The Silent Vulcan

by James Follett

  They neared the cave entrance. Malone sniffed disapprovingly when he caught a whiff of Ellen's pungent ginkgo tree. "That tree sure does pong."

  "Ellen planted it to keep deer and rabbits away from crops," said David absently, feeling in his pockets. "I've often used a rag soaked in diesel oil."

  "That's it, then," said Malone. "You said the hounds were milling about as if they were confused. Hardly surprising. That tree stinks to high heaven."

  Malone's deduction raised David's hopes. "Damn it," he muttered. "I haven't got the walkie-talkie with me. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger."

  "Stop panicking," said Malone, unclipping his PMR radio and rotating the channel selector. "Family Radio Service Channel 1, isn't it?"

  "For God's sake, Malone! You'll be heard all over Pentworth on that thing!"

  Malone unscrewed the transceiver's stub antenna and pushed down the power attenuator button. "Try not to get too excited, David. This thing has a range of only a few metres without its aerial. Let's get closer."

  They walked on and stopped outside the entrance to the cave. Malone raised the PMR's speaker-microphone to his mouth. "Ellen? Copy?"

  Silence. Malone opened the set's squelch and tried again. "Ellen. Do you copy?" Again, silence other than the low hiss of white noise. He passed the microphone to David. "Maybe she's refusing to answer because she doesn't recognise my voice?" David called twice but there was no answer. Malone flashed his torch for David's benefit as the farmer knelt and pulled at the turfs. "Oh Christ," he said. "They've been disturbed."

  "You were here a few days ago," Malone pointed out.

  "And I didn't put them back like this!" David snapped. "They've been pulled out and put back -- recently."

  Malone knelt beside him. "You're sure?"

  "Of course I'm bloody sure! Christ -- look, man! They're all loose! They've only just been pushed roughly back into place!"

  The police officer was able to pick up a sod without encountering any resistance. He conceded that David had a point but his companion wasn't listening. He burrowed into the hillside like a rabbit and pulled out the hurdle. "Torch!" he snapped.

  Malone handed him the torch and David wriggled through the hole. He was gone less than two minutes. Light danced around the opening as he crawled back and pushed his head and shoulders out. He held the torch before him so that it lit up his haggard expression.

  "They've gone!" David croaked, his voice cracking. "Those bastards have found them!"

  Chapter 31.

  THE MOON WAS IN ITS LAST quarter and provided adequate light for Roger Dayton to see that pontoon construction site on the beach at Pentworth Lake had been provided with a small caravan and, as near as he could judge from their voices, two watchmen. Every few minutes they played a powerful light on the giant raft, the humidity of the night defining a beam that would be more than capable of sweeping the entire lake if the watchmen heard anything suspicious.

  Dayton melted back into the trees. He hunkered down and consulted a map with the aid of a penlight torch to work out a route so that he could approach his buried depth-charge without crossing the main beach. His original plan had been to carry out tonight's operation in a few days time when there would be no moon, but the news reports on the radio about the coming bathyscaphe operation decided him to bring to bring D-Day, as he thought of it, forward. In a few days time there was a chance that the pontoon would be permanently located in the middle of Pentworth Lake, possibly with men on it. Dayton didn't want any deaths on his conscience. The Visitors didn't matter. They were aliens and therefore not human, and therefore not protected by law.

  Legal niceties were important to Roger Dayton. He wanted to take part in the single-handed round the world yacht race the following year, not spend it in prison. The position of the watchmen's caravan on the beach worried him, but his depth-charge would be exploding at a depth of 120 metres and black powder, although lethal enough, was hardly a high velocity modern explosive. From his experiences on naval exercises, he knew that there would be an eruption on the surface but doubted if there would be much of a tidal wave. It was a calculated risk that he decided was worth taking. He set off to find the track that led to the northern end of the lake.

  He found the track without difficulty and walked along its grassy verge where his trainers did not make a sound. It was as well he did so because he heard approaching voices and had to crouch in the undergrowth, thankful that he was wearing a dark tracksuit and had blacked his face. He had even stuck black tape over the stainless steel strap of his yachtsman's wristwatch.

  The two-man morris police patrol were deep in conversation as they passed his hiding place. He waited until they were a long way off and resumed his walk. He came to the bend he was looking for and left the track to push through the undergrowth in the direction of the lake. He emerged near the dense reeds that bordered this part of the lake and skirted them cautiously. The ground was soft underfoot. The distant lights of the watchmen's caravan were duplicated on the lake's still surface. The reeds ended and he was on the beach. A quick check with the torch enabled him to locate the spot where he had spent the day with his grandchildren. The tracks left by the pony and trap he had hired for the trip were still visible in the sand.

  The sand was dry, soft enough for him to dig down with bare hands. He found nothing, quickly suppressed a mild sensation of panic, and carefully checked his surroundings. Maybe a little to the left...

  His fingers encountered the cold, hard surface of the beer keg. A little more digging and he was able to roll it out of the hole and recover the inflatable toy boat. He sat cross-legged and inflated the boat by mouth. It took him longer than he expected and it made him a little dizzy but the nausea soon passed. He stepped out of his tracksuit. Underneath he was wearing swimming trunks. Rather than exert himself unnecessarily, he used his feet to roll the aluminium keg down the beach to the water's edge.

  There was the initial shock when entering water but he had known worse. In fact the water was not nearly as cold as he had expected. He carried the keg until he was up to his waist and placed it carefully in the centre of the toy boat. It took the homemade depth-charge's weight comfortably.

  He was a good swimmer and made steady progress using the breast stroke to avoid splashing, nudging the toy boat and its deadly cargo along using his chest. He lifted the line of bathing area marker buoys and swam on towards the centre of the lake. He felt the surface water becoming noticeable colder -- probably something to do with convection currents bringing up colder water from the depths.

  What he judged to be the centre of the lake was extremely cold. He rested by holding onto the toy boat. He would need his strength for a fast swim back to the shore. He watched the luminous dials on his wristwatch, finger poised on the stopwatch button. The depth-charge was weighted to sink at half a metre per second and would therefore take 240 seconds -- four minutes -- to reach 120 metres when the hydrostatic fuse would fire the Very pistol cartridge into the charge. In this cold, and therefore denser, water the keg would most likely sink at a slightly slower rate but he couldn't take chances: he would have to reach the shore and get clear of the scene in well under four minutes.

  He watched the second hand crawling around the watch face. He felt his heartbeat quickening when it reached the figure 8.

  9... 10... 11... 12...

  Dropping the depth-charge was simply a matter of tipping the toy boat over. He pressed the stopwatch button and struck out for the shore using a fast crawl. He blundered into the bathing buoys and experienced momentary panic when he thought he'd become entangled in the line. He broke clear and swam on, putting all his strength into his strokes with his arms and avoiding splashing with his legs. His hands grazed on the bottom. He scrambled to his feet, dashed across the beach to snatch up his trainers and tracksuit, and headed into the undergrowth. Brambles slashed at his bare arms and legs but he ignored the pain as he continued his plunge deep into the thickets. He came to a small clearing and threw himself flat
. It took him a few moments to get his breathe back and focus his eyes on his watch.

  160 seconds.

  Not bad for old timer, he thought. He donned his tracksuit and laced up his trainers.

  200 seconds.

  He stood and stared at the centre of the lake, his breathing getting easier.

  220 seconds.

  Come on! Come on!

  240 seconds... 250 seconds...

  Obviously the cold water had slowed down the keg's sinking more than he had anticipated.

  Five minutes slipped by. He left his cover and walked cautiously down to the water's edge as if his being closer would somehow trigger his failed depth-charge.

  "What's your game, sunshine?"

  He wheeled around and was blinded by a powerful flashlight. He recognised the voice as belonging to one of the morris police he had avoided earlier.

  "Dayton, isn't it? Our intrepid yachtsman. What are you doing here? Pining for the lonely sea and the sky?"

  Despite his conviction that they could hear his heart hammering, and bracing himself to run if the depth-charge went off, he managed a casual smile and replied that he was out for a late night jog.

  "Didn't you see the sign?"

  Innocently, "What sign?"

  "The lake's closed. It's been on the radio."

  Dayton heard a PMR radio squawk. The morris policeman who hadn't spoken moved away and muttered something inaudible into his radio.

  "I'm sorry," said Dayton. "I had no idea."

  "Got your ID?"

  "Sorry -- there aren't any pockets in this tracksuit."

  "We're wanted, grade 1," said the second morris police officer curtly.

  "You'd better head back, sir," said the first morris policeman to Dayton, waving his torch in the direction of the road.

  Dayton set off for home, wondering what had gone wrong with his depth-charge. It could be any number of things, the most likely being that the fibre washer under the bung had leaked and water had saturated the charge. The morris policeman had recognised him so perhaps it was just as well that it had failed.

  Chapter 32.

  ALTHOUGH MALONE HAD HAD little time to organize the raid on Pentworth House, the plans were going well. By 1:00am, three hours after the discovery that Vikki, Ellen and Claire were missing, he had mustered a 100-strong force crowded into Pentworth police station. Rather than risk a telephone operator in the exchange tipping off Roscoe that something was up, all the men had been summoned by radio, using a code word, or by a door-to-door knock-up.

  Malone used a pointer to indicate photographs taped to the wall. "Ellen Duncan, Vikki Taylor and Claire Lake," he said. "They're the three women that we have reason to believe have been abducted to Pentworth House. Sorry the pics are a bit small. We won't be leaving here for another two hours so you've got plenty of time for a closer look. The primary purpose of the operation is to recover these three women, unharmed. Please keep that in the forefront of your minds at all times." He moved the pointer to pictures of Roscoe and Faraday. "These gentlemen need no introduction from me. They are to be arrested. Do be careful with Faraday, he's nursing a broken right arm, courtesy of myself, and may be a little fragile. I should hate him to get even more broken."

  Laughter greeted Malone's words.

  "He can be dangerous," he warned, and turned to a large scale plan of Pentworth House's floors. "Okay. How many of you know the interior layout of Pentworth House?"

  Carol Sandiman noted the names of those who put their hands up and quizzed them in low tones about their knowledge.

  "Pentworth House is too big for shock entry tactics to be effective," Malone continued. "It's no good breaking down doors and charging in like a herd of stampeding bison. We need to get all our teams onto all the floors and have the place secured before they know what's hit them. This is going to be a strict softy-softly op. Pentworth House has a lot of bare board corridors so you'll all be wearing bits of torn-up blankets over your shoes and boots. No staffs -- they'll just get in the way. Whatever you've got in the way of body armour and night sticks."

  "How about some tooling-up, sir? We've got plenty of kit."

  "Definitely not," said Malone. "I'm certain that all their firearms were handed over as part of the amnesty deal. We've certainly accounted for all of them. If a gun goes off, we'll know it's not one of ours. Your best weapons are surprise, followed by your torch, followed by your Captor." He held up an aerosol of the concentrated gas. "But we've only got ten aerosols so I'll be issuing most of them to the group that will be dealing with Roscoe's heavies."

  Malone spoke for a further twenty minutes, outlining the details of the operation and answering questions. Many of the queries raised highlighted potential problems for which countermeasures were discussed and decided upon.

  At the end the men were divided into three primary groups. Those with a knowledge of Pentworth House's layout were distributed among all the groups. Alpha group, under Russell Norris, was tasked with securing the grounds before the main assault on the house started.

  Each group spent the remainder of the time with their respective commanding officer going over their objectives. Carol Sandiman distributed squares of blanket material that were securely lashed to footwear. She also issued each man with several cable ties for use as handcuffs.

  At the appointed hour, the 100 black clad morris police filed into the passage at the side of the police station and packed themselves into the three Commer vans. Malone drove the third van -- Charlie group. All three vehicles left by different routes to avoid a convoy being seen driving through the town centre. Malone was determined not to lose his principal weapon of surprise. He took the most indirect route eastward out of the town, circled around using narrow roads before heading north on the A283 for half a kilometre. He drew up outside a row of cottages -- a spot well-known to local children -- where a part of the 18th Century wall that completely surrounded the Pentworth estate had crumbled away to virtually nothing.

  The other two Commers were already parked and empty. Malone and his 30-man team poured silently over the remains of the wall and worked south, skirting the crops, moving purposefully towards the dim points of light that marked Pentworth House. They kept close to the wall and reached their rendezvous spot. At first Malone thought he'd made a mistake about the location until someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Russell Norris -- the big man came from a long line of poachers and knew a thing or two about countryside stealth.

  "Six prisoners, Mr Malone. Patrol guards. All trussed up and oven-ready. They didn't get a chance to use their radios."

  Malone was pleased. He knew about the guards but not their whereabouts. "Well done, Norris."

  After a brief conference, the teams set off, converging on the big mansion. Malone led his team towards their allotted rear door in the stable yard. He produced a crowbar and jemmied the door open, making little noise.

  As expected, Pentworth House's common ways were lit by low-wattage bulbs from a methane-powered generator. His team made hardly a sound as they mounted the narrow flights of servants' stairs that led to the fourth floor -- the top floor where most of the bedrooms and dormitories were located.

  A sudden uproar from the floor below and yells of "Police!" served as a trigger. Malone's Charlie group burst into the largest dormitory. One of Roscoe's prize heavies leapt naked from his bed and charged blindly into in the flashlights. A squirt of Captor and he went down screaming, clutching his face. Someone switched the lights on. Malone's deadly feet dealt with two would-be assailants, more screams, a girl sobbing in terror, clutching a sheet to herself, and suddenly it was all over. The room's occupants saw what had happened to their writhing colleagues and surrendered without further resistance. Malone left four officers to deal with the prisoners and charged into the corridor which was filling with the occupants of the neighbouring dormitory. They were no match for the dazzling flashlamps and were quickly overpowered and herded into the first dormitory.

  As Malone
had hoped, the remainder of Roscoe's guards on the top floor came to him, converging on the uproar. Overpowering them, with heavy boots taking advantage of bare toes, was achieved within minutes although one tiresome thug, with more muscle than brains, had to be pinned down by four officers before they managed to wretch his arms behind his back and secure his wrists. Lashing out with his feet caused a painful connection with a bed. He lost all interest in further struggling and comforted himself with howls of agony. Ten minutes after he'd jemmied the door, Malone broke the strict radio silence and announced that Charlie group had secured the top floor. Russell Norris answered that his Alpha group had done likewise on the ground floor, concluding with, "We're moving them all into the dining hall."

  Bravo group reported some problems and Malone sent them twelve men to back them up. And then the text book operation was over. All the prisoners were shepherded down the main staircase and into the panelled dining hall, presided over by a wall picture of Johann Bode, the 18th Century astronomer after whom the Bodian Brethren were named.

  Malone stood behind the table on the dais at the far end of the former ballroom. This was where Adrian Roscoe and Nelson Faraday ate their meals, with the faithful seated in rows below them. They weren't looking very faithful now. Some of the more belligerent refused to sit on the floor and had to informed by Malone's men that it would be sensible if they did as they were told. Most of them were in pyjamas or nightdresses. Several naked girls had huddled themselves against the wall. Malone felt sorry for them. They were just frightened kids caught up in a turmoil of events they neither understood or had control over. He ordered that some sort of covering be found for them.

  It was the number of them that worried Malone. Although he knew that Roscoe had over 200 followers, seeing them all gathered together, mostly young adults, was a salutary reminder of the strength of the Bodian Brethren and of the difficulty he and others faced in breaking Roscoe's power. Among them were the faces of local youngsters whose parents had come to Malone pleading for him to do something about returning them to their families and loved ones. He had had to tell them that Roscoe was always careful to ensure that his new recruits were over 18 and that there was nothing that the police could do.