by John Creasey
“Which direction did they go?”
“In the general direction of Lauriston and Winchester.”
“How long ago?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Rondivallo slapped the microphone back into position and swung round.
“We must locate that helicopter and destroy it and everyone in it,” he said. “Mikki, arrange for two of our aircraft to search for it and to attack with guided missiles at once At once, do you hear me?”
One of the two men turned and ran towards the door.
Matt Stone saw the dozens of people gathered on the ground near the King Alfred statue, some crouching, some standing up, one or two shaking a fist. Two policemen came stalking towards the helicopter itself, neither dawdling nor hurrying. Matt stood up and stepped towards the sliding door. A peg kept it in position. He took the peg out and pushed the door back as the policemen appeared, craning their necks, the tops of their helmets level with the bottom of the door.
“You’ve got all of Hampshire to land in, what made you choose this place?” one demanded.
Matt said:
“I must see the chief of police right away. It’s so desperate that minutes might make a difference between living and dying.”
“That sounds very serious, sir.” The policeman was ponderous. “Will you please explain more?”
He broke off, staring past Matt towards Palfrey. Matt saw his astonishment and looked round quickly.
Palfrey was stretching out his arms to clutch the instrument panel, so as to pull himself up. His lips were working, as a man’s who has some grave impediment, and when he spoke his voice seemed strange and uncanny; yet the words were clear.
“Call—on—help—for—Z5. Arrange—military—block—all—roads —out of—Lauriston. Take—me—nearest—military—authority.”
He thrust his card forward.
“Understand?”
“Z5.”
The policeman looked at the card, and said in a strained
voice: “Very good, Dr. Palfrey, I understand.”
Five minutes later Palfrey was moving and talking with comparative freedom, and the other man was beginning to regain his power of movement and of speech. Police cars came up. Matt got in, Palfrey was helped in, and they moved off, while a crowd of dozens of people grew into a crowd of hundreds, gathering round the helicopter, peering into it, seeing the slight damage where it had scraped against the base of the statue of King Alfred. They heard an aeroplane high above, and heard a little, hollow sound, like a succession of beats on a slack drum. Several, looking up, saw flashes in the sky.
They saw nothing else.
There was a sharp explosion and a blinding flash, as guided rockets struck the helicopter. It smashed into a flaming wreckage, and it was as if a great fire had swept over the people there, so that none was left alive.
But Palfrey lived.
Chapter Twenty-Two
NIGHT OF DREAD
The Commanding Officer at the army base a few miles outside Winchester sat at his desk in a small office, with Palfrey and Matt Stone, and half a dozen aides. Sentries were posted at the door and the windows, messengers were constantly moving in and out. A fully-manned radio transmitter was in the next room, and messages were being sent out fast upon each other. The C.O. was a man in the early fifties, tall, laconic, slow speaking.
There was a lull for the first time since Palfrey and Matt Stone had arrived.
Army patrols were already on the road to Lauriston, and all roads out of Lauriston were being blocked. Jet and propeller flights were already taking off, to patrol the skies above the Wide World Foods Plant. Messages had gone out to have all depots and warehouses of Wide World Foods sealed off. Plans were already in hand to warn all shopkeepers and all market men who dealt with Wide World to isolate all such stocks of fresh, canned, processed and frozen foods. It had been like a military operation carried out with great precision and a minimum of fuss. Not once had the C.O. raised his voice, and now that there was a lull, and they were waiting for word from London, he looked up at a subaltern and said calmly:
“Lay on drinks and coffee, and you’d better arrange for some sandwiches for Dr. Palfrey and his friends.”
“Yes, sir.” The subaltern saluted, clicked his heels, turned, went out at the double.
The C.O. smiled faintly.
“How long are you going to wait for word from London before deciding what to do next?” he asked. “We’ve the forces here to take over that food plant in half an hour, of course—less, if it comes to that. No problem.”
Palfrey was almost his normal self again. He was smoking, and was playing with a few strands of hair; Matt could picture him sitting behind his own desk, instead of on the upright chair; could imagine him talking to Stefan Andromovitch in that calm, thoughtful voice. But Matt knew Palfrey better now.
“Wish I could agree that it’s no problem,” Palfrey said. “If there were no other worry, there are the mosquitoes. They’d be made to swarm among any attacking group.” He glanced at the door, and Matt not only understood but shared his dread.
The Commanding Officer was so completely sure of himself.
“We’ll send in squads trained and equipped for anti-gas and bacteria warfare,” he declared. “No problem at all. We’ve two battalions fully equipped to fight in radio-active territory. Soon deal with those mosquitoes and the infernal dust!” He smiled more broadly. “My view is that I should send the men in at once.”
“Get ’em ready, anyhow,” Palfrey said. “I’m hoping that Andromovitch will have heard more, and can tell what’s being done at Cabinet level.”
A subaltern came in, approached the desk and saluted; and stared at the C.O. in a way which drove the smile away from the man’s lips.
“Yes, Bob?”
“I’ve just received a report from Winchester, sir,” the subaltern said. “Three of a party of twelve men on late pass have returned. They state that the other nine were killed when a helicopter was fired on from the air and destroyed in Winchester, sir.”
Palfrey breathed: “No means of defence!”
The C.O. said very slowly: “Very well.” He looked round at his officers and sat upright. “We shall prepare immediately for an offensive action on the Lauriston plant without waiting for approval from London or Command Headquarters. How long do you need to be ready?”
“Twenty minutes, sir.”
“Anti-gas and bacterial warfare units must be ready.”
“They are, sir, all but the finishing touches.”
“Fine,” said the C.O. and glanced at Palfrey. “We haven’t any alternative.”
He broke off.
The aide who had taken the instructions reached the doorway, where the two armed guards stood to attention. As he stepped into the night, he waved his hand in front of his face: and at the same moment one of the guards moved, backing away and wafting at something which had flown into his face.
Then the doorway seemed filled with tiny flying insects, their wings catching the light, and their buzzing taking on a strange note of power. With them was a great cloud of dust.
The C.O. said: “My God!” He jumped to his feet, waving his hand in front of his face, while the other officers dodged
back and sideways, beating wildly at the air.
“Where else is it happening?” Palfrey asked in a savage voice. “Where else?” He stood up and went into the radio room, with the C.O. close behind him, and the officers in the other room looking at each other in horror, each with the mark of the plague upon him. “Have all possible camps and bases warned, all Commands notified, the War Ministry and Naval and Air Force authorities warned,” he said. “Will you give the orders, sir?”
“Yes. Jones, get me Command Headquarters, General Rampling himself. Palfrey, how long have
I got before I feel the effects?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes at most,” Palfrey said.
“Should be enough. Colonel Wray!” The C.O. raised his voice, and one of the officers came hurrying. “See if we can rustle up a squad or so of men not yet infected; and who have got into protective clothing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve nine minutes,” the C.O. said dryly. “All right, Sergeant Jones, the moment—” he broke off, as Jones looked round, a fresh-faced youth with red cheeks and frightened eyes. He had just squashed a mosquito on the switchboard, but did not yet seem to have been affected himself. “What is it?” the C.O. demanded.
“A Mr. Drommich, for Dr. Palfrey, sir.”
“Andromovitch!” Palfrey exclaimed. “Let me talk to him.” He snatched up a pair of earphones which Sergeant Jones indicated, while Jones said to the C.O. “General Rampling is on the air, sir.”
“Thanks,” the C.O. boomed. Then: “Percy, Micky here! I don’t want to be an alarmist, but...”
As he spoke, the swelling on his forehead and the back of his hands grew larger, and his voice began to fade.
And Palfrey talked, too.
Matt studied Palfrey’s face as he did so, seeing the tension and great dread.
Palfrey had the earphones on, and was standing with his shoulders stooping a little. He seemed to listen for a long time, and his expression did not ease. Matt felt his own tension rising to screaming point; he could hear the C.O.’s voice from time to time, giving a flat factual report, but what he wanted to hear was the Russian.
Palfrey said at last:
“All right, Stefan, there might be half a chance. I’ll take it if I can.” He rang off, took the earphones away quickly, and moved across and gripped the C.O.’s arm. The C.O. shook him off, then saw who it was, and said more sharply into the radio telephone:
“Just a minute, Percy. Hallo, Palfrey?”
“I’d like any men you’ve got who’re not affected and have protective clothing, with small arms, including sub-machine guns, hand grenades, tear gas and fire bombs. Quickly.”
“Right. Soames!” The Colonel raised his voice only a little; it squeaked. “Soames, get Dr. Palfrey what he’s just asked for.” A major was standing in the doorway, rubbing at the swelling on his forehead. “Just pass on instructions that Palfrey may have—”
He paused.
He gulped.
For the first time something like fear showed in his eyes, but he gulped again, and then made himself go on in a constricted voice:
“… anything he requires. Hurry.” He turned back to the radio phone. “Percy, my throat’s beginning to close up. I won’t—be able—to—talk—much.”
He stopped.
Then he said in tones of horror: “Oh, my God!” and looked at Palfrey, who was already at the door. “Command has been attacked by swarms of the mosquitoes.”
He winced, tried to speak again, but could not utter a sound.
A soldier with a hood which draped down from his steel helmet, and wearing protective clothing, came hurrying towards the Commanding Officer’s office. His voice sounded muffled, but Palfrey and Matt could make out the words quite clearly.
“Dr. Palfrey, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Lance-Corporal Pollitt, sir. I have two armour-protected trucks, three jeeps and a staff car available, with twenty men, all in fighting order. Two Bren guns, four sub-machine guns, good supplies of grenades, two flame throwers and ample small arms, sir.” There was a moment’s pause, before he burst out: “All raring to go.”
“Right,” Palfrey said. “We won’t take the staff car. We’re liable to air attack and that wouldn’t give us a chance. Ready to leave now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Head for Lauriston, but avoid main roads where you can,” Palfrey said. “Know the district?”
“Been manoeuvring round here for three years, sir, know it like the palm of my hand.”
“Good. I’ll go in the first armoured truck, with Air Stone here.” Palfrey turned to the two Z5 men who had landed with the helicopter, and said quietly: “You two can find more than enough to do. If you can get any supplies of curare distillate it would help if it’s injected subcutaneously within half an hour.” He could say that quite calmly, hiding the horror or the truth: that there could only be supplies for a few of the men, and the plague might kill nine out of ten.
“Okay, Sap,” one of them said. “Luck.”
The engines of the armoured trucks and jeeps were roaring, the men climbing in. Lance-Corporal Pollitt gave Palfrey a hand inside one of the armoured trucks, then helped Matt up. There was just room to sit. Four other men crouched at the back, and the car was loaded with ammunition. Matt thought of what could happen if a single shell pierced the armour plating.
A dim light showed inside the car as they began to move off.
The lance-corporal said:
“We’ve protective clothing for you gents too, sir.”
“Thanks. We’ll take a helmet each,” Palfrey said. “We’re freaks, we’re immune. Do you know where the mosquitoes came from?”
“Perishing kitchens, sir, cookhouse if you know what I mean.” He grinned beneath his gauze protective drapes.
“First I heard of it, couple of orderlies on fatigue duty come and said there was a swarm of mosquitoes coming out of the spuds they were peeling. New delivery, only came in this afternoon. Before we knew where we were, they were all over the place. I’ve always been sensitive to skeeters, sir, and they make me itch like hell, and besides that I’d heard the news. So I nipped back quick to put on protective clothing, and told these boys to do the same, sir. Better safe than sorry, if you know what I mean.”
“I know,” said Palfrey. “A lot of people might live to be grateful to that bit of quick thinking.”
“Truth is, I had the wind up, sir. Still have, if it comes to that.” Pollitt looked at the back of the driver as they passed out of the camp, and saw two sentries reeling back from their posts as if they had been attacked by the insect swarms. “Think we’ve any chance of stopping it spreading, sir? Seems a hell of a thing. Everything okey-doke one minute, and this the next.”
“There’s a chance,” Palfrey said. “We’re making it.”
They might be stopped before they reached the Wide World Foods plant.
Even if they reached the plant, he could not be sure of what he could do, he could only follow his instinct to get to the heart of the trouble.
He did not know what was happening up and down the country.
No one did.
Spasmodic reports were received in London, by Andromovitch and by the Cabinet, but there was a state of hopeless confusion over most of the country. The facts which did emerge were so frightening that it was almost unbearable to contemplate them. Dozens of military establishments of all kinds had been invaded by swarms of the mosquitoes and satellites all coming from the food stores or the cookhouses. Except for small isolated units, the armed forces were at a standstill in many parts of the country. No effective counter measures had yet been taken. The one piece of information which offered some hope was that the bacteriological life seemed short; scientists in a dozen research laboratories had established that they had a total life span of twelve hours. No other news was even slightly encouraging. Some army units which had left their stations before the plague had struck had held up Wide World Food lorries and vans, but in every case they had been attacked by the plague within minutes.
So far, all of this had taken place in country districts or in garrison towns and dockyards and naval bases. None of the other large cities had yet been affected to any serious degree. But the exodus towards the coast, by sea and by air, had become a stupendous shift of population, as radio messages from unidentified stations conveyed news of the ulti
matum, and kept news of the catastrophe to the armed services circulating all the time. Rumour fed upon rumour.
And in London, little Domminy, with his fuzzy ring of hair and his skinny hands, was telling the Cabinet that it had no choice. The armed forces were helpless; the armed forces of other nations would be, soon, unless the weapons were destroyed. No weapon was any use without its men to man it, he pointed out in his flat, almost querulous voice. The order to accept the ultimatum should be given immediately, and other countries should be advised to take the same step.
What did the Cabinet want?
To massacre the whole population?
“And let it be understood,” he said waspishly, “that if I am arrested or detained, you will have no one left to convey your decisions to my colleagues, and my colleagues are in many parts of the country and many parts of the world. This is a time for unconditional surrender, Mr. Prime Minister. I hope
that you will realize that in time to stop the slaughter!”
Stop the slaughter, cried the people.
Stop the slaughter, cried the newspapers.
Stop the slaughter, boomed the radio.
Stop the slaughter, pleaded television.
Stop the slaughter, slaughter, slaughter.
Then a new voice came, whispering at first: “No one need suffer once the Government has taken the sensible course, and submitted to certain conditions which will lead to a complete free democratic world. No one need suffer, because there is a way to arrest the paralysis and return to complete health, a simple preparation available in vast quantities. No one need suffer, once the Government accepts the terms.”
Stop the slaughter.
Stop the slaughter.
“Hear that, sir?” Lance-Corporal Pollitt asked.
“Hear what?”
“There’s a local station broadcasting that if the Government gives way, everyone who has been infected can be cured. Bloody lie, I bet.”
