an echo of love. Adoration even? For a brief second Archibald toyed with the idea that the man might be the bottom in a BDSM relationship but his sordid appearance didn’t fit that either. Then his distanced attitude clicked in Archibald’s mind. He’d read an intelligence report about the gorgon incidents around Sheffield, how they appeared to be able to control people, even those who were wearing their tinfoil hats. Eye witnesses to the two doomed police officers had remarked on their distant, remote appearance. And the gorgon had vanished despite an intense hunt.
“Look, do you have a large-scale map of the area in your back office? That would make sorting me out a lot easier.” Archibald spoke easily and was relieved that the on-the-ball manager picked up the hint.
“Yes, of course Flight Sergeant. Should have thought of that myself. Come with me.” The two men walked away, into a back office where there was no map but which did possess a telephone with an outside line.
“Thank’s. Can you stall that man until I get help?” The manager nodded and quietly left for the warehouse. Delays were about to multiply drastically. After all, nobody could work slower than a British worker when he put his mind to the problem. Behind him Archibald picked up the phone, punched “9” and then dialed the number for the service hotline.
“This is Flight Sergeant Archibald here. Could I speak with the duty officer please?”
“Captain Mannock here Sergeant.”
“Sir, I’m at the Moors Garden Center, just outside Nottingham. A man’s just come in here, asking for twelve sacks of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. He’s an odd one Sir, I may be all wet but I think he’s entranced. He’s acting just like the descriptions of those two coppers the gorgon killed. And nobody buys that much ammonium nitrate for their back yard.”
At the other end of the line, Richard Mannock drummed his pencil on the desk. It was weak, certainly, but this came from an NCO, almost certainly a recalled veteran. Such men did not jump at shadows. Anyway, the leads on the missing gorgon had dried up and there was nothing else to follow. And if gorgons could entrance people, then it was possible they might be able to exploit their knowledge. Most people knew how to make ANFO.
“Well done Sergeant. Can you follow him when he leaves?”
“I’ve got RAF trucks here Sir, bit obvious for a tail. Hold one.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked at the manager who was just re-entering the room. “We think we’ve got a line on the gorgon that did for Sheffield. Have you got a van or car I can borrow? And a cell-phone?”
“We’ve got the garden center van, its just a plain white one. And you can have my cell phone. But the petrol?”
“If the van’s full and we get the gorgon, I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry about petrol again. Thank’s mate.” Archibald took his hand off the mouthpiece. “Got both Sir. We owe the garden center manager who’s arranged them. Owe him a lot.”
“Noted Sergeant. Get on with the tail and don’t be seen. Call us when you’ve found where he’s going or if you lose him. We’re sending a team down now, they’ll be there in an hour or so. Even if this guy isn’t entranced and its something else, its still worth looking into.” The telephone clicked and Archibald guessed that wheels were already starting to turn very fast.
“Here’s the keys Flight Sergeant.” The manager handed them over and Archibald left by the back door, clutching a local map in one hand. A few minutes later, the suspect finished loading the sacks into the back of his car and, with the rear suspension sagging dangerously, left. Archibald eased out and followed him, trying to keep at least one car between them. It wasn’t hard, the man was driving slowly and steadily, apparently not paying any attention to what was happening around him. That caused a few outraged honks from horns but he apparently ignored them.
Eventually he turned into the driveway of a detached house in what looked like a council hosing complex. He got out of the car and opened the garage door, allowing Archibald to see more sacks of fertilizer stacked up inside. The Sergeant drove past, stopped a hundred yards or so down the road and then got on the cellphone. This time he got straight through to the duty officer.
“Captain Mannock Sir? Sergeant Archibald again. I’ve followed the suspect to his home, there’s a lot more fertilizer in his garage, saw it as I drove past. The address is.” Archibald fumbled the map for a second. “18 Grays Lane, Clifton Council Housing Estate.”
“Good man. An emergency response team is already on its way down. Wait where you are and they’ll be with you soon.” Mannock hesitated slightly, the Sergeant had done well and he didn’t want to sound as if he was putting the man down. “We’re sending in the heavy mob so they can do the rough stuff. We need you to identify the man from the garden store after they’ve finished cracking skulls.”
Archibald grinned to himself, he’d been in the RAF long enough to recognize a tactful ‘stay out of their way’ when he heard it. “Very good Sir. Message understood.”
He settled back in the driver’s seat and, on a whim, opened the glove compartment. To his delight there was a Mars bar and a Twix pack in. Munching on the chocolate and watching the house through his mirror, he almost missed the sight of two Chinook helicopters passing overhead.
B-1B “Dragon Slayer” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, Approaching Dis
Major Curtis Trafford shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing that it was going to get a lot worse. He had been airborne for ten hours, Dragon Slayer pounding north, over the sea of murk that represented the dust clouds covering Hell. They had traveled more that six thousand miles since take-off and he was already aware that he was now deeper into Hell than any living human had ever gone. He also knew that his status in that respect was increasing every minute as the B-1s continued their marathon flight and that meant the aircraft’s fuel tanks were steadily being depleted. Coming up was their first refueling point, the tankers were already closing in on the agreed rendezvous point and their beacons showed clearly on the navigational displays.
The aerial refueling arrangements were a thing of beauty. The tankers themselves, a mix of existing KC-10As and newly-modified KC-10Bs, had already refueled once on the way to the rendezvous and would have to refuel again on the way back. The arrangements for the next refueling of the B-1s, after they had completed their strike were even more complex, the KC-10s would have to refuel twice before making the rendezvous with each of their tankers themselves having to be refueled in mid-air on the way. Overall, more than 100 tankers were assigned to this mission and that didn’t change the fact that it only needed one of the B-1s to develop problems with its air-to- air refueling system and that aircraft would be inevitably lost. The only air base that could take them was 6,000 miles behind them and there were no alternatives or emergency landing fields.
On the other hand, this mission was the only way humans could strike at the source of the attacks that had destroyed Sheffield and Detroit. Not to mention the only way any further attacks of the kind could be prevented. There were special forces in the vicinity of Belial’s fortress, the radar beacon they were using for navigation proved that, but they lacked the strength and firepower to do much about the place. A long way south, two human aircraft carrier battle groups were due to enter the Hellish Sea and start pounding their way up north but even flat out it would be two weeks before they were on station – and supporting them this far away from a home base would be a real pain. No, for the moment, the bombers were it, the best and most plausible form of striking at the source of the sky-volcanos.
“Tankers ahead Curt.” The co-pilots voice was relieved. It hadn’t quite been decided what to do if the complex refueling arrangements hadn’t worked. The B-1s couldn’t make it to the target area without refueling so if the refueling went sour, the aircraft went down. Trafford assumed that the only course of action would be to walk out but 6,000 miles was a long way by B-1. On foot it was an impossibility even forgetting the hostile environment of Hell. So, seeing the glint of red as the light flashed off the silver wings of the tankers was a great relief.
“Got them. This is Foxhound Leader to all Foxhounds. Tankers in sight, prepare for refueling.” Trafford relaxed a little and shifted in his seat again. “3,750 miles out, none of us are going to walk right for a month after this.”
“There’s always the steam baths and massages.” His co-pilot’s voice was droll, the idea came from an old film starring Jimmy Stewart and its ideas on post-flight treatment were a long-standing bomber crew joke.
“Yeah, right. It look to you like the clag is a bit thinner up here? Sometimes I’d swear I can almost see the ground down below.”
“Just your imagination Curt. Take two reality pills and remember we’re bombing the crap out of Hell.”
Chapter Seventy Six
