Authors: Alex Scarrow
And what about the antennae array, outside? If it got knocked, they’d have to reset it. Go outside, stand on the crumbling roof and recalibrate it, or God knows how off-target their window was going to be.
Worst still. What about a hit on that old rust-bucket tank outside, still loyally chugging away? No tank, no power. They’d be as good as dead in the water.
‘Becks!’
‘Yes, Maddy?’
‘There’s no way we’re going to survive two days of this!’ Another heavy thump deposited a shower of debris on Maddy’s head. She spat out grit and shook her head, sending another smaller shower of dust out of her hair and on to her lap.
‘We need to open the window
now
!’
‘We can’t do that, Maddy. They may not be at the rendezvous coordinates yet.’
Becks – Queen of the Freakin’ Obvious.
‘I know that … I know that … but … we’ve got to do something before we get hit!’
Both Becks and Bob had a local wireless range, but neither of them could transmit a message to each other across more than a mile or two at best.
‘Information: the chances of a direct artillery hit are relatively low, Maddy. Equipment failure is far more likely to occur as a result of the cumulative impact vibrations.’
‘Well, there you go! We need to do something … soon!’
Becks had nothing to offer. Another thud sent the monitors blinking out. A moment later they all flickered back on.
‘Oh, this is totally not good, Becks. We’ve got to do
something
!’
She looked around her desk for inspiration.
Come on … come on. What? What do I do?
They should send a message to Bob and the others. Let them know they needed to speed things up, open the window much sooner than arranged. At this rate, in two days’ time, there wasn’t going to be an archway left – nor trenches, nor troops. Just a pockmarked wasteland of brand-new craters.
‘Computer-Bob!’
The dialogue box appeared in front of her.
> Yes, Maddy?
‘New message for Bob …’
> Proceed.
‘Archway under attack … need to open window at stated coordinates much sooner.’ She bit her lip.
How much more of this can the equipment take? Another few minutes, hours?
But then that question was balanced by another equally important one: how far away were Liam and the others from the extraction point? There was simply no knowing. It’s quite possible they were very close … after all, she’d picked a place roughly two-thirds of the way up from Quantico to New York, and a dozen miles westwards off the main highways. Somewhere quiet. They
might
have been very close when they got the message … they just might. And that message was sent about eighteen hours ago.
They could be waiting right there, twiddling their thumbs, waiting impatiently for the window to open. On the other hand, they might be fifty, or a hundred miles away, struggling desperately to make it there in time.
‘Window to open in ten minutes’ time!’ said Maddy. ‘End of message.’
> Affirmative. Compiling message packet.
‘Maddy,’ called out Becks. ‘If we open a window in ten minutes’ time, then it will take approximately another twelve hours to recharge the machine for a second attempt.’
Maddy winced and cursed. She knew that anyway. Becks was right. They couldn’t afford to panic and blow their accumulated charge. She glanced across at the rack and could see all twelve green LEDs lit up. A full charge and that had taken them the whole night and most of today with that poor old tank rattling away.
‘Computer-Bob … cancel that. New message!’
> Message cancelled. I am ready for your new message, Maddy.
‘All right … OK, the message is this:
archway is under attack. Proceed to coordinates as fast as you freakin’ well can! Will watch for you with pinhole probe. Will open as soon as we see you.
End of message.’
> Affirmative. Compiling message packet.
She turned to Becks. ‘We’ll open a pinhole window now and grab an image … and if they’re not there, we’ll do it again in another … say … half an hour’s time. And again … and again …’
‘This will drain the power.’
‘So sue me!’ she snapped. Then grimaced guiltily; Becks was only doing her job. ‘This way, we’ll at least get in a few free looks, right? Before we’ve used up enough of the charge that we can’t open a proper window?’
‘Correct.’
‘Then that’s what we’re gonna do. Until we absolutely need to conserve what’s left.’
Computer-Bob had been listening.
> Maddy, shall I send this message? Please confirm.
‘Yes! Confirm sending the message. Do it!’
CHAPTER 76
2001, New York
Devereau looked at the men huddled in the bottom of the borderline. An artillery bombardment like this on a defensive position was more successful at draining morale than it was at whittling down the enemy’s numbers. The shells were mostly pitting the sloping wasteland with new craters. One or two shells had got lucky and caved in a section of the trench – nothing that couldn’t be hastily dug out and repaired before a landing arrived.
No … it was the way it sapped the fighting spirit of the men that the bombardment’s damage was done. Left them feeling helpless, impotent, as the enemy pounded them from afar.
Down the trench he could see Sergeant Freeman bellowing encouragement to the men around him, a mixture of men from his own regiment and Wainwright’s Virginians. Devereau grinned; it was NCOs like Freeman that were the backbone of a regiment. Grim-faced veterans with a lifetime of scars and battlefield voices that carried over even the percussive thump of artillery shells landing. Men followed their generals and colonels, but it was their sergeants and corporals they turned to for a reassuring nod in the heat of battle.
He was about to glance over to the horseshoe to check whether the tank was still running when he suddenly found himself lying on his back at the bottom of the trench, watching a small avalanche of dark soil rain down on him. Instinctively he covered his face and closed his mouth as dirt began to cover him. Devereau tried to flail to get himself up, but his arms and legs felt leaden.
And it was all of a sudden so silent. The only noise was his heart thudding rhythmically. The rumble of the artillery bombardment sounded like it was going on a thousand miles away. A summer thunderstorm in another county.
He felt hands on him, digging him out of the dirt, pulling him up out of his temporary shallow grave. A face right above him – one of Wainwright’s Confederates – all beard and dirt-smeared skin beneath the brim of his helmet. The man was shouting something, but Devereau couldn’t hear what he was saying. All he could hear was his pumping heart and that distant rumble.
‘I am all right!’ he shouted back at the man. Not that he could hear himself. Not sure if he’d shouted it or whispered it. The man helped him on to his feet, and Devereau quickly patted himself down to make sure he hadn’t been nicked by shrapnel.
The arterial thumping in his ears had become a shrill ringing that he imagined would drive him very quickly insane if it was a permanent condition. He picked his forage cap out of the dark soil between his boots and put it back on. Straightening the peak, he saw a dozen faces down the trench looking warily at him.
They’re watching you … Show them some bravado.
He pulled his sabre – more a ceremonial addition than a practical one – from its scabbard and held the blade close to his face, using the polished surface as a mirror as he adjusted his cap and straightened his collar. He gave himself an approving nod before tucking the sabre back, knowing there’d be a ripple of grins among the men either side.
The ringing in his ears was beginning to diminish and this time he could just about hear the Confederate soldier’s voice.
‘… ir, the … arrage … opped!’
‘What?’ He cupped his ear.
The man nodded over the lip of the trench. ‘Stopped, sir! Barrage has stopped!’
Devereau took a step up on to an ammo box to give him a good clear view ahead.
Stopped … yes, they have!
He could feel the sporadic vibrations of impact and shockwave had ceased. And now the cratered slope in front of them was bathed in a swirling mist of white smoke.
‘Smoke,’ he whispered. The last volley of artillery fire had been establishing a smokescreen. He turned to the Confederate beside him. ‘They’re coming!’
After the relentless noise of the bombardment the sudden calm was unsettling. His ears, the ringing diminished now to background hiss, struggled to pick out the noise of the approaching British. In that cloud of smoke, somewhere, they’d be crossing the East River now – God knows how many landing boats, sputtering across the water.
‘Ready yourselves, men!’ he shouted across the silence. ‘Check your weapons, check you have ammo supplies to hand! It goes far too quickly, gentlemen!’
He looked out again at the featureless wall of white drifting on the breeze. He cursed that today of all days the weather was so still. Any other time, a stiff Atlantic breeze would have already whisked away much of the smokescreen.
‘Sergeant Freeman!’
‘Sir!’ his voice returned from further up the trench.
‘Are you ready for a scrap?’
‘Ready, sir? Been ready all mornin’, Colonel. Now ah’m just gettin’ downright annoyed they takin’ so long.’
He heard a ripple of nervous battlefield laughter make its way along the men.
Devereau smiled.
Good man, that Freeman.
Then he heard it … the faint droning
put-put-put
of a chorus of engines coming from somewhere out there on the river. He reached for his revolver, unclipping the holster and wrapping his gloved hand round its grip. He pulled it out a little too quickly. It caught and he nearly dropped it on the ground. But he didn’t.
The Confederate next to him made a face. He’d spotted the fumble and offered Devereau an understanding nod. Luckily none of the other lads had seen.
He sighed. Last thing his men needed to witness was just how scared their colonel felt.
He could hear the engines more clearly, and make out now, amid the swirling smokescreen, the faintest outline of a dozen flat-topped landing rafts approaching. He’d seen the South use these before: huge rafts with raised side-panels that dropped down as it beached. Each of these landing rafts was capable of transporting an entire company of men.
Good God … twelve hundred men, two whole regiments, in the very first wave?
He found himself momentarily robbed of breath.
Steady yourself, Colonel.
He filled his lungs. ‘Wait until they drop the ramps, men!’ he bellowed. ‘Then we’ll give ’em hell!’
A defiant cheer rippled down the trench.
Much closer now he could make out detail on the landing rafts, the fluttering of company colours above, the outline of an officer standing beside the helmsman at the back of each craft. He heard the pitch of the engines drop and then, finally, a clatter and hiss as one after the other the dozen large landing rafts rode up the shingle and out of the water, grinding to a halt.
He could hear the muffled voices of British officers barking orders behind their raised metal panels. Readying their men for the disembarking. Several nervous shots were fired from the trench, sending sparks flying off the panels.
‘Hold your
goddamned
fire!’ roared Sergeant Freeman.
Devereau’s mouth was dry.
Any second now.
He could hear the chorused voices of men down the slope. They
huzzah
ed at something being said to them, a roar of confidence. The roar of veterans certain that this little skirmish was going to be over before the last of the swirling smokescreen had blown away.
Then he heard a bugle blowing.
Simultaneously all twelve landing rafts dropped their panels. They swung down heavily and crunched on to the shingle, forming ramps. Devereau found himself transfixed at the sight of so many of them – swarms of blood-red tunics and white helmets – surging down off their rafts.
‘FIRE!!!!’
CHAPTER 77
2001, en route to New Chelmsford
They passed through a small town – East Farnham, another rural town: one main street lined with shops selling farmer’s supplies, hardware and tools. One town hall and a church, and clapboard homes and picket fences.
They were getting used to the occasional sideways glances from beneath the brims of felt hats and lace bonnets, curious glances at their grubby and unfamiliar clothes and at Bob in particular. Liam wondered whether they thought he was some prototype design of eugenic.
Speaking of which – he spotted a couple more of the lobotomized leviathans, hefting bales of animal fodder off the back of a delivery wagon. Their lumbering movement was almost robotic, like poorly operated machinery. Again he marvelled at their size: ten … eleven foot tall, and perhaps eight foot from one rounded mass of shoulder across to the other.
‘Could we not stop for the night in this town?’ grumbled Lincoln. ‘My feet feel like they’ve been pulled through a knothole backwards!’
Liam nodded sympathetically. He felt every bit as exhausted. Fifteen miles on firm hard tarmac was enough of a hike, but across ploughed fields of thick, freshly turned soil, meadows of tall knotted grass, through woods deep with spongy leaves hiding gnarly roots ready to trip you up, he was just as spent.
They had about another sixteen miles to go. That’s what Bob had said the last time he’d pestered the support unit for an estimate.
‘Aye, I suppose we could do that. We’ve got another whole day and a bit to get us there. And that’s not so far for us to do tomorrow.’
They had no money on them to pay for lodgings, not that he could see anywhere that looked like an inn or a hotel. But a barn, a shed, an outhouse would be more appealing for a night’s sleep than some open field.