by Glenn Cooper
“You know what, Ben, you want to treat me like every other Londoner, then I’ll just have to sit in traffic like every other Londoner. Go away. If this mess has gotten so bloody awful then you’re obviously as bad an agent as you are a father.”
John checked Kyle into his hotel in central London and sat outside the bathroom while his brother showered, feeding pods into the coffee machine. It was clear it was going to take more than a shower and coffee. Kyle needed sleep so John took a taxi over to the Royal London Hospital to satisfy a promise to Emily to have his old stab wound checked. While he waited for his surgeon to come out of the OR he rang Ben.
John heard children in the background and asked, “Where are you?”
“Home for a bit. Returning to the office shortly. Where are you?”
“At the hospital getting checked out.”
“Did your brother arrive?”
“Picked him up at the airport. He’s having a rest.”
“Have you told him what you want him to do?”
“Not yet. What’s happening at the hot zones?”
“Drones are detecting a steadily increasing ingress of Hellers. It’s not a flood yet but it’s worrisome.”
“It’ll get to flood stage but it’s going to take a while,” John said. “Word of mouth over there is literally word of mouth. They can’t do flash mobs.”
“At least that gives us time to get your plan into effect. Can you get to Thames House by two?”
“I’ll be there.”
His surgeon arrived. He poked around and checked John’s wound, declaring that at one month post-op he was healing well and was free of infection. The surgeon clucked like a hen when John told him he’d had a doctor friend remove the stitches. He scolded, “Why didn’t you come here for your appointment?”
“I was out of town.”
John returned to the hotel just before noon and Kyle was still snoring away. He ordered a couple of hamburger platters from room service and turned on the TV.
“Kyle. Wake up.”
He received a foggy reply and some choice curses.
“Come on. You need to see this. You’re going to hear why I sent for you.”
“From who?”
“The prime minister.”
“Of England?”
“Wake up, bro. Yes! You’re in England. His name’s Peter Lester. You’re going to meet him today or tomorrow.”
Kyle’s eyes blinked open. He propped himself up on an elbow. “I’m going to meet the prime minister?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck. You got any aspirin?”
“I put a bottle in the bathroom.”
Kyle returned and sat on the edge of the bed in his boxers, his beer belly on full display.
Peter Lester appeared from the iconic black door of 10 Downing Street, stood at a lectern and looked solemnly into the camera. Behind him, off to one side, stood the Archbishop of Canterbury, his hands tightly clasped at his waist.
“I speak to you today about an unprecedented crisis,” Lester began. “While it is an international crisis, it is affecting Great Britain most directly and London and the Home Counties most specifically. The Massive Anglo-American Collider in Dartford, a source of great national pride, has become an instrument of worry. For the past two months the supercollider has been operating at very high collision energies, levels that were not explicitly authorized. There will be ample time in the future to assign blame and as prime minister I am prepared to accept oversight failures on behalf of the government. But this is not a time for politics. It is a time for concern and a time for action. As a result of a confluence of events the collider has opened up a channel into what has been described to me by scientific experts, as another dimensional state, another universe, perhaps. That universe includes a place much like our Earth but with important and disturbing differences. It seems that it is populated by people from our dimension, our world, who are deceased, people who have done great evil during their lives. These people see it as a place of eternal punishment. They see it as Hell. We have knowledge of this dimension because, I can now confirm, we have had several people, including security and scientific personnel from the collider site in Dartford, who have been there and have returned.”
“Is this for real?” Kyle asked.
“Afraid so,” John said.
“He’s talking about you, isn’t he?”
“Yep.”
Lester had always been a cool customer in front of an audience but his throat sounded dry and he was blinking excessively. He took a sip of water before continuing. “Clearly this development will alter the way all of us look at our place in the cosmos. It will cause some of us to alter the way we think about religion, divine intervention, the consequences of evil. The Archbishop of Canterbury will say a few words on this when I’m done. We will have ample time in the future to debate all the implications. However, for the present we must focus on the safety and security of people living and working in the greater London area. There are presently four geographic areas of concern. They are the towns of Dartford, Leatherhead, Sevenoaks, and Upminster. All these towns lie near the M25 and the collider’s tunnels that ring London in a giant oval. We have established a security cordon of police and military around these towns and have been evacuating members of the public. Unfortunately, there has been an influx of residents from this other dimension and some of them appear to be violent criminals who regrettably have caused casualties. We are continuing to evaluate how best to evacuate trapped citizens. For the moment, for those people who are in Dartford, Leatherhead, Sevenoaks or Dartford, we urge you to shelter in place and affix a piece of white paper or cloth to your front door or place of work so security personnel can find you. If you feel it is not safe to shelter in place and you choose to make your way to a security cordon, carry a white cloth when you approach so that you may be recognized as a citizen. Appearing below me on your screens is a special hotline number to call to advise the authorities of your present situation. Presently there is no reason to evacuate other areas of greater London but we will be closely monitoring the situation. Rest assured that the best scientists in Britain and elsewhere are working on finding a way to permanently close the points of connection between our two dimensions.”
John switched off the TV.
“He was still talking,” Kyle said.
“That’s the meat of it. I’ll tell you what he isn’t going to say.”
Kyle found his jeans and pulled a clean shirt out of his bag. “Go on,” he said. “You’ve got my attention.”
“This is a grade-one cluster-fuck,” John said. “I’ve been over there twice and it makes the worse shitholes in the world seem like the lap of luxury. It’s got all the world’s evildoers and major assholes from the beginning of history to the present, all glommed together in medieval kinds of villages, towns, and cities. Geographically it’s pretty much identical to the Earth but that’s the beginning and the ending of the similarities. Once you die and go there, you’re there forever. You can suffer but you can’t die. There’s way more men than women which isn’t surprising since we all know that testosterone is the root of all evil. The only good thing about it is there aren’t any children. They’ve got plants and animals so there’s some agriculture and a lot of hunting. The worst of them are called rovers which are basically gangs of rapists and cannibals and there’s evidence that some of them have crossed to Earth. There’s no way out which is why the Hellers are going to be flocking to the hot zone connections that’ve formed between the two worlds. Each country is ruled by a feudal kind of ruler and a bunch of nobles who treat their people like slaves. They’re constantly at war with each other, launching attacks and land grabs.”
Kyle interrupted him. “You’re saying all of this with a completely straight face.”
“Because it’s true. This afternoon you’ll be meeting other people who went over with me. They’ll tell you the same thing.”
“And Satan’s cruising around, zapping
people with fireballs?”
“No Satan, sorry.”
“And who decides whether someone’s going to be taking the down elevator to Hell?”
“Wish I knew. When the dust settles maybe I’ll pick up a Bible and have a read.”
“Okay, I’ll make the assumption you haven’t gone completely fucking crazy and play along.”
He made a move to the mini-bar but John wouldn’t let him touch anything harder than a soda.
Kyle cracked a can of Coke and said, “So I assume, since you used the word medieval, that these dudes don’t have jet planes and nukes to lob at each other.”
“We’re talking swords and cannon, flintlock pistols and rifles. They’ve got bits and pieces of turn-of-nineteenth century stuff like the telegraph and a few steam cars but the people who wind up there aren’t exactly the engineers and designers and creative types of the world. So they’re mired in old tech.”
Kyle pulled the curtains to let the light in. He squinted at the heavy traffic clogging the streets and listened to the sirens of emergency vehicles, some near, others far.
“So what’s this have to do with me?”
“I’m going back there real soon with some badasses to try and stop Hellers from crossing over while the scientists figure out how to fix this. I want you to come along.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know anyone else who can do what you can do.”
“You don’t know anyone who can get drunk and make women hate them?”
John laughed. “I know lots of guys who can do that, me included. I mean the other stuff you do.”
“Oh, that stuff. Well shit.”
10
“Ben Wellington, Trevor Jones, meet my brother, Kyle.”
“It’s good of you to come so quickly, Kyle,” Ben said, showing them to his seating area.
They were on a high floor in Thames House with a river view. They could see the traffic jammed up on Southwark and London Bridges.
“It’s gridlock,” John said. “We ditched our taxi and walked.”
“I had to walk too, from Brixton,” Trevor said.
Ben shook his head. “It appears people didn’t take the PM’s keep calm and carry on message to heart. They’re getting out of Dodge with some urgency.”
“Can’t blame them,” John said.
“My parents won’t budge,” Trevor said. “I gave up trying.”
“Did you hurt your leg, Kyle?” Ben asked.
“The limp’s old as the hills,” Kyle said. “Car crash from my wild and crazy days.”
Ben poured coffees all around. “I see. Is Emily going to be joining us?”
“She begged off,” John said. “She’s tied up on conference calls with the CERN people and with her experts. She’ll meet Kyle tonight at my place in Dartford.”
“Isn’t that a bit too close for comfort to the hot zone?” Trevor asked.
“It’s four miles from the lab,” John said. “We’ll be okay for now. How we’re going to get there’s another matter. The M25’s going to be a parking lot.”
“I’ll arrange for the helicopter to drop you off on the way back from Herefordshire,” Ben said.
“Before we start,” John said, “Kyle needs to hear from Trevor. I spent so much time punking him when we were growing up he doesn’t trust a thing I say.”
“It’s a fact. He’s always been a lying son-of-a-bitch,” Kyle said, without humor, “but I’m kind of thinking that this is too weird not to be true.”
“I can guarantee you it’s true,” Trevor said. “I’ve only been there the one time but I’ll tell what I saw and what I know.”
When Trevor was done, Kyle shrugged and said he was satisfied.
“Does that mean you’re in?” Trevor asked.
“I still need to think on it.”
“Understandable,” Ben said. “What do you say we make our way to the helipad? Don’t want to keep the lads waiting.”
The Officer Commander, Major Gus Parker-Burns, greeted the occupants of the MI5 helicopter on its touchdown at Credenhill, Herefordshire.
“Gentlemen, welcome to 22 SAS Regiment,” he said. “Come with me.”
Inside a low, drab operational center, Parker-Burns showed them to a conference room and offered a pot of over-stewed coffee. He was about John’s age although smaller, clean-shaven and fit, turned out in a camo uniform and a sand-colored beret with the regimental badge, the downward-pointed Excalibur wreathed in flames. He had a folder and when everyone was seated he opened it and referred to some briefing documents.
“Major Camp,” he started.
“Retired,” John said.
A thin smile crossed his face. “Duly noted. Happy to host a former Green Beret officer at Credenhill. I’ve reviewed your particulars and I’m impressed with your capabilities.”
“Thank you, Major,” John said.
“And Sergeant Jones. Royal Dragoon Guards. Excellent service record. Good innings with the Metropolitan Police. Welcome to you too. Our commander was briefed by the prime minister this morning and he has, in turn, briefed me as to the nature of our, shall we say, unusual operation. I take it that Mr. Wellington has not been tipped for the raiding party?”
“No, I’ll be dealing with the London situation,” Ben said. “I probably wouldn’t be much good over there anyway.”
“And this gentleman?” Parker-Burns said, looking at Kyle.
“He’s my brother,” John said. “We’re still working on him. I’m hoping he’ll go.”
“Do you have a military background?” the major asked.
“None whatsoever,” Kyle said, avoiding eye contact.
“He’s got some skills which I consider mission critical,” John said.
“I see,” the major said with a forced politeness. “All will be revealed, I suppose. Now let me be frank. I’m a soldier and I will follow the orders that have been given me by my superior officer. But I’ll tell you what I told my commander. A Squadron is a national treasure, sixty of the finest men who ever wore her majesty’s uniform. I urged him to deploy A Squadron to the London hot spots where we may engage and neutralize these aliens using the full tactical resources at our disposal. To send these men into terra incognita with no weapons or materials strikes me as ridiculously foolhardy. Furthermore, placing them under the operational control of Major Camp—sorry, former Major Camp—is not acceptable.”
“You’re welcome to come along and command them,” John said with a smile.
“But I was told that I would have to report to you,” Parker-Burns said.
“I’ve been there twice,” John said. “I know the lay of the land.”
“Still …” the major said.
John jumped in. “Seems to me the bigger issue is where to engage the enemy: here or over there. The Hellers are going to keep on coming if they’re not stopped. They’ll flood the zones. You’d think that might be something we could control with superior fire power if it weren’t for the fact that our experts think the zones are going to be unstable. They’re going to expand, and that expansion is likely to be unpredictable, eventually swallowing up a containment force. With all the uncertainties, we’re still going to be better off dealing with the threat over there.”
“And who better to deal with unconventional threats than the SAS?” Ben said.
“That’s right,” John said. “And who better to improvise behind enemy lines?”
Parker-Burns raised his hands in mock surrender. “You don’t have to convince me of our capabilities. If we get a final order to go, we will go, and we will perform our duties superbly.”
John smiled broadly. “Imagine how pissed off you would’ve been if I got my first choice for the mission, the Navy Seals.”
The room got so quiet a pin drop would have sounded like a cymbal clash. The major’s head looked like it was going to explode.
“Just kidding,” John said, breaking into a laugh.
Parker-Burns exhaled and cracked up. “Th
ank God for that,” he said. “Come on, let me introduce you to A Squadron.”
The sixty men of A Squadron mustered for inspection inside a cavernous helicopter hangar. There were four troops of fifteen soldiers designated A through D, each commanded by a captain. John liked their special-ops looks. Most chose to wear their hair on the long side and many had full beards. But most importantly they had swagger. For this mission to succeed they’d need to be tough, cocky sons-of-bitches.
Parker-Burns put the men at ease and said, “Gentlemen, you have had a preliminary briefing on the unfolding security threat in London and you were told to be on stand-by in case her majesty’s government called on you to be part of the response. Tonight I can confirm that A Squadron will indeed be called upon to render your unique and efficacious services. Your mission will be quite unlike any you have ever undertaken, one that will present singular challenges and will be fraught with unexpected dangers. I am assured that there was only one group within the military the government considered for this mission and that was this squadron. Captains Marsh, Yates, Greene, and Gatti will be meeting with these gentlemen by my side who are knowledgeable about the mission. The captains will, in turn, brief you tonight at twenty hundred hours. That is all.”
Each of the four troop captains was in his thirties. They flopped into their chairs in the officer’s room and stared suspiciously at their visitors. Unlike their men, they were clean-shaven with traditional military cuts except for Marsh who was bald as a cue ball. Their body language spoke volumes of their unhappiness about being briefed by civilians and when John opened his mouth, they seemed especially put off getting marching orders from an American.
“Seriously,” Marsh said, running his hand over his scalp. “A civilian and a Yank? What kind of bollocks is this?”
John was about to reply when Ben said, “I don’t wish to speak for Mr. Camp but I think you’ll find you speak the same language. He was fairly recently a major in the Green Berets.”
Marsh sneered at that. “Well I’m glad to hear your cap was green not pink, sunshine.”
