Down: Trilogy Box Set

by Glenn Cooper

  John watched the battle play out, itching to get his licks in but unwilling to leave Emily and the others unprotected. Soon, there were as many weapons in the hands of the SAS as their attackers.

  “The tide’s turning,” Trevor said.

  “Man, these guys know how to fight,” Kyle said.

  Suddenly the lord of the manor, a longhaired brute with a flowing beard, pierced the SAS curtain and charged the civilian group.

  Trevor ran out to distract him and John ordered Emily, Kyle, and Nightingale to lie flat on their stomachs. The lord swung his heavy sword, missing Trevor’s shoulder by inches. John was next. The swordsman was right-handed and just as the horse was upon him John sidestepped it to the left ducking the cross-saddle lunge. The lord had to turn his horse to re-engage John and as he did, John saw that Kyle had disobeyed and was grabbing at his left foot in the stirrup.

  The lord raised his sword to bring it down on Kyle’s head but as he did John reached his opposite leg and got a fistful of trousers. With a sharp yank, the man was off his saddle and Trevor was there to deliver a deadly kick to his head and retrieve his sword.

  “I told you to lie down, goddamn it,” John shouted at Kyle.

  “You’re welcome,” Kyle replied. “God, you’re an asshole, you know that?”

  “Disobey an order and you bet I am.”

  “I don’t take orders from you,” Kyle said. “Never did, never will.”

  They heard Nightingale say excitedly, “Look! We’ve won!”

  All of the militiamen were down and a few horses had been commandeered.

  “We’ve got casualties,” John said.

  Emily was already running to help. She knelt over a fallen trooper, bleeding from a scalp wound. She took a roll of cotton bandages from her backpack and began dressing the man’s wound. Each group had a medic, equipped only with bandage rolls, and they fanned out, doing the best they could.

  Marsh had lost his cap. Breathing heavily, he rubbed the sweat off his bald head, and pointed at one of the militiamen writhing in the grass, his neck grotesquely crooked and broken.

  “This man should be dead,” Marsh told John. “Is that what you were going on about?”

  “That’s as good a demonstration as you’ll get short of seeing him headless,” John said.

  “So there’s no point putting the sod out of his misery?”

  “None whatsoever. He’s permanently screwed.”

  Marsh shook his head and said, “Fuck me, what a place. We’ve taken casualties but at least we’ve got a few horses and some proper weapons.”

  A medic from A Group called Marsh and John over. Kneeling by the trooper who’d taken the bullet to his chest, the medic declared the man killed in action.

  “Our lot seem to die just as surely as they do back home,” Marsh said. “This was a good man. Wife and two children.”

  “We should bury him and keep moving,” John said. “If we don’t rovers might take his flesh tonight.”

  Marsh spit on the ground as a sign of his disgust. “Petersen,” Marsh shouted over to his group sergeant. “Use swords and hands to bury Jonesy. Get it done and let’s get cracking.”

  The march north took them about six hours. Although they checked their progress against the silk maps, the navigation wasn’t difficult. The River Thames ran a northerly course between Leatherhead and Richmond and they had only to keep it within sight to their left. Moose was spared carrying Nightingale. He lifted the professor onto the saddle of a horse and led it by its reins. Emily, Kyle, and the wounded men also rode. One horse was used as a pack animal for their five heavy backpacks.

  Along the way, most of the unarmed SAS men picked up ersatz weapons, makeshift clubs mostly, though one trooper found a shovel leaning against a tree. Any time they saw distant smoke coming from a chimney or open fire they gave the area a wide berth. They didn’t go completely unnoticed. Sailors on a few passing river barges spotted their column and pointed though John doubted they looked any different from a troop of King Henry’s army from a distance.

  Five hours into their trek, the river made an eastward loop. In the distance they saw it make a switch-back, westward loop.

  “We’re getting close,” John told Emily.

  He left her in Trevor’s care and sprinted through the ranks to let the captains know what he thought.

  They all concurred but Marsh ladled up some sarcasm. “Thank God the Yank’s here to help us poor bastards read a map.”

  Gatti, at the point, asked, “You’re sure there’s no bridges across anywhere close?”

  “Pretty sure,” John said. “Can all of you manage the current?”

  “All the lads are strong swimmers. We’ll have to find a way to get the civilians across. A boat would be handier than driftwood.”

  The last mile of their journey across a large, grassy plain corresponded to the earthly location of the Old Deer Park in Richmond. Ahead, John identified their crossing point by the thin column of black smoke rising into a parchment-colored afternoon sky. On reaching the south riverbank, the civilians and the wounded dismounted. Greene led his group east and Yates led his men west. The rest of the soldiers stayed put on guard duty. It took an hour but both groups returned, one empty-handed, Yates’ group with something better than gold—two medium-sized rowboats which they portaged.

  They tethered the watered horses to trees and left them mounds of pulled-up grass. Moose was assigned the precious cargo of Nightingale, two of the wounded, the backpacks, and their assorted weapons. He began rowing, surrounded by half of A Squadron swimming alongside. The rest of the squadron swam with the other boat. John took its oars and rowed Emily, Kyle, Trevor, and one wounded man. The current was swift but they chose the narrowest section and all made it across safely.

  From there it was a short walk uphill toward the brick chimney belching out smoke.

  There was no one outside the low brick forge. Using hand signals, the SAS men split into two groups and ducking below the windows glowing orange from the hot furnace, they encircled the building.

  When they were in position, John strode up to the main entrance and called out, “Is William the forger here?”

  A small man, naked from the waist up, emerged, squinting into the daylight. At the sight of the strangers he yelped like a dog whose tail had been trampled and ran back inside.

  Gatti’s C Group who were closest to the entrance prepared themselves for a fight but John reassured them with a calming hand gesture.

  A giant of a man emerged at the entrance wielding an iron rod. He too was bare-chested, his skin black with soot and shiny with sweat. “Who’s looking for him?” he bellowed before spotting John. “Well, would you look at this?” he cried. “It’s John who is not from here. Were you not able to return to your own land?”

  “I made it back, all right. Twice. This is my third visit to your fair country.”

  “Fair? This shit hole? Always good for a laugh, you are. Come here.”

  The two men embraced and much of William’s soot wound up on John’s shirt. The last time John saw him, William was atop the chalky cliffs on Brittania’s southeastern coast, manning a battery of John’s La Hitte cannon and John was setting sail for Francia aboard the Hellfire.

  “So, you make it to the Norselands,” John said.

  “I did but how did you come to know that?”

  “A certain king told me.”

  “Well, we had a winning campaign against old King Christian and seized his mines. As you said, the Norse iron is, indeed, superior stuff. We did bring back a goodly amount. Who are all these men deployed around my forge? They do not look like Henry’s men.”

  “They’re not from here either.”

  “Live men? All of them?”

  “They are. Most of them are British soldiers, the best of the best. They’re called the SAS. And there’s one live woman. Emily, come and meet an old friend of mine.”

  William wiped his hands against his leather apron, took her hand in h
is huge paw and kissed it.

  “So he found you, did he?”

  “He did,” she said. “He brought me home. He was very brave.”

  “If you’ve come back here then you are the brave one,” William said. “And fair. And comely. And …”

  John put an end to the compliments with a laugh. “You’re going to step on your tongue if you don’t shut your mouth, my friend. So the ore. Is there any left?”

  “Some. Why?”

  “I need it.”

  “I’d love to help you but it’s not mine to give. It belongs to the king.”

  John was ready for that. He reached into his trouser pocket for the folded piece of paper he had carried from Earth and presented it to William.

  William read it out loud, “I Henry, King of Brittania, do command that my master forger, William, give unto John Camp the iron ore he may need for the making of steel, the brass he may need, and all the good labor required of the forgers of Richmond.” He looked up, nodding. “It is signed by the hand of my monarch and I will certainly obey. Tell me John who is not from here, what is it you wish to forge?”

  John called Kyle over. “William, meet my brother, Kyle, who is also not from here. Kyle is a gunsmith, one of the best I’ve ever met. There isn’t a pistol or long gun he can’t fix or fabricate. Kyle, show him what you’ve got in your pack.”

  Kyle opened one of the backpacks and began laying out its contents, about a hundred cotton-wrapped parcels ranging in size from a square inch to a square foot. He unwrapped one of the larger ones revealing a deeply imprinted rubber mold.

  William examined it carefully. “A mold, yes, I see.”

  Kyle unwrapped a smaller one and handed it over.

  “Tell me, gunsmith Kyle, are all of these molds for one weapon?”

  “They are,” Kyle answered.

  “And what is this gun called?”

  “It’s an AK-47.”

  William repeated the name slowly with a lilt, as if it were a magical incantation, and asked about its attributes.

  Kyle spoke almost lovingly about the rifle. “The AK-47 is the single most successful weapon of modern times. It’s a rifle with two modes. In semi-automatic it fires one round with each trigger pull. In automatic it fires a burst as long as you hold the trigger down. It holds thirty rounds in a detachable magazine. It rarely jams, even when it’s wet or muddy. It’s been called the freedom-fighter’s rifle because it’s cheap to make, reliable, and cheap to manufacture. I’ve got molds for all the parts including the magazine parts and assorted screws. I’ve also got molds for the bullets and a press to make them. What we’ll need from you is your best quality steel to do lost-wax casting.”

  “You know what that is?” John asked William.

  “I do know the method and I have used it before. How many of the AK-47s do you wish to manufacture?”

  “About thirty-two,” Kyle said, “eight for each of four groups of the SAS. We’ve brought five sets of molds to speed up production. We’ll also need about a hundred magazines and several thousand rounds of ammo.”

  “Ammo?” William asked.

  “Sorry, ammunition, bullets,” John said. “But here’s the thing. These bullets contain the lead bullet and the gunpowder all in a single cylinder. To set them off a firing pin strikes a primer at the bullet’s base. The primer needs to hold an explosive chemical. We’ve brought a scientist with us, a chemist who knows how to make it, but we’ll need to find the starting materials. That’s Professor Nightingale over there.”

  The chemist was sitting under a tree looking pale and worn out but he gave a chipper wave.

  William removed a rag from his apron and blew his nose into it. “These AK-47s sound like mighty weapons. I’ve heard modern men speak of guns that can fire rapid-like but no one I know’s been able to tell an old forger such as myself how to construct one. And here you are, molds in hand. Tell me, John, what is it you intend to do with these guns?”

  “We’re going to try to stop an invasion.”

  William took up the challenge of feeding his hungry guests. After wondering how to stretch his forge worker’s meager rations to meet the needs of so many, he had a brainstorm. It was common knowledge down in the nearby village that King Henry had ordered William to use the village as target practice to test the accuracy and range of his new singing cannon. It had been John who had slipped extra powder into the charge, sending the cannon ball sailing over the village and splashing harmlessly into the river. William personally went down to the village to let them know that their savior, John Camp, required sustenance for his party and, though poor, the villagers emptied their larders and casks to honor their hero.

  A cart from the village, pulled by a pitifully thin horse, lumbered up the hill to the forge. A handful of rough-looking men and one thin woman in a threadbare dress unloaded the provisions. The woman was perhaps sixty, though she was so weather-beaten it was hard to tell. Initially she was frightened of the strapping young soldiers and refused to make eye contact. Emily seemed to scare her less and the woman managed a timid hello. But for some reason, she immediately seemed comfortable around Professor Nightingale. She asked him his name, made him a plate of food, and poured him a cup of ale. For his part, he politely eschewed wrinkling his nose at her rancid body odors and asked her name.

  “Mrs. Smith,” she said. “Eugenia Smith.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Eugenia,” he said, extending a hand. “Ted Nightingale.”

  “How can live men come Down?” she asked in a whisper so only he could hear the question.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he replied. “I’m a scientist and I’m not sure I even fully understand it.”

  “Then why have you come?”

  “It seems our world is under attack from your world. Something needs to be done about it.”

  “You’re sick, are you not?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I am. How did you know?”

  “The color of your skin, the yellowing of your eyes. My own mother had the yellowing before she died.”

  “I’m afraid I am dying,” he said with as much insouciance as he could manage. “Final adventure of a thoroughly interesting life.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t find yourself here when you pass,” she said. “There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t wish I could have taken back my wickedness.”

  The visitors and the forge workers spread out on the grass and ate bread, cheese, and dried meat. The soldiers kept to themselves. John sat in a circle with Trevor, Emily, Kyle, Nightingale, and William talking about the logistics of getting their castings started.

  “We can begin tonight if you’re up to the task,” William said.

  “Sooner the better,” John said.

  William had the iron ore ready, plenty of wax, and a supply of casting plaster.

  “Might we talk about the primers?” Nightingale asked, energetically, revived by the meal. “I’ll need a supply of lead as a precursor for lead styphnate.”

  “No shortage of lead,” William grunted. “We make our musket shot with lead.”

  “Excellent, excellent,” the chemist said. “Now I’ll need a supply of nitric acid. Best if you have it on the shelf but if not, I’ll have to synthesize it.”

  “What is this nitric acid?” William asked.

  “The old name for it is aqua fortis. Or perhaps you know it as spirit of niter?”

  “Sorry, I’ve no idea what you speak of.”

  “Do you know of any chemists or even alchemists in the environs?” Nightingale asked.

  William could only stare at him blankly.

  “Oh well, we’ll have to make it then. If you have gunpowder, presumably you have potassium nitrate, also known as saltpeter.”

  William brightened. “Saltpeter. That we do have. Comes from bat droppings in caves.”

  “Yes, that’s right, good. And I presume laying hands on some good-quality clay is not problematic.”

  “Clay? Ha. Pl
enty of that.”

  “White clay, actually.”

  “We’ve got white, red, brown, whatever sort of clay contents your heart.”

  “Then all I’ll need is a bench to work on, some glass vessels, lead, white clay, saltpeter, clean water and a source of heat.”

  “Have a look in there,” William said, pointing to the orange glow coming from his forge. “There’s all the heat a man could ever want for.”

  John leaned over and said to Emily, “Today’s gone about as well as expected.”

  “Not for Trooper Jones,” she said.

  “Every time these men go on a mission they accept they might not return.”

  “I’m not hardened to it like you are,” she said.

  “Thank God you’re not.”

  “I expect we’ll have some pretty awful days too,” she said, “but the sooner we cross the channel to find Paul, the better.”

  “Amen to that.” He got up and pulled Kyle to his feet. “Ready to get to work, baby brother?”

  Kyle took a few crooked steps, getting his stiff knee loosened up. “That’s why I’m in here in this ridiculously weird place.”

  14

  Heath was giddy. Benona was the prettiest woman he’d encountered since arriving on Earth and he licked his cracked lips like a salivating wolf.

  “Stay back,” he warned the other rovers. “This one’s mine.”

  Monk was nearly legless with drink but he put a hand on Heath’s shoulders to make a plea. “Come on, Heath, after all we’ve been through you and me, the least you could do is give me a little taste of nectar.”

  “Fuck off,” Heath bellowed. “All of you. I’m having her all to myself. Right here on the pavement. Right now. What’s your name, blondie?”

  Benona could hardly get the words out. “I know who you are.”

  “Who am I then?” Heath asked, coming within inches of her face, his hands almost twitching at the prospect of squeezing her fair flesh.

  She took a step backwards and felt the building wall blocking any hope of escape. “You’re from Hell.”