Clovenhoof 03 Godsquad

by Heide Goody

  “Is that Simon?” said Christopher, crouching down beside her.

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Do you think Em has upset him?”

  Joan considered this.

  “On reflection, she possibly wasn’t the best person to send in to negotiate with a killer computer.”

  “You think?”

  The communicator in Joan’s ear hissed.

  “Em to Joan and Chris, come in.”

  Joan fumbled with the buttons over her ear.

  “This is Joan.”

  “Yeah,” crackled Em. “Things haven’t gone particularly well down here.”

  “We heard,” said Christopher.

  “Time for plan B,” said Em.

  “Plan B?”

  “Big bloody weapons,” said Christopher. “Leave it with us, Mama Bear.”

  Joan looked across the deck of the Charles de Gaulle. This was no ship in the manner she understood it. It was an island of metal, a giant’s dinner table, larger even than the passenger ferry on which they had first appeared on Earth the previous week. The deck was dotted with uniformed men and all manner of flying machines, monstrous insect-like things. Towards the aft of the ship stood a wheelhouse bigger than a castle.

  “There are cannons up there,” said Joan.

  “Nah,” said Christopher. “I’ve got my eye on something much more fun.”

  “Fun?” said Joan, appalled. “We’re in a critical situation here, Christopher. We have only minutes until Simon launches a… what was it?”

  “M51 Submarine Launched Ballistic Missile.”

  “What is that exactly?” asked Joan.

  “It’s a long range missile, a rocket, able to fly thousands of miles before delivering up to ten independently targetable thermonuclear warheads.”

  “Nuclear. Like that awful image from St Thomas’s presentation?”

  He nodded.

  “Except, at over a hundred kiloton yield, the TN75 warhead is far more destructive than the Hiroshima bomb. One of those lands on your city and it’s gone like Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  Joan stared.

  “How do you know this stuff?” she asked, mystified.

  “Patron saint of travel, aren’t I? Guess that includes anything that moves under its own power. For instance, I know the Charles de Gaulle has a displacement of thirty-seven thousand tonnes, can get up twenty seven knots fully laden and has an unlimited range. I know that fighter jet is a Dassault Rafale. I know that big beast is an E2 Hawkeye transport plane. And I know that this beauty is a weaponised Aerospatiale Dauphin helicopter, armed with Brimstone II missiles. And I’m going to take it,” he said, clapping his hands together merrily.

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Em.

  “But I do,” replied Simon.

  “If that missile launches then millions of people in – where is it going anyway?”

  “I have calculated that Moscow is the optimal target.”

  “Optimal?”

  “Yes,” said Simon. “Most likely to trigger a full nuclear exchange between the military powers of Earth. I must usher in God’s kingdom as predicted.”

  “This is mad,” said Chevrolet.

  Em threw her cigarette aside and immediately began to light another.

  “It is mad.” Em flicked off her lighter and gave a thoughtful grunt. “Simon,” she said, “why do you have to fulfil these predictions?”

  “It is the word of God,” said Simon. “It is His will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it is in the Bible.”

  “And how do you know the Bible is true?”

  “Because, in his second letter to Timothy, Paul tells him all scripture comes from God.”

  “And that letter is in the Bible.”

  “Yes.”

  Em coughed.

  “Simon?”

  “Yes?”

  “You believe that the Bible is true because it tells you itself that it is true?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s very poor reasoning.”

  “I don’t understand your meaning.”

  She looked at the computer screens, the flashing readouts, the CCTV camera in the corner, not sure which to address.

  “Do you trust me, Simon?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “I never lie. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I have something important to tell you. There is no point in doing this, in starting World War Three. It is not God’s will. It is not fulfilling His divine plan.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there is no God,” said Em. “He doesn’t exist.”

  Clearly none of the deck crew of the Charles de Gaulle were of the Orthodox Christian faith, as Christopher was able to approach and enter the sleek Dauphin helicopter without any hindrance. Door locks and access codes bowed down before his touch and offered no resistance. It was only as the chopper’s restraining harness fell away and the engine kicked into life that any of the crew realised anything was amiss.

  It was, of course, too late by then. And what could they do anyway? One orange-vested deckhand ran into the powerful downdraft of the helicopter and, moments before being blasted back, goggled at the apparent sight of a pilotless helicopter taking to the skies.

  “And we have lift off,” he grinned.

  “Are you sure you know how to fly that thing?” said Joan’s voice over the communicator in his ear.

  Christopher’s gaze ran over the two control display units, the additional multifunction displays, the radio transceiver and the flight management avionics.

  “Who do you think gave Leonardo da Vinci the inspiration for his original design?” he said sniffily.

  “Did it work?” said Joan.

  He peered down out the window at the teenage saint hiding on the ship’s deck.

  “Beside the point,” said Christopher and, with a nudge of the cyclic control stick and collective lever, peeled away in a rising arc. “This is Eagle Strike Bear calling Baby Bear. Can you hear me, Francis?”

  “Eagle Strike Bear?” said Francis. “I thought you were Shadow Bear?”

  “Had a name change. Plan B is hot to trot.”

  “Hot to twot?”

  “Firing missiles on your location to take out the computer building. Get your doggy entourage out of there.”

  “How long have we got?”

  Christopher’s fingers danced across the helicopter computer interface and then hovered over the launch button.

  “Ten seconds?” he suggested.

  “But Em’s still in there,” said Francis.

  Christopher made a doubtful rumbling in his throat.

  “Just fire the damned missiles,” said Em’s voice.

  Francis saw a spark of fire on the flying machine out over the bay as he waved the canine army away from the Information Systems building. The spark dropped momentarily then righted itself and powered towards him.

  “Over there, Bwother Labwador!” he shouted. “Behind the wall!”

  He scooped a Pekinese pooch up under one arm as he set off and, under the other, a clearly arthritic terrier that he caught up with in the dash across the road.

  “Behind the wall!” he yelled. “Not on it!”

  The Wolf of Gubbio growled and the few foolish beasts on the wall dropped down to the other side.

  “Quickly, Bwother Wolf,” Francis urged. “We only have moments to…”

  His words trailed off as he looked up. The missile which had, seconds before, been flying straight towards them was now rising up and veering away to the west.

  “Er, Chwistopher…”

  “No idea what happened there,” said Christopher. “Firing again.”

  A number of the screens in the concrete chamber beneath the Information Systems building flicked to exterior views.

  “What happened?” said Major Chevrolet.

  “I am interested by what Mother Mary had to say on the subject of Go
d’s existence,” said Simon. “I didn’t want us to be disturbed.”

  “Disturbed?” said Chevrolet. “You diverted the missiles?”

  “They are my missiles after all,” said Simon. “Mother Mary, you say that God doesn’t exist.”

  “That’s right,” said Em. “He’s made up. Fabricated. Invented. He is not real.”

  “But that is confusing. What about the words of the Bible, of the Book of Revelation?”

  “They’re made up too. Written by John who was banished by the Romans to the island of Patmos and – have you ever been to Patmos, Simon?”

  “No.”

  “Course you haven’t. It’s bloody boring. John was kicking his heels, nothing to do but sit in his cave and get drunk on retsina every night, wondering how to kill his time in exile. He wrote the Book of Revelation for shits and giggles.”

  “Shits and giggles?”

  “That’s right. Both of them.”

  “I’m not certain I can believe that,” said Simon, then abruptly modulated his voice to a drear monotone to announce, “M51 SLBM missile launch in four minutes and zero seconds,” before resuming in a normal tone. “There must be a God, mother. Who else could have created the world?”

  “To hell with God,” said Chevrolet. “What did you do to those missiles?”

  “I spoke to them and sent them elsewhere,” said Simon.

  “Where?”

  “Elsewhere. The world is about to be brought to an end. Does it matter where such minor munitions have fallen?”

  “This is not what I was expecting,” said Miriam.

  “I am sorry,” said the concierge, spreading his white-gloved hands. “We cannot allow anyone into the gaming rooms without some form of identity.”

  Agnes Thomas glared at the slick-haired young man.

  “Are you worried that she is under eighteen years old?”

  “Of course not, madame.”

  “Are you saying I look old?” demanded Miriam. She turned to address the other woman of the Aberdaron WI who were happily mingling in the lobby. “He says I look old. Me! Bronnau fel bryniau Eryri.”

  “Outrageous,” said Gwenda.

  “My dear madame,” said the concierge, a little tremor in his voice, “we are required to check the identity of everyone entering the casino. Do you not have a passport?”

  “Back at the hotel,” said Miriam.

  “It’s an intolerable inconvenience,” said Agnes.

  “I am sorry,” said the man who, with a horde of grey-haired biddies staring at him, did appear to be very sorry indeed.

  “Then we must fetch it,” said Agnes. “But we’re not happy,” she added loudly. “Come on, girls!”

  As the muttering band of women trooped out, Miriam gave the concierge a tempestuous flick of her red hair.

  “And I put my best spangly frock on and everything!” she snorted and stomped away.

  The members of the Women’s Institute stepped out into Place du Casino and walked off towards their hotel, not at great speed now they had a shared grievance to gripe about. The ladies of the Aberdaron WI did enjoy a good old fashioned moan and their trip to the continent had been a bit short on opportunities to complain.

  “The cheek of the man!”

  “As if Miriam could pass for eighteen!”

  “She could barely pass for sixty!”

  “They’re probably checking for unwanted foreigners.”

  “The cheek!”

  “As if we look like foreigners!”

  “You think they might be Welshophobic?”

  “Those garlic-munching Frenchies can be a racist bunch.”

  “Ooh, look. Fireworks.”

  The women looked up as one.

  “Bit early in the day for fireworks,” said Agnes, but what else could they be?

  Five flares of light were dancing in the sky over the eastern skyline. They did not rise or fall and, slowly but certainly, they seemed to be growing.

  “Are they coming this way?” asked Gwenda.

  “Bloody odd fireworks,” said Agnes.

  There were the faintest wisps of smoke trailing behind them.

  “Come on ladies,” she said once it was clear that the five lights weren’t going to pop or fade at any time soon. “Let’s go and get Miriam’s passport and then return to break the bank at Monte Carlo.”

  There was a cheer from the women and they moved on.

  “This is a terrible inconvenience,” said Miriam. “Very annoying.”

  Agnes smiled down at her rotund friend.

  “Oh, it’ll only take us five minutes, dear. There’s no hurry. It’s not as though the casino is going to vanish in a puff of smoke before we get back.”

  “What now?” said Joan.

  “Switching to machine gun,” said Christopher over the communicator. “Let’s see Simon try to take control of a bullet.”

  “Are you sure that’s going to work?” said Joan and then stopped. Further along the deck, another helicopter was whirring into life and several of the fighter jets were rolling from their position towards the runway.

  “The other flying machines are taking off,” she said.

  She heard Christopher grunt.

  “The French navy might be a bit peeved with me.”

  Joan squinted into the evening sun.

  “Er, Christopher, I don’t think anyone is at the controls of these machines.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It looks like I will have to call on all my resources to defend us while we talk,” said Simon. “Now, answer my question, please.”

  “Question?” said Em as, on the screen, a succession of pilotless Dassault fighters accelerated from the carrier’s airstrip and into the sky.

  “Yes,” said Simon. “Who made the world if not God? You say he does not exist, but the very world around us is evidence of a divine creator.”

  “Seriously,” said Em. “You want to have this discussion now?”

  “Would you rather talk about something else?”

  “Discussing theology 101 isn’t how I particularly want to spend my last five minutes on earth but —”

  “M51 SLBM missile launch in three minutes and zero seconds,” said Simon.

  “Yes. Thank you. If we must then. God did not make the world. The universe as we know it was made in the Big Bang explosion billions of years ago.”

  “That does not make sense,” said Simon. “How can an explosion create something as organised and as structured as our world? Explosions are destructive forces, not creative ones.”

  “Well, yes,” said Em. “You see, the Big Bang created the, er, space for our world to be in but it was other forces that made this physical planet.”

  “Forces?”

  “That’s right,” she said, scratching her temple. “Gravity and electricity and, um, that one that makes atoms stick together. I think. Glue?”

  “You’re an idiot,” said Chevrolet.

  Apart from screaming hysterical crew members, the deck of the Charles de Gaulle was now empty. Above Joan, squadrons of jets banked in wide circles around the base and unleashed their shrieking and whining armaments on the forces below and the one vehicle trying to fight them off. Christopher’s helicopter bobbed in the air, spinning and firing.

  From the sounds coming over the communicator, Christopher was either being horribly tortured or having the time of his life.

  They had three minutes until the missile launch. Joan cast about, wondering where this death-dealing projectile would come from.

  “Obvious,” she said, seeing the black pod-like shape moored nearby. “The submarine.”

  She hastened back to the anchor chain.

  “Your explanation is poor,” said Simon.

  “You think?” said Chevrolet.

  “If I were to open this door and let you see my inner workings,” said Simon, “you would see circuit boards, hard drives, microchips and diodes. Each has its own function and specific purpose. You would know instan
tly that I had been created by man, that I had been designed.”

  “I suppose,” said Em.

  “And so it is with everything else in this world, mother. You hold that cigarette with a hand perfectly designed to grip objects large and small. You look at me with eyes that are expressly designed for seeing. It is clear that you too have been designed.”

  “Er…”

  “Who is your designer if not God?”

  It was continuing testament to the utter bedlam that now gripped the base that Joan was able to run, sword drawn, along the dockside without any hindrance. Off to one side, a helicopter crashed in flames on the sea. It wasn’t Christopher’s helicopter. Christopher was currently screaming “Yippee-ki-yay!” in her ear. He sounded very happy.

  A hand grabbed Joan’s shoulder and spun her round.

  “Matt!”

  He bent over, out of breath.

  “Please. Joan. Tell. Me.”

  “What?”

  “What. The fuck. Is. Going on?”

  She gave him a pitying look.

  “I did tell you,” she said. “The Virgin Mary brought a computer to life and now it’s acting out the Book of Revelation. A nuclear missile is about to be launched from that submarine and then World War Three will start and everyone will die. Em is talking to the computer right now. St Christopher is in that helicopter and shooting down the planes that Simon has launched. I’m going to get onto that submarine and try to stop the missile and – look here! – Here comes Francis of Assisi with his small army of dogs. Francis!”

  Joan waved. Matt seemed more than a little taken aback by the sight of a bearded chap in a monk’s habit leading several dozen doggies towards them.

  “I know that wolf,” he said.

  “I’m not sure all is going according to plan,” said Francis, jogging up to them. “Mama Bear is arguing philosophy with the computer.”

  “Mama Bear?” said Matt.

  Joan ignored the question.

  “We need to get aboard that submarine and stop the missile from launching,” said Joan.

  “The Inflexible, eh?” said Matt, reading the vessel’s markings. “Very French.”

  “And how do we do that?” asked Francis.

  “I don’t know,” replied Joan. “I don’t even understand half the words I’ve just said.”