bleakly. What was worse was that he felt a certain guilt-by-association. He knew it was irrational but he couldn’t help it.
“It must have been terrible for her,” said Kimberley.
Wilson frowned. “How do you mean?”
“When she realized what she’d done. After years of effort trying to create something that would benefit all mankind she discovers her work has produced the very opposite effect. The knowledge must have devastated her.”
“Look, I know she’s your wife and all, mate,” said Slocock, “But as far as I’m concerned,” He turned to Kimberley, “I’m not wasting any sympathy on her. She’s a typical bloody scientist, pissing about with things she didn’t understand and dropping us all in the shit as a result.”
“Uh, anyone like another drink?” Captain Barclay broke in diplomatically. Slocock of course said yes.
Wilson asked Barclay when they’d reach Holyhead.
“Should take us about two and a half hours, barring delays along the way.”
“What sort of delays?”
“Well, I expect we’ll run into our prickly French friends. The top brass has informed them of our mission and theoretically we’ve got clearance both ways. But you know what the French are like. I may be doing them a disservice but I have the strong feeling that the French have been waiting for a chance like this ever since the Battle of Trafalgar.”
They had their first encounter with the French an hour into their journey. An intercom that Wilson hadn’t noticed gave a shrill squawk and a voice said urgently, “Captain, you’re needed on the bridge.”
Barclay hurried out. After a hesitant pause Wilson decided to follow him. Slocock and Kimberley got up too.
The hydrofoil was already slowing down when they reached the bridge. As Wilson looked out he was alarmed to see a large geyser of water explode out of the sea about 50 yards directly ahead of them. He realized it was a shell. Then he saw the other vessel. It lay a quarter of a mile on their port side. A destroyer, he decided, or a corvette.
One of the officers handed Barclay a pair of binoculars. “It’s the Montcalm, sir. That’s the second time they’ve lobbed a bomb at us. I’ve raised them on the blower but all they’re speaking is French.”
Barclay took a quick look through the glasses then snatched up the headset sitting on top of the radio. He spoke rapidly in French. Wilson saw a puff of smoke appear at the front of the French ship. Shortly afterwards another plume of water shot out of the sea ahead of the hydrofoil, but this time much closer. There was a dull boom.
The hydrofoil was now settling into the water and coming to a stop.
The next shell, Wilson realized, would blow them apart. Barclay’s torrent of French grew louder in volume. Then he dropped the headset back on the radio and heaved a sigh of relief. “A close one,” he said. “But I think I’ve convinced them of our identity. Very reluctant to believe me, though.”
“Couldn’t they tell we were heading toward England instead of away from it?” Wilson asked.
“No. We’re traveling due south at the moment so we could have come from anywhere. Like Scotland perhaps. The French are obviously not taking chances anymore.”
HMS
They didn’t encounter another French vessel until they were approaching the three-mile limit, though they had been buzzed on several occasions by both jet fighters and helicopters. This one was a much smaller craft but moved almost as fast as the hydrofoil.
“It’s a Combattante,” explained Barclay. “One of their new fast strike craft. Can do 35 knots and it’s armed with four MM.38 Exocets. It’s going to follow us in and make sure we don’t go any closer to the mainland than we said we would.”
As the hydrofoil continued on toward the coast Barclay pointed out wreckage floating in the water. “They’ve been busy around here recently.”
They passed more wreckage. And bodies. Burnt bodies floating face-down.
Then they passed someone who was still alive. It was a man, his face black from either burns or oil. He waved feebly. Barclay glanced at him and then stared grimly ahead.
“You’re just going to leave him there?” asked Wilson.
“I have to. I stop and pick him up those Frenchmen behind us will blow us out of the water.”
Wilson looked back at the man who was still waving, then he turned and stared ahead too. He tried to rationalize his guilt by telling himself there was worse to come.
It was just after 6 p.m. when they halted at the half-mile point. The July sun was still hot on Wilson’s face as he went out on deck. The rubber boat was being made ready by four of the
“Sea’s bike a millpond so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting ashore,” said Barclay with forced brightness. “Anyway I understand they’ll be sending a launch out to meet you. We’ll radio that you’re on your way.”
When the rubber boat was in the water the three of them said goodbye to Barclay and climbed down into it. Slocock started the outboard motor.
Wilson watched the hydrofoil recede into the distance with a tremendous feeling of regret. Despite the French gunboats and aircraft he had felt secure in the company of Barclay and his men. Now he was on his own. Well, almost.
He glanced at Kimberley. “What have you got in store for us tonight, Doctor? When we reach Bangor, I mean.”
“I told you. We start you on a course of the Megacrine drug,” she said guardedly.
“Yes, but will we have time for a few hours’ relaxation? A restaurant meal, perhaps? Or a visit to a pub? My treat.”
“I don’t think you’ll feel like either eating or boozing.”
“Why? Are the side effects of the drug that bad?”
“They’re not good.”
“So tell me, what are they?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I’ll have to know sooner or later.”
“Yeah, tell us, Doc,” called Slocock from the stern of the boat. “Do we turn purple or what?”
Kimberley sighed. “Megacrine produces the following side-effects: nausea, vomiting, abdominal cramps, headache, diarrhea, vertigo, excessive sweating, fever, itching, insomnia, and pains in all the muscles and joints. And if the dosage is too strong for your individual metabolism it can seriously damage your skin, your gastro- intestinal tract and central nervous system with potentially fatal results. Satisfied?”
“Christ,” muttered Wilson.
“I think I’d prefer to turn into a mushroom,” said Slocock.
10
Wilson screwed his eyes shut and tensed his muscles as the now familiar spasms started again. But he couldn’t prevent the stream of vomit bursting from his mouth. Most of it missed the bucket and spattered on the floor. He couldn’t have cared less. He felt close to death.
He was lying on a bed in a hail of residence at Bangor University. It was nearly 4 a.m. and Kimberley’s medical colleagues had been injecting the damned anti-fungus drug into him for over six hours now. He had no idea whether he was having a good or bad reaction to the stuff, nor did he know how either Kimberley or Slocock were faring. All he knew was that he’d never felt so bad in all his life.
They’d arrived in Holyhead just before 7 p.m. and Wilson had been immediately struck by how different it
