by Will Hill
More than three thousand Operators. A hundred aircraft, two hundred ground vehicles. A base camp covering four square miles.
An army readying itself for war.
“We should be over the Channel in ninety seconds, sir,” said the pilot sitting beside Turner. “ETA forty-seven minutes.”
It’s almost time, he thought. One way or the other, we settle this today.
Eight storeys beneath the wide grounds of the Loop, Marie Carpenter sat on the edge of her sofa, trying to convince her racing heart to slow down.
She had told her son the truth; she understood he had to go, and she really, really didn’t blame him for doing so. She was so proud of Jamie that it was physically painful; it was a constant vibration of her insides, relentless waves of pride shot through with terror as her brain tormented her with visions of the hundreds of ways he could be hurt, or worse.
The long cellblock was now empty apart from her and the Operator who had been left behind to man the guard post by the entrance. There had been an influx of vampires into the cells in recent weeks as men and women waited to be given the cure, although few of them had stayed for more than twenty-four hours, forty-eight at most, before they were gone. For the last few days, since she had been discharged from the infirmary and the Department had shifted its attention entirely to what was happening in France, it had been just her and Valentin, but now he was gone too.
She was alone.
Marie got up from the sofa, crossed the square room, and started making tea. She didn’t want tea, but she needed to do something to occupy herself, even if only for a minute or two. She knew she was not going to be able to think about anything else until Jamie walked back through the airlock in one piece, a prospect she knew was many hours away, if it happened at all. She poured water into the teapot, filled a mug, and selected a biscuit from the small tin on the table. She carried them back to the sofa, her heart sick with worry, her head full of her son, and settled down to wait.
Her vigil had begun.
Seventy miles away, Marie’s son was sitting in the hold of the helicopter that had been designated Falcon 3, his helmet between his feet, his T-Bone and MP7 lying on his knees, trying his hardest not to treat this mission differently from all the others.
Focus, he told himself. Your objectives, your surroundings, your squad mates. Ignore the stakes, ignore the fact that it’s Dracula. Just do your job.
Objectively – which was how he was attempting to view it – the Operation was extremely straightforward. His colleagues, and the Operators of the other Departments waiting for them in France, had a far more complicated situation waiting for them: a large-scale battle with an enemy of unknown numbers and competence fought on unfamiliar and unreliable territory. The five members of the strike team had been tasked with destroying a single vampire.
That doesn’t really cover it, though, does it? whispered a voice in his head. You can’t really refer to Dracula as just ‘a single vampire’.
But he could. And not only could, but had to.
If he allowed Dracula’s legend, the first vampire’s prodigious power and viciousness, to loom in his mind, then fear would begin to creep in, and fear was something Jamie could not allow. He would respect their target, and treat him with appropriate caution, but that was all; if they did their job properly, he would die like any other vampire.
He looked around the dark hold. No more than one of the strike team had been permitted in any single vehicle, in case the fleet of helicopters was attacked before they reached Carcassonne, but he was still surrounded by his friends. Jack Williams was opposite him, his eyes closed, his face pale, and sitting next to Jack was Lizzy Ellison; her eyes were open, and fixed squarely on him.
Jamie smiled at his squad mate. He didn’t speak; he didn’t want to disturb the thirty or so Operators sitting around them who were currently in worlds of their own, preparing however they saw fit for what was coming. Many had their eyes closed like Jack, but others were staring straight ahead, up at the ceiling, or down at the floor. Most were gripping weapons as though their lives depended on them, which they soon would.
Ellison didn’t smile back at him. Her expression was calm and determined, its unspoken message clear.
You can do this. We can do this.
In his makeshift quarters at the centre of Field 1, Aleksandr Ovechkin got down on his knees and prayed for the first time in more than three decades.
He had been raised Russian Orthodox in the barren expanses of Chukotka, but his faith, inasmuch as it had ever existed, had been largely ground out of him by the Red Army instructors who had moulded his wide-eyed, seventeen-year-old self into a soldier. Whatever had remained had not survived his long career, first with the KGB – as it had still been known – and then with the SPC; reconciling the existence of God with the horrors he had seen perpetrated on innocent men and women, by the supernatural and by his fellow human beings, had proved impossible.
Nonetheless, he prayed.
Not for victory, however. He would not insult the Operators of the Multinational Force by suggesting the battle would be won or lost at the whim of something as ethereal as God’s favour; it would be won or lost as a result of their skill, and bravery, and heart. Instead, he prayed for those who would not survive the fighting that was about to begin, for the unknowing men and women whose lives could now be measured in hours and minutes. He prayed they would find peace in the darkness, that the universe might allow them to take some echo of pride with them at having fought well, on the side of good.
Ovechkin clasped his hands together and closed his eyes.
Our Father, he began. Who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name …
In the hold of Falcon 4, Larissa thought about what she had told Callum before she left Haven.
I’m coming back, she had said. When this is all over, I’m coming back.
She had meant it then, and was almost surprised to realise that she meant it even more determinedly now. Her return to Blacklight had brought forth the uneasy cocktail of emotions she had expected, not least nostalgia at the intense familiarity of the Loop itself. There had been guarded happiness at the prospect of seeing Kate and Matt, mainly because she hadn’t known whether they hated her for leaving or not, and palpable dread at the thought of seeing Jamie, even though the desperate, naïve part of herself that had believed all along that it would be OK had turned out to be right, more or less. There was a deep wellspring of anger inside her ex-boyfriend, and it was horribly obvious that at least some of it was directed at her, but Jamie was clearly working hard to contain it and at least attempt to understand why she had done what she did.
But even though the thing she had worried about most had not turned out to be as bad as she had feared, the endless corridors of the Loop, the black uniforms, and even the very faces of the people who had been her friends and colleagues, still transported her back to a place and time where she had felt trapped and alone and as if she had become a person she didn’t know, or like.
All of which meant that her motivations for the mission they were about to undertake differed slightly from the rest of the Operators in the hold of Falcon 4. On a macro level, she wanted Dracula stopped; she knew the fate of the world was largely resting with the Multinational Force, and she liked the world as it was. But when it was all over, if they were victorious, the survivors would go back to bases around the world and resume their careers inside the supernatural Departments.
She, on the other hand, would go back to Haven. It was the prospect that was keeping her focused on the task at hand, because if there was anything she was certain of, it was that she wanted to go home.
And Dracula was standing in her way.
In the command centre of the displaced persons camp, Bob Allen waited for Blacklight to arrive, his mind teeming with the dead.
When he had been promoted to Major, what seemed like a lifetime ago now, the NS9 Director at the time, a formidable former CIA spook named Alan Mathis, had invited him
to his quarters to raise a celebratory glass. Over Scotch that was older than them, they had talked about the life they had committed themselves to, about the horrors they had seen and those that, inevitably, were still to come. Emboldened by whisky, Allen had eventually asked the Director how he dealt with it when those under his command were killed; Mathis had been legendarily cold, and there had been a widespread perception that the deaths of NS9 Operators didn’t affect him at all. The Director had drained his glass, set it down, and stared directly into Allen’s eyes.
“I’m glad that’s what they think,” he said. “Each and every death tears a piece from my heart, but what would be the good of me showing them that? Would they respect me more if I wailed and howled at every coffin? Would they follow my orders more faithfully if I existed in a state of perpetual mourning? Of course they wouldn’t. There is no time for grief, Major. My job is to take the blows, deal with them, and move forward. That is the burden of command, and you’ll come to understand it all too well.”
And Allen had. Oh God, he had.
Men had died, and women had died, and he carried on, his heart accumulating layer after layer of scar tissue. He carried on because that was what was needed; there was no time to stop the clocks, no time for parades and medals and eulogies. He absorbed the pain, and then he gave new orders, sending Operators on missions every bit as dangerous as those that had cost their colleagues their lives, because that was what had to happen.
That was his burden, and it had never felt heavier than it did right now.
Allen pushed the image of Danny’s smiling face aside, and checked his watch.
Forty-five minutes till Paul gets here, he thought. Forty-five minutes until we’re ready. Then God help us.
High above the English Channel, Falcon 2 roared south-east. In its hold, the fifth vampire that had ever existed smiled to himself.
It had been more than a year since Valentin Rusmanov had surrendered to Jamie Carpenter and become a voluntary prisoner inside the Loop, so he was heartened by the looks of nervousness that still crossed the faces of the Operators sitting around him when they glanced in his direction; he had assumed that time and familiarity would have dulled his ability to inspire fear, but it did not appear so.
Most of them are still expecting me to betray them, he thought. They’re wondering how far I’m going to take this before I show my true colours.
The thought was delicious; there were few things that had pleased Valentin more over the long course of his life than generating unease and whispered gossip. It had sustained him through much of the seemingly endless twentieth century, as he had gradually been forced to accept that there was little left in the world that he had not experienced: nowhere he hadn’t been, nothing he hadn’t done. As technology and science had accelerated forward, the only thing that had kept his interest was the apparently unchanging nature of people. No matter the circumstances, human desires and emotions were constant; people wanted proximity to power and glamour, fought jealously for position, and would do awful, unthinkable things if properly motivated.
And motivation had been Valentin’s speciality.
The ancient vampire sat back and gave a friendly nod to an Operator who was staring at him with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. Valentin knew that some inside the Department would never accept that he was genuinely on their side, and he had never made any secret of the fact that all they could truly rely on was for him to do exactly what was in his own best interests. But those interests were currently firmly aligned with Blacklight’s, and, although he enjoyed the trepidation of his temporary colleagues, he had no intention of turning on them, at least for now.
His original impetus to side with the Department had been a desire to prevent the rise of his former master. Valentin had known that Dracula would seek him out and demand a return to his service, and that was something he had no intention of doing, under any circumstances; it was no exaggeration to say that he would rather die.
But now, after the Battle of Château Dauncy, Valentin had a more personal motivation; he wanted revenge for what Dracula had done to him in that field in southern France, for injuries that were by far the closest any had ever come to proving fatal. Had it not been for Larissa Kinley, the darkness that had enveloped him as Dracula’s sword sliced him in half would have been permanent, and for that, he was in debt to them both; he owed the vampire girl his eternal gratitude, and he owed his former master an agonising death.
The helicopter rumbled towards Carcassonne, as Valentin allowed his head to fill with the bitter prospect of vengeance, and the sickly sweet promise of spilled blood.
In the Basilique Saint-Nazaire, Dracula sat with his legs stretched out before him, his head lowered in silent contemplation.
In the old days, when he had still been only a man, he had taken private time before battle in a tent surrounded by the dark silhouettes of his Wallachian Guards; the grand, ornate interior of the Basilica was far more to his liking.
He had sent Osvaldo away ten minutes earlier to make final checks of his army and hostages, but the Spanish vampire was as efficient as he was loyal, and it would not be long before he returned with his report; in the meantime, Dracula savoured the silence and stillness of the old church, and allowed his thoughts to drift towards the battle that was now imminent. The first vampire had no intention of joining the fight unless it was absolutely necessary – it would not be fitting for the world that was soon to belong to him to witness him brawling like a common soldier – but an ever-growing part of him was hoping that became the case; he had scores that he would greatly prefer to settle in person.
The traitor Valentin, for one.
The vampire girl who had almost beaten him, for another.
The door to the Basilica swung open, and Dracula sighed inwardly as Osvaldo stepped through it and bowed his head. He could not chastise his most fervent follower for being too efficient, but he would have preferred to be alone for as much time as possible between now and when the battle began.
“Deliver your report,” he said, when the vampire was barely halfway down the aisle at the centre of the nave. “Do it quickly.”
“My lord,” said Osvaldo. “Eight more helicopters have arrived, but everything is exactly as you have commanded. We are ready.”
“Good,” said Dracula. “Find Emery and send him to me. If all goes well, there will be work for him. Then return when you see movement from our enemies.”
Osvaldo bowed again, and backed out of the church without a word. Dracula waited until the door thudded shut behind the vampire, then closed his eyes.
We are ready, he told himself. It is almost time.
There was silence throughout the displaced persons camp as the sun dropped below the western horizon.
Electricity crackled through the wide fields. Men and women whose homes had been destroyed by Dracula’s savage assault on their city stopped what they were doing; many crossed themselves as they stared at the darkening sky. Charity volunteers came out of their tents, support staff exited the temporary buildings, as, beyond the exclusion perimeter, journalists and camera operators fell silent.
The Operators that made up the Multinational Force did not see the sun set; they had already boarded the helicopters that would transport them the short distance to the battlefield, and were checking their weapons and equipment as they came to terms with the reality that was about to envelop them.
For long moments, nothing and nobody moved. The tension was palpable, causing hearts to race and skin to break out in gooseflesh. Rotor blades spun in blurs, engines rumbling beneath them. A column of trucks and armour sat motionless at the camp’s main gate, their exhausts belching blue smoke into the sky. Paul Turner sat beside Bob Allen in the back of an open-topped jeep, his skin tingling with anticipation as he surveyed the suddenly still camp. Eventually, after what felt like hours, the NS9 Director raised his radio to his lips and spoke two simple words.
“Move out.”
They rolle
d into Carcassonne in silence.
The trucks and armoured vehicles led the convoy between the shells of cars and fallen rubble that littered the roads. Around them, on every flat surface that remained – every fragment of standing wall and expanse of unbroken road and pavement – three words had been painted over and over, in every imaginable size and colour; three words that made the skin of every Operator crawl.
In the distance, across the flattened landscape, the medieval city perched atop its hill, the highest point for miles in any direction. Turner looked back as they approached it through what had been the city’s commercial district and felt his heart surge in his chest; the sky behind the column of vehicles was full of helicopters, a wide black line flying low and slow. Inside them sat more than three thousand Operators, each one armed to the teeth, each one ready to fight, and kill.
The lead truck drew to a halt a mile before the foot of the hill. The rest of the column peeled to the left and right and stopped, creating a long line of vehicles with fifty metres between them. The roar of the helicopter engines increased as they descended; they touched down a safe distance behind the line. The doors of the holds slid open and a tide of black-clad figures disembarked and jogged between the vehicles to their rally points. Turner watched as Blacklight’s vampire Operators moved to the front of the rapidly filling line; they would lead the army into battle, their supernatural power put straight to use.
The helicopters immediately rose back into the air and hovered half a mile behind the army they had carried in their bellies, their weapons systems trained on the wide space between the black line and the foot of the hill.
No-man’s-land, thought Turner.
“Initial deployment complete,” said a voice in his ear, over the command frequency that he and the rest of the Directors had tuned their comms systems to.
