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The Hour of Camelot

Page 23

by Alan Fenton


  ‘What the hell does he think he’s doing? Come in Lancelot!’ Yet again, there was no response.

  As Arthur was considering how to handle this latest development, Agravaine pointed excitedly at Eclipse’s image on the table screen. ‘Eclipse heading south-west, losing height rapidly!’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  Agravaine attacked the keyboard and consulted the screen. ‘No apparent problem on board Eclipse. All systems go.’

  ‘It’s a controlled dive,’ said Arthur.

  From Galaxy’s speakers came the countdown as Eclipse plunged to earth: Forty thousand . . . thirty-six thousand . . . thirty-two thousand . . .

  Panic rose in Agravaine’s throat. ‘What do we do, nuncle?’ ‘Get Lancelot on line.’

  Agravaine’s legs joggled furiously on his stool. ‘Lancelot, do you copy? Come in Lancelot. Lancelot, do you copy?’

  The link was silent.

  Agravaine nursed his raw fingertips. ‘Eclipse still losing height rapidly.’

  Twenty-five thousand . . . twenty thousand . . . Fifteen thousand . . .

  Arthur and Agravaine were both thinking the same thing. With every second that passed, the chances of Eclipse being hit by a ground-to–air missile were increasing dramatically.

  Ten thousand . . .

  Over the speakers from Techforce came the news they were dreading. Ground-to-air missiles launched! Ground-to-air missiles launched! On the big table screen six tiny bleeps rose swiftly from the rebel position towards Eclipse, and over the speakers the countdown to impact began: Impact in fifteen seconds . . . fourteen . . . thirteen . . . twelve . . . eleven . . . ten

  . . . nine . . . eight . . .

  Thirty Seven

  Bad Boy

  Within five seconds of the missile launch, Eclipse’s pro- active sensors had calculated their precise speed and distance and programmed Eclipse’s interceptor missiles. In five seconds they were launched, and three seconds later all six incoming missiles were destroyed.

  Arthur, lips set in a grim line, stared at the table screen and the wall monitors in disbelief. Six white puffs of smoke told him what he needed to know; the immediate danger had passed. With approximately two seconds to spare, Eclipse had destroyed the incoming ground-to-air missiles. There, on a dozen screens, was the proof. The puffs of smoke had quickly disappeared, but Eclipse was still on screen unmantled, hovering over the rebel position at barely a thousand feet.

  Agravaine screamed into the gravitational link. ‘For godsake, Lance, mantle! They’ll shoot you down! Mantle!’

  The two men watched transfixed as full-sized mother and six baby robots floated down from Eclipse by parachute. Virtually simultaneously Eclipse seemed to stand on its tail as it took off in the steepest of climbs, reaching fifty thousand feet in a matter of seconds. The image of the cigar-shaped aircraft was on all screens, then suddenly was only a pulsating bleep. Eclipse had mantled.

  The gravitational link was live again. Lancelot’s triumphant voice reported, ‘Enemy position located. Robots launched. Scuttle standing by for launching.’

  Relieved though Arthur was, he was also furious. This, however, was neither the time nor the place to chastise his Chief of Staff. That would have to wait until he was back in Camelot. ‘Launch Scuttle,’ he ordered. ‘We will direct ground operations from Command Control.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Lancelot sounded almost humble. ‘Request permission to continue monitoring operation.’

  ‘Permission denied,’ said Arthur, in no mood to argue. ‘When Scuttle is launched you will return to base immediately, recharge and await further orders. Do you copy?’

  ‘I copy, sir,’ confirmed Lancelot, and the link was cut.

  For a few moments Arthur said nothing. Agravaine was on edge, having good reason to be wary of his uncle these days. ‘He disobeyed my orders,’ said Arthur. ‘There is no excuse for that.’

  ‘No, nuncle,’ said Agravaine, ‘there isn’t. But we both know why he did it. He took Eclipse down to draw the enemy’s fire. And they fell for it. When they fired their missiles, they gave their position away. Pretty damned smart, eh?’

  ‘Pretty damned reckless,’ said Arthur. ‘He risked Eclipse, he risked his own life and the lives of Ian Duncan and all the actives on board. What’s more he risked compromising not just this operation, but future operations. If Eclipse had suffered significant damage it would have been a serious blow to Camelot.’

  For a long time neither man spoke. Agravaine fiddled absently with his keyboard, from time to time sneaking a wary glance at his uncle, fearful what he might say or do. Arthur’s blue eyes were cold and steely, his jaw jutting aggressively, his lips set firm. It was obvious that Lancelot’s insubordination had both angered and disturbed him.

  And then, to Agravaine’s astonishment and relief, Arthur’s sombre expression dissolved in a slow grin. ‘You know what, Agro,’ he said, ‘you are right. It was pretty damned smart.’

  In Eclipse’s control room Lancelot gave Ian his final briefing. ‘Scuttle will drop you ten kilometres north of the rebels’ camp.

  The co-ordinates of the clearing you will land in have been fed into your troop’s computers, so you don’t have to worry about finding your way. After you land you’ll get feedback from mother robot. Let’s hope mother and six landed safely and weren’t spotted.’

  ‘Mother and six?’

  Lancelot explained. ‘Merlin created the robots. The first prototype robot he called mother. Later he assembled a batch of small robots from the parts he discarded in making her. He always thought of them as mother’s babies. Indeed I’m told he actually planted that idea in the mother’s computer.’

  Ian liked that. ‘So they’re special,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed they are. Merlin would be devastated if anything happened to them. So would Arthur.’

  ‘Then,’ said Ian, ‘I’ll see to it that they come back in one piece.’

  A gruff response from Lancelot. ‘Make sure you do too.’

  The two men took their seats, Lancelot at the controls of Eclipse, Ian in Scuttle’s belly with his nine man troop. At Scuttle’s controls was the robo-pilot who would command Scuttle from now until the end of the Operation. Over the intercom Lancelot wound up his briefing. ‘When you land, I’ll be on my way back to Camelot. I’ll be overhead again in twenty-two hours. Robo-pilot is programmed to guard Scuttle whilst the rescue mission is underway, and to destroy it if there is any risk of it falling into enemy hands.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘You know what your objective is.’ ‘To rescue the hostages.’

  ‘Dr. Giraud is the number one priority. You understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Good luck, then.’

  Ian’s heartbeat quickened. This was it. Taking his time, he walked up and down Scuttle’s fuselage cracking jokes and wishing his men good luck. This kind of social interaction was what Ian did best. His men liked him, knowing he was one of them, a dependable man with a no-nonsense approach to life. Reacting to his cheerful face and self-assured manner, they put aside their fears and concentrated their minds in anticipation of the battle to come. They were a hundred per cent focused now, strapping on the back-packs with built-in engines known as seven-league boots. What were they thinking, Ian wondered; the same as he was, presumably. Would the seven-league-boots get them down in one piece? Would the robots do their work? Would they be able to rescue the hostages alive? Would Scuttle be there to fly them back to Eclipse? And the all-consuming question in every man’s mind. Would they be going home alive? The countdown to launch began. In ten seconds Scuttle dropped down from Eclipse, its engines firing immediately, to the great relief of everyone on board. Watching on their screens,

  Arthur and Agravaine cheered. Over the speakers came an answering cheer from Techforce Ten.

  At fifteen hundred feet the curved doors of Scuttle’s belly opened, and one by one, Ian Duncan and his men jumped with the seven-league boots strapp
ed to their backs. When they were clear of Scuttle the robo-pilot put the aircraft down on the designated landing site and went into guard mode. Belching fire, the great vault of stars above, and the dark forbidding mass of forest below, the seven-league boots propelled the ten men over the trees and down to a small clearing about a kilometre from the rebel camp.

  Thirty Eight

  Bad Boy

  Landing without mishap, the nine actives and their commander stowed their back packs, prepared their weapons, strapped on their night vision screens and set off on foot in the direction of the rebel camp. Wearing virtual reality head packs fed with the latest updates on Bad Boy and his men, they could identify and target an enemy far away by means of thermal imaging sensors that operated effectively day or night in any kind of weather. At 2.30 a.m., after hours of stealthy progress through the forest, the troop halted, taking up positions less than a hundred metres from the rebel camp.

  A text message from mother robot unscrolled on Ian’s headset. Mother and babies in position. They were well hidden. Even with the benefit of night vision goggles and sound and heat sensors, it took him several minutes to locate them. Identify targets and positions he texted back. Within seconds he and his men had the response on their screens. Two large tents at two hundred and ten metres – tent One at two o’clock, tent Two at nine o’clock. Inside tent One thirty humans. Inside tent Two forty-two humans. A smaller tent – tent Three – at one hundred and sixteen metres and six o’clock, contains fifteen humans – eleven male, four female. Unverified assumption: first two tents contain rebel soldiers, smaller tent contains as yet unknown number of hostages plus guards. Closer scrutiny recommended. Eight guards on patrol. Two static machine gun emplacements north and south of camp perimeter. Also in camp area, two helicopters, five armoured cars, ten trucks, one munitions depot.

  The text went on to describe in detail the rebels’ weapons, including automatic rifles, hand-held missiles and a variety of bombs and grenades, also the precise location of the two machine gun emplacements, the munitions dump, phone mast and radio transmitter. There was no indication of Bad Boy’s location.

  Ian exchanged views with his men.

  ‘Before we make our move, we must know exactly where the hostages are.’

  ‘What if they’ve separated them?’ asked one of the actives. ‘We’ll handle it,’ said Ian. Though he sounded confident, no

  one was fooled. If the hostages were not all in one tent, the risk of casualties, both for actives and hostages, would inevitably be greater. They discussed options.

  The first would be to use missiles. Both mother robot and the six babies could be instructed to target the enemy with “artful dodgers”, highly accurate at a range of thirty metres. Destroying the guards this way would be the safest option for the hostages and also for the actives who would not then be involved in close combat. Realistically, though, it might be difficult, if not impossible, to get close enough to the enemy. As commander in the field, Ian was responsible for making all tactical decisions, including, as a last resort, any that might involve the death of one or more of the hostages. Understandably, calculated risks might have to be taken, though not with Dr. Giraud’s life. Ian’s orders were clear, whatever the cost, the doctor was to be rescued alive. For that reason alone, mini-missiles looked like a non-starter.

  The second option would be to use microscopic soft weapons. Whilst full size destroyer robots had the capacity to eliminate the enemy, they could also flood them with micro-organisms that would confuse, or put them to sleep. The problem with this technique was that there could be a delay of several seconds, perhaps more, before the micro-organisms took effect – enough time for the guards to kill the hostages.

  That left only one viable option. Ian outlined the plan to his men. ‘I’m instructing mother to send in the babies to carry out a detailed survey of the smaller tent. Each baby robot carries a micro-holographic image of every member of the One Planet team, including Dr. Giraud. If they can get close enough, I’m hoping they’ll be able to identify the hostages. Once we’ve done that, we’ll have to see exactly how they are guarded. Hopefully we can attack before dawn. If not, we’ll lie up and attack this time tomorrow.’

  Directed by Ian’s robo-computer, mother robot ordered her six babies to record and transmit the image of every man and woman in the rebel encampment. A short delay, and the babies, each no more than six centimetres tall and eight centimetres wide, were on the move, scurrying noiselessly through the forest, taking advantage of every scrap of cover it offered. In order to obtain the best results, they would position themselves thirty metres from the tent under surveillance. Though the babies were tiny, the risk of discovery was always there. If they were seen or heard by the rebels, the ground force would lose the advantage of surprise.

  Minutes later, eight hostages – three doctors, four surviving nurses and Dr. Giraud – all, to Ian’s relief, in the smallest tent – had been identified by the baby robots, their features matched with images carried in their data banks. Another minute, and Ian raised a clenched fist. ‘He’s in there with them!’ Bad Boy had been located in the smaller tent with the hostages.

  In less than three hours it would be dawn. A daylight attack would be infinitely more hazardous. Moving forward with infinite caution Ian and his troop laid up a hundred metres from the camp and consolidated their position. By means of thermal imaging they concluded that every rebel guarding the hostages was armed with an automatic weapon and a belt carrying small bombs or hand grenades. A tunnelling accelerometer able to detect acoustic waves confirmed the exact position in the tent of the eight hostages, their seven guards and Bad Boy, their leader.

  He went into a huddle with his troop, weighing the pros and cons of immediate action. Clearly an assault, either now or later, would involve putting the lives of the hostages at risk. Hopefully they would have the advantage of surprise, and the rebels would be panicked in the first seconds of the attack. The question was – could they take out the rebels fast enough to guarantee that none of the One Planet team would be killed or wounded? Probably not. What about Dr. Giraud, their primary objective? How would Bad Boy react to an attack? Would he kill the doctor? A majority of the troop thought he would. Ian disagreed. ‘Dr. Giraud represents Bad Boy’s only chance of extracting a ransom from the world community, and quite probably his only hope of escaping death. Without Dr. Giraud he is doomed. In any event, I don’t see what is to be gained by delaying our attack. Every minute that passes increases the risk of our being detected.’

  Ian’s view carried the day. An hour before dawn mother robot sent in her six babies to encircle the smallest tent in which Bad Boy and Dr. Giraud were sleeping, their task to report back any sign of movement indicating that the guards were alerted. A few minutes later the confirmation came through from mother robot. Babies in position. No unusual activity reported.

  Whilst the actives moved closer to the rebel camp, taking care not to alert the patrolling guards, mother robot disabled the two helicopters, the five armoured cars and the ten trucks with a barrage of micro-organisms that decomposed tyres and infected fuel. In the munitions depot one of the actives planted bombs ready to be detonated when the ground attack was launched, another disabled the phone mast and another jammed the radio transmitter. Their mission successfully accomplished, they rejoined the troop. Still apparently unaware what was happening, the rebels slept on, their transport disabled, their communications cut, their ammunition dump ready to blow.

  Less than thirty minutes to dawn . . . Ian held up his right arm. They were ready to go. With wristcoms synchronised, ten second hands moved as one. In five minutes precisely the troop would launch the attack.

  In Galaxy two men waited for news, Arthur outwardly calm, Agravaine fidgety, his nerves sparking like a shorting electrical circuit. Over the gravitational link came the all-important message: Five minutes to launch.

  Ahead of him, only metres from the camp, Ian could just make out the dark shape of mot
her robot, her camouflaged metallic body glinted for a second in the starlight. To his surprise her flashing “eyes” indicated that she was transmitting. His robo-computer recorded message sent to babies, but nothing else. No message was recorded on his headset. Odd that, he thought. How could mother robot send messages to the babies without his direct instructions? That should not be possible. And why was the message not showing on his screen? Must be a malfunction; hopefully nothing serious. For the time being he dismissed the query from his head, having more important things to worry about.

  He began the final countdown. ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, zero!’

  An ear-splitting bang, and the ground shook as the munitions dump exploded. For an instant the actives stared at the dazzling pyrotechnic display, then advanced, firing their automatic weapons as more than fifty rebels rushed out of the two larger tents. In seconds three actives were dead and more than forty rebels killed or wounded, the rest fleeing panic-stricken into the forest. As Ian and his men stormed the hostage tent the seven guards inside opened fire. In seconds five guards were dead, the remaining two severely wounded. Three actives, two nurses and a doctor were also killed. Two doctors and two nurses were unharmed.

  The fire fight was over, but where was Bad Boy? And where was Dr. Giraud? A thorough search of the camp revealed nothing. Ian’s heart sank. He could try to follow Bad Boy into the forest, but what was the use? Which way had he gone? The only one who had any chance of finding them was mother robot, and she too had disappeared. He tried to raise her, but she did not answer. His robo-computer showed him that his message had been received by her. That meant her computer was functioning normally. Why had she not responded? Again it was odd, very odd, almost as if she were developing a mind of her own, though that of course was impossible.

  ‘Come in, mother,’ he repeated again and again. ‘Come in, mother. Come in, mother.’ Still no response. ‘Please come in, mother. Ian Duncan, Operation commander here.’ What was he saying? Why was he talking to her as if she were human? He was getting desperate. Without mother robot’s help, there little chance of rescuing Dr. Giraud.

 

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