The buzz of conversation around me faltered as a low rumbling came from the other side of the pitch. There was a large gap in the advertising hoardings and, as we all squinted at the source of the sound, it became a loud, throaty roar, and a Challenger tank burst through the gap. It rolled towards us belching dark exhaust smoke. When it was about fifty yards away from the stage, it stopped, and the engine cut out. A few seconds later, the crew of four climbed out and jogged over to the sidelines.
"Good evening." I jumped at the voice. There was a red-faced man on stage now, standing at the microphone. It was no one I recognised, but I assumed, from the number of medals on his jacket, that he was someone important. From what I remembered about uniforms, a general. I was dry-mouthed and nervous. The assembled journalists and invited guests went quiet.
"Thank you for coming tonight. I apologise for the short notice, but it was in the interests of national security. What you are about to witness has been a closely guarded secret within the British military for three years."
An interesting piece of disinformation. I wondered if anything he was about to tell us would be true.
"The British army, navy, and air force, tasked with defending this nation, have long been associated with the development of cutting-edge technology. Not only weapons, but early warning computerised radar systems, fighter jets, ships, and submarines."
One of the foreign journalists—Italian, judging by his suit—yawned ostentatiously. His gesture garnered a few smirks from his colleagues.
"Tonight, you will meet the culmination of decades of research."
Decades? Of research? Another reason why they get us to sign the Official Secrets Act. They don't want us to point out when they are blatantly lying to everyone.
"The man I am about to introduce will change the way military conflicts are resolved from this day forward. After today, in fact, I don't imagine Great Britain will be challenged, militarily, ever again."
A murmur spread through the crowd at this. I glanced around and saw nothing but perplexed expressions.
"Ladies and Gentleman, this soldier's identity is a matter of national security. However, we all know him by his official army code name. I give you Powerman."
If the general was hoping for a cheer or a round of applause, he was disappointed. He was visibly put out by the chuckles from the journalists present.
Then Abos walked out of the players' tunnel, and everyone was quiet again.
He was flanked by two beefy-looking soldiers, but he made them look like the caricatured weaklings on seaside postcards. He towered above them, and his strides were so long that they had to trot to keep up. Abos was wearing the British army uniform I had last seen him in, with one difference. He sported a Royal Air Force helmet - like the ones worn by fighter pilots. It was painted in Union Jack colours. I felt a pang of embarrassment. He also wore flying goggles like a pilot - tinted black. Hiding those golden eyes. Avoiding any awkward questions. Smart move, I suppose. Shame, though.
Abos stood at attention in front of the stage, facing us. He was impassive. I looked at his cheekbones and mouth, then tried to picture those honeyed eyes, wondering where he was looking. Just then, a little cheer arose spontaneously. I followed everyone's gaze back to the player's tunnel, from which Michael Whiteson had emerged. I'm no fan of athletics, but even I know Michael Whiteson. After winning the four hundred, eight hundred, and fifteen hundred metres at the 1976 Olympics, he repeated the feat at the Commonwealth games in Canada last year. Whiteson is the most famous athlete in the country, always on the television or in the papers. He acknowledged the crowd with a little wave, stripped out of his tracksuit and took up a runner's starting stance at the edge of the pitch. A soldier handed him a silver relay baton.
"Mr Whiteson has kindly agreed to help us with this first demonstration," said the general. "A race around the perimeter of Wembley Stadium. I think you'd agree that it would be unfair to let them both start at the same time, though."
If the general has been considering a move into public speaking, surely today's engagement will have dissuaded him. Everyone was silent while he laughed at what he had considered to be a little joke.
"Ah, well. Of course not. No, we'll give Michael a chance. Whenever you're ready, Mr Whiteson."
He had the crowd's attention now, even if he had lost their respect for his oratorical skills. We all watched the fastest middle distance runner in the world set off at a blistering pace. I'd never seen a world-class athlete up close. It's far faster than it looks on TV. Abos walked over to the same starting position, and we waited. Whiteson got a quarter of the way round, then halfway. Abos didn't move. The chuckles started again.
When Whiteson hit three-quarter distance, Abos set off. This was accompanied by a huge gasp from everyone, even me, and I was expecting it. Swear-words in a dozen languages could be heard as the watchers tracked the blurred figure already rounding the far side of the pitch.
Whiteson finished his lap to find Abos waiting for him, the silver baton in his hand. Whiteson looked from his own empty hand to the baton Abos was holding, his face an almost comical picture of disbelief. I glanced around me and saw the mirror of that expression on the features of every hard-bitten, cynical journalist in sight.
There were a few similar demonstrations as a warmup to the main event. The current heavyweight boxing champion was permitted to spend three minutes punching Abos, who offered no resistance. The boxer started off jabbing politely, thinking, despite the briefing that he must have been given, that this was some strange publicity stunt. He gradually started to mix in a few harder punches, with horrible, painful-looking body shots and powerful blows to the head. Abos was unmoved by everything the man threw at him. It was over in two minutes when the boxer declared himself too exhausted to continue.
Abos rattled through a few more sporting demonstrations - his long jump was at least double the length of the current world record, and he managed it without a run-up. He used a cannonball instead of a shot put. A journalist volunteer could not lift it at all, but Abos casually tossed it over to the far side of the stadium where it broke a row of seats in the top tier. He held both arms out from his sides, and four rotund reporters hung off him - two from his left arm, two from his right. His arms didn't sag at all, and—after thirty seconds or so—Abos took off for another lap of the stadium, the reporters hanging on for dear life. Halfway round, two of them couldn't hold on any longer, and he carried them back, one at a time, at high speed. Their hands were shaking so much that I wondered if they would be able to write up their experience.
There was one more demonstration of strength before the finale. Abos jogged over to the Challenger tank and lifted the front end with one hand while waving to the crowd with the other. There was applause, albeit hesitant.
"It's clever, I grant you, but it's a trick." The Irish journalists in front of me were arguing.
"How is it a trick?" His colleague, a short red-haired woman, had a softer, less nasal accent. "Come on, now. We both saw him run, do you know what I mean?"
"Are you sure?" He was smiling a little smugly. "I don't know about you, Cathy, but I saw him clearly in front of me here, then again at the end of his lap. The rest of the time, it was a blur. That could have been anything. I reckon he ducked out of sight while we looked the other way. Classic misdirection. They might have spent weeks, months, setting this up. It's quite a show, I grant you, but I don't buy this whole Powerman nonsense."
"Ferg, he just lifted a tank, there. Are you facing the right way?"
"Hydraulics under the pitch. They parked it in the pre-arranged spot. All that lanky bloke had to do was to stand there and put his hand on it."
She shook her head, doubtfully. Then the general started talking again.
"Thank you for your time this evening. We will have one more demonstration, and there will be no questions at this time. Press releases with more information will be released within the next few days. Now, I know that representatives of the med
ia have a reputation for being a little sceptical."
He paused. There was no response. He coughed.
"Much of what you have witnessed might seem impossible. You may even believe you have been victims of a bizarre practical joke."
He scanned the faces of the crowd, his manner serious.
"This last demonstration is the reason we invited you here this evening. If you were watching this on television, you would assume it was a camera trick. You cannot dismiss the evidence of your own senses so easily. Powerman, over to you."
The general left the stage, and all eyes turned to Abos, who had lowered the tank to the ground. He took a few steps away, then, without any theatrics, rose to a height of about ten feet. The sound the crowd made was the same shocked gasp you hear when a tightrope walker with no safety net suddenly wobbles. Abos flew towards us.
I looked over at the cameras and saw the soldiers directing the cameramen to remain focussed on the tank.
His arms by his sides, his legs together, Abos flew slowly over the entire crowd. As he got close to the top rows, I dropped my head, hoping I wouldn't be too conspicuous - the only person not looking up at him.
"Jesus Mary Mother of God," whispered the first Irish journalist.
"I can't see a wire, Ferg," said his colleague. I admired her coolness while watching a man fly. "You eejit."
Fergus didn't respond. The collectively held breath of nearly two hundred people was expelled unanimously, and I cautiously peeped out from under my hat.
Abos was still in the air, but was now hovering near the tank again. He reached out a hand and beckoned.
The tank groaned as if tons of metal were shifting, then rose, ponderously and impossibly, into the air.
Outside Wembley Stadium, life continued as normal. There must have been cars passing, phones ringing, air-brakes hissing, children playing, birds singing, the million sounds of a city. But what I remember is a silence so thick it felt that nothing could penetrate it. No one moved, other than to direct their gaze first at the tank, then at Abos.
When the tank shot over the field and took up a position directly above us, no one screamed, no one moved. We all just looked up at it. There was a clump of mud and grass on the tread of the tank near me. I watched it detach and fall, landing with a wet plop on the smart-suited Italian journalist. He didn't react.
When the tank flew back to Abos, he closed his hand—very, very slowly—into a fist. As he did so, the tank began to groan loudly. Metal folded onto metal, massive machinery began crumpling in on itself in a cacophony of destruction.
Abos crushed the tank as if it were a paper cup.
The noise was horrendous and all the more shocking as it followed that powerful silence.
I don't know how long it took. Seconds? Minutes?
Abos lowered the remains onto the turf and flew into the dark sky, disappearing from view.
We all looked at the huge, roughly spherical, mound of metal on the pitch in front of us.
The Irish journalist turned to his colleague.
"Feck," he said.
October 7th, 1979
The Sunday papers are out. They all used the same photograph: Abos hovering above the pitch at Wembley Stadium, looking down at the crumpled tank. Here's a selection of the headlines.
SUPERSOLDIER REVEALED TO STUNNED WORLD
HE CAN FLY, RUN FASTER THAN A FORMULA ONE CAR, AND CRUSH A TANK JUST BY LOOKING AT IT. BEST OF ALL, HE'S BRITISH!
SUPERHERO ATE MY BUDGIE
The articles go into more depth inside, and there's stunned reaction from the rest of the world. Our allies were given twenty-four hours’ notice of what was to be revealed, apparently.
I watched the news this lunchtime, and besides recapping his demonstration over and over and speculating about his origins, it seems the media have not taken to the name Powerman. Thank goodness. From what I saw on television, and from listening to the radio this evening, a dreadful rag that Father won't allow in the house has now renamed Abos. It looks as if this name will stick. The headline read:
REST OF THE WORLD, MEET THE DETERRENT TO END ALL DETERRENTS
That's what they're calling him. The Deterrent.
31
January 1st, 1980
A year has passed since I last wrote. I re-read some of the older diary entries, back when Abos was still a secret. Before Carstairs had brainwashed him. When it was exciting–fun, even—to work with Father at Station.
If I sound bitter, it's because I am. But I'm more upset at my moral cowardice. I made it my business to find out what was going on. And when my worst suspicions were confirmed—when I found out that Abos was being drugged and manipulated—what did I do about it? Nothing. Worse than nothing. I'm still here, living under the same roof as the man who prepares the chemical cocktail that makes it possible for them to keep Abos under their thumb.
My only contact with Abos—The Deterrent—is now shared with the rest of the world. I see him on TV, in the papers and magazines. It's possible to meet him in person at army, navy, or air force recruitment events, but I know I wouldn't be allowed to get close. Applications to join the military have doubled since The Deterrent became the face of the British army. Budgets have swelled, too. That makes no sense. Why spend more on munitions and soldiers when there's a superhero on your side?
The Deterrent has been busy this past year. I suppose his most notable success was the IRA car bomb. That photograph is so iconic now that I've even seen it on T-shirts and printed on children's lunch boxes. Abos is floating above the Thames, a red Ford Cortina held over his head. Tower Bridge can be seen half-open behind him. Seconds later, he flew off with the car and dropped it into the North Sea, where it exploded with no loss of life, other than a huge number of very surprised fish.
The photographer must have been perfectly positioned near the top of one of the office blocks that line the river. It's such a perfect shot, it's almost as if it were planned that way.
Cynical. Cress, very cynical.
Every newspaper wants to interview The Deterrent, but his office (yes, there's a Deterrent office in the Ministry of Defence at Whitehall) refuses all requests. He's a private man, they are told. The strong, silent type.
His physical appearance has been the inspiration for millions of words as well as TV programmes and even a popular cartoon series. The coverage isn't universally fawning although at least half of it seems to be sexual in its subtext. A small minority of commentators have raised the spectre of eugenics and the Nazi blonde-haired superman. I wonder what they'd make of the fact that he only looks like he does because an American scientist called Roger Sullivan bled all over his container?
The Deterrent has been involved in military action, high profile disaster relief work and anti-terrorism missions. But his movements are never revealed in advance, so press access is granted at the behest of The Deterrent's office, who, surely, answer to Carstairs. Is the real Abos still in there somewhere, struggling to be heard under layers of chemical confusion? Station controls his development, stymied his natural progress. Whatever he is today is a result of his freedom of thought being taken from him.
I'm on the sidelines, watching Abos become a puppet.
What can I do about it? Blow the whistle? It's crossed my mind. It might mean a life sentence for treason, but that's not what stops me. It's the letter I received that does that. I know now that no one will believe a word I say.
Just before Christmas, the envelope arrived. A plain, brown envelope with no return address. It contained a psychiatric hospital report from 1969 detailing the treatment of a girl who had suffered a complete mental breakdown just after leaving school. She had experienced delusions, seen hallucinations, and heard voices. After a six month stay in hospital, she was released into the care of her father. He has cared for her since then although she has suffered a few more episodes and needed to be hospitalised on three subsequent occasions. She is not considered to be a danger to others, but her father was advised to keep
sharp objects and medication under lock and key for her own protection.
The chief psychiatrist of the hospital had added a handwritten note to the report, commending the government department which had allowed the unfortunate girl to accompany her father into work, even giving her a 'job.' The effect of this on her self-worth was inestimable, he wrote.
It was my name at the top of the report.
I didn't show Father. What would be the point?
They have me where they want me. I can do nothing to them.
32
Daniel
George had planned my escape for a long time. The taxi from Station took us to Stratford International train station, where she gave me the code to a locker containing one big, wheeled suitcase, and a smaller piece of hand luggage. Both very smart. She took the smaller one and headed for the toilet, instructing me to do the same, get changed, and meet her back under the information sign.
It was a good job she had specified a meeting point because the jewellery and dress transformed her. She looked like royalty. As I got closer, trying not to feel self-conscious in the suit, I noticed again how thin she was. She wore tights under the dress, but they might have been made for a child. Both legs were withered and bent, as was her left arm. She let me look, then pulled a cashmere rug over her lower body.
"You look amazing," I said.
She smiled. "You don't brush up too badly yourself. Shall we?"
Stratford International offered a wide selection of connections, and, once Station had been alerted to my escape, they would be quick to trace the taxi journey. They wouldn't be expecting us to hole up less than a mile away.
From Stratford, we travelled by limousine, booked and paid for in advance. George waited in the car while I went into the hotel lobby, confirmed the suite and had our luggage sent up. Then I pushed her into the hotel. Immediately, the hotel staff transferred their attention to her, barely glancing at me. I realised what I was supposed to look like: her bodyguard. As far as it was possible to make a six-foot-four, eighteen-stone man invisible, she'd managed it.
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