to be the finest house in London and the earthly King Henry had jealously seized it for his own use after deposing his loyal cardinal. Henry had expanded it even further, adding a bowling green, indoor tennis court, and a tiltyard for jousting. Although it had been destroyed by fire in 1691 it had been memorialized in countless paintings and lithographs. It was these images of Whitehall Palace that triggered dissonance when the Earthers first laid eyes upon their destination.
This palace was a substantial timber-frame building with a Tudor exoskeleton and walls of sooty plaster. It was smaller than Henry’s Hampton Court Palace, but large enough to accommodate the entirety of his court, albeit in cramped quarters. It was situated north of the Thames on flat, indefensible land. A ring of soldiers guarded it from the intrusions of hungry Londoners who eked out an existence in the densely packed city of low buildings, shabby cottages, vegetable patches, and livestock butchers. It was not a siege palace. The few times that Brittania had been under serious threat of invasion during Henry’s tenure in Hell, he had moved his court north to an impregnable hilltop stone castle near York.
Cromwell had the Earthers taken to a large banqueting hall. This would be their collective dormitory for the foreseeable future. Startled servants who had not been expecting a royal visit, much less a gaggle of highly exotic guests, brought in narrow beds and coarse blankets. The eight women segregated themselves to one end of the hall. The privies were down a long corridor but to use them, guards stationed outside the hall had to escort the prisoners one at a time. Dried, leathery meat and loaves of day-old bread were brought in with several jugs of sweet ale. Iron needles, sewing twine, and hook and eye fasteners were provided to fix their clothing.
Beyond a gender segregation, the prisoners, true to their largely British roots, further grouped themselves by station. The scientists occupied one cluster of beds and the politicians and security officials, another smaller one. Henry Quint had to make a choice. He had been the director of MAAC before his ignominious fall but he was also a physicist. But after being largely ignored by the VIPs, he chose a cot on the periphery of the scientists and glumly straddled the divide.
Likewise, Karen Smithwick had a choice to make and she aligned herself with the VIPs rather than the female scientists. As one of the few women on the front benches of government, she was adept at playing her part alongside powerful men.
Sitting on her cot, she watched Campbell Bates fumbling miserably with his sewing and took pity on the courtly American.
“Here, let me do that for you,” she said.
“This rather feels like I’m a Celebrity…Get Me Out of Here,” she said.
“I’m not familiar with that.”
“It’s one of those dreadful reality shows,” George Lawrence said. “Minor celebrities sent off to the jungle. One gets voted off every week.”
Bitterman grunted. “You can go ahead and vote me off first. I won’t be offended.”
“If it were only that easy,” Smithwick said.
“So what’s our play?” Lawrence asked.
Trotter had finished his wardrobe repairs and was lying on his back on a lumpy, hay-filled mattress, staring at the high ceiling darkened by centuries of candle soot.
“Our play is survival,” Trotter said. “Mustn’t sugar coat it. We’ve got to offer something of value to these people. Otherwise we won’t be worth feeding.”
Bates shook his head. “I say we have a duty to escape, just like a prisoner of war. You heard what Quint said. We’ve got to get back to Dartford in case they mount a rescue attempt.”
“The odds of escape are too long,” Trotter said. “We’re hardly a fighting force. We’re a bunch of old farts and pencil-necks.” Cromwell had separated them from the three young and fit MI5 agents, squirreling them away elsewhere in the palace. “We need to convince them we’re indispensible.”
“Are we?” Smithwick asked.
“Maybe not us,” Trotter said, gesturing toward the scientists, “but perhaps they are.”
The large double-doors to the hall swung open and Cromwell entered with another man and several soldiers. Cromwell was a foot taller than Henry Cameron, the Duke of Suffolk. Cromwell was smoothly shaven, dark, and lean while Suffolk was short and stocky with an unruly white beard flecked with his last meal. Cromwell was given to austere robes. Suffolk, a seventeenth-century naval commander, still wore a showy version of his royal blue military tunic, complete with brass buttons.
Trotter got to his feet, convinced they had come to parley with him and he was not disappointed. They went straight for his bed. Cromwell ignored the other Earthers but Suffolk sniffed the air and rubbernecked the women.
Standing before Trotter, Cromwell said, “This is the Duke of Suffolk. He commands the king’s organs of war.”
Trotter extended a hand. Suffolk stared at it as if it were a rotting fish until Trotter withdrew it.
“I am told you are a spy,” Suffolk said. “I do not, as a rule, trust spies, not even my own.”
Trotter thrust out his chin. “I serve my monarch and my country. You are not my monarch and this is not my country so you are right to be suspicious of me. However, I do understand the nature of our circumstances. You can trust me to do what is required to assure the safety and well-being of my people.”
“Well said,” George Lawrence harrumphed.
“Please come with us,” Cromwell said to Trotter.
“Why?”
“I want to show you something.”
As the men left the hall, Brenda Mitchell saw that Suffolk was staring straight at her. She turned away until they were gone.
Most of the female scientists were between twenty and thirty years old. Chris Cowles, the deputy head of the magnets department, was only in her early fifties but that qualified her as the grand dame of the group. She was unmarried, shunned makeup and jewelry, and wore her hair in a sensible bob. She rose from her cot and sat beside Brenda as she seemed the worst off.
“You haven’t eaten,” Chris said. “The meat’s tough, a bit like a tasteless jerky, but the bread’s passable.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to keep up your strength.”
“Did you see the way that man looked at me?” Brenda asked.
“Yes. He was awful.”
Kelly Jenkins, another young woman said, “Like the villain in a really bad panto.”
Brenda smiled for the first time.
“Come on,” Chris said, “just a bit of bread.”
Brenda relented and Chris went to the food table to break off a crust. She delivered it with a cup of beer.
“Look after her,” Chris whispered to Kelly.
Kelly nodded but said, “Who’s going to look after me?”
Matthew came over and pulled Chris off to a corner.
“How’s she getting on?” he asked.
“She’s scared. All the ladies are.”
“The men too,” Matthew said.
“Brenda’s got more cause to be scared than the rest of us,” Chris said. “She’s young and she’s very attractive. God knows what the ratio of men to women is here? We’re all at risk but she’s especially vulnerable.”
“I’ll try our best to protect her.”
“I know you will, Matthew but you’re an excellent scientist. You’re not an action hero.”
“You haven’t seen me in a cape and Spandex,” he said.
“And I hope I never do. Can I ask you something?”
He nodded.
“I know we were told to say nothing, but did you tell your wife anything about what we were doing the past two months?”
“Honestly, no,” he said. “I took the secrecy seriously, but mainly I didn't want her to worry. You?”
“I told my fish everything.”
“I’m quite sure they won’t spill the beans but the authorities won’t be able to keep this quiet,” Matthew said. “Not with all of us missing, and not just us MAAC types. All the muckety-mucks over there. My wife’s made of strong stuff—you know about our son, right?”
She did. He was severely autistic.
“Well, she’ll be sick with worry about me, whether they tell her the truth or some cock and bull story. And she’ll be fretting that in the future she’ll have to take care of him on her own.”
“We’ll get home,” Chris said.
His sigh sounded more like a groan. “Emily will try to make it happen but I think what everyone’s been saying is right. MAAC’s made things too unstable. They’ll be shutting it down for good and we’ll be trapped.”
It meant nothing to Trotter but Suffolk understood the symbolism perfectly well and showed his displeasure with a fearsome scowl. Cromwell had led them to the king’s own apartment which he had appropriated for his own use. With Trotter deposited in a chair by the hearth, Suffolk joined Cromwell at the sideboard to fill his goblet with wine.
“I trust his majesty will not be best pleased to return and find you in his bed,” Suffolk whispered.
“On the off chance he does return, better to find his most loyal servant there than any other man,” Cromwell said.
“This country needs a king,” Suffolk said. “You are a talker, Cromwell. If the Russians and Germans invade, talk will not defeat them. I am a military man and thus a worthy king.”
“Remember well that you were only one among many military men before Norfolk met his demise and Henry chose to elevate you,” Cromwell said in an acid tone. “He could have just as easily elevated Oxford who I am sure is nipping at your heels. He has only had one chancellor for five hundred years. Did you hear me? Five hundred years. Now, this talker has some talking to do. Observe and enjoy my wine.”
Cromwell retrieved a cloth bundle, set it on the table before Trotter and parted the cloth to reveal a stack of books.
“I had these brought here from Hampton Court,” Cromwell said. “Do you know what they are?”
Trotter recognized them as three of the books John Camp had carried on his last journey to Hell.
“I did not bother with the Bible or the tales of that playwright, Shakespeare,” Cromwell said. “These are the volumes of interest.”
Trotter thumbed through them. They were books written during the heyday of the industrial revolution: Blast Furnace Construction in America, Steam Boilers, Engines and Turbines, and Bessemer Steel, Ores and Methods. King Henry had understood their importance and so had Cromwell, but there had scarcely been time to exploit the knowledge th
ey held.
“Why are you showing me these?” Trotter asked.
“I have tried to read them,” Cromwell said, “and though the words are of my native tongue, I cannot comprehend their meaning. I have showed them to men who are from more recent times but most of these men are dullards or men of good intellect who nevertheless cannot begin to fathom how to turn the words on a page into furnaces or boilers or good steel. We have many enemies. We need superior armaments and we need them quickly.”
“I too have had a look,” Suffolk said, dismissively. “Balderdash, if you ask me.”
“Well, I won’t be of any help,” Trotter said. “Not in my wheelhouse.”
Cromwell offered Trotter a cup of wine. He sipped at it, admiring its quality.
“I do understand these scientists from your realm are not makers of weapons,” Cromwell said. “Emily Loughty did explain this to us. Yet, the king maintained, and I do agree, that a latter-day scientist is better suited to make use of these books than any Heller to whom I have spoken.”
“What would you like from me?” Trotter asked.
“I require your cooperation. You must persuade your scientists to undertake the construction of these great furnaces. I do not mean them to partake in the physical work. I have laborers aplenty. Bricklayers, carpenters, forgers, men with strong backs who may be directed to implement their instructions. Persuade them, Master Trotter. It is far better for a man to render his service by his own accord than under threat of torture.”
“I usually prefer torture,” Suffolk said with a sick laugh.
Trotter had more wine while he mulled his response. “I believe I could make this happen,” he said, “but what would I receive in return?”
Cromwell smiled broadly, as if to acknowledge, I can work with this man. What he said was, “What do you want?”
“Well, let’s see. I’m not one for dormitory life. I’d like private rooms with decent furnishings. I’d like as much of this good wine as I can drink and food as good as you gentlemen eat. I’d like a servant or two to look after me and as much hot water for bathing as I want. And I’m not much of a lady’s man but I do like a woman every so often, usually a prostitute. I’m afraid there would be negative consequences if I forced myself upon one of mine. So I’d like a pick of your crème de la crème even if I have to plug my nose while I’m doing it.”