“You heard von Strom kameraden! Attack in threes and make every rocket count!” ordered the oberleutnant.
Von Strom pushed the control stick away from him and guided his plane into a shallow dive to the left of the oberleutnant and Mann, lining up the massive target trying to spot a weakness to exploit. No chinks in the armour presented themselves so he decided to place his rockets between a selection of gun turrets in order to kill as many of the invaders as possible.
“Oberleutnant! The globes are here as well...!” screamed someone before being abruptly cut off. An explosion rocked von Strom's plane and he heard debris patter against the cockpit. He wildly looked around for the source of the blast.
“We've no chance against them! They're inhuman!” someone yelled, possibly Bessinger.
Those verdamnt globes! What were they?!?
“Fire your rockets and clear out of here!” order the oberleutnant.
Von Strom thumbed the rocket triggers and watched the ungainly tubes spark and fizz away from under the wings and smoke across the sky along with the others launched by his fellows. Jinking the plane under several wild lines of tracer, von Strom dived sharply, seeing the resulting explosions from the rockets out of the corner of his eye. There was no telling what damage they had done but, Thule willing, it was enough to at least cripple the machine.
Scattered and broken voices crackled through his earpieces. Further blast waves swayed the jet plane and von Strom fought to keep the now unwieldly craft under control. He smiled beneath his oxygen mask. The rockets must have hit something vital! Or... He checked his tail. The rest of his squadron had disappeared. But what was this? He frowned as the floating globe flew past in a blur, narrowly avoiding a collision with his plane. He felt bullets spang repeatedly into the fuselage and flung the plane round in a tight semi circle rising upwards close to the dreadnaught, past a massive gargoyle frozen in a pounce. His headphones were silent now.
Mein Gott! He started in fright. Another one of the flying barrels! And another one! Yet another flew into his sights and he reflexively thumbed the trigger on his control stick. The nose of the Me262 blazed as the quadruple cannon blasted away and the loathsome globe blew apart in a green flecked explosion. Von Strom's victory was short lived. Despite his increasingly wild attempts to shake off his attackers, they inhumanely tracked his every jink, roll, turn and dive. Quite simply, he ran of space in a sky that had become filled with red tracer fire, much of which thudded into the plane. The fuel tank detonated and the last thing von Strom saw was a cloud of fire rolling from the tail of his plane up towards the cockpit.
The few remaining Me262s never stood a chance against the massed fire of the robot drones. Red tracer fire ripped through the sky, zeroing in on the planes with startling accuracy. Within seconds, the sky was full of falling debris as the analytical engine on each drone rapidly calculated the trajectories of the Me262s and processed a line of fire to take them down before swinging into action.
The propeller driven Me109s following behind realised they had little hope against the dreadnaughts and their drone escort especially as they were not rocket equipped so had nothing that could penetrate the dreadnaughts armour. They retreated, leaving vapour trails in their wake.
The Warcry spewed black smoke from its damaged rear but the fire crews already had the blaze under control. The damage was light with the crew's pride being more wounded that their giant charge. The dreadnaught flew ponderously onwards, closing the distance to the airfield with surprising speed. The main batteries continued to pound the hidden target, spewing more dust and smoke into the air. Cordite stung Walker’s nostrils as blue grey smoke billowed up into the bridge from the guns. Then the secondary batteries opened up, adding to the roar of fire and flame. Brief flowers of flame blossomed on the ground in rapid succession before being engulfed by the ever present dust.
As the warships drew level with the airfield, Walker ordered the ships to cease fire. No point in wasting ammunition particularly as there were bigger targets ahead.
“Admiral! I’ve just received a transmission from Whitehall,” the comms officer handed Walker a piece of paper with a decoded message written in capital letters.
The message was stark and direct “ABORT MISSION IMMEDIATELY. RETURN TO BASE AT BEST SPEED. AVOID ENGAGING GERMAN FORCES.”
Walker frowned momentarily over the message before the sound of the Warspite firing its secondary batteries spurred him into action, ordering Warspite to cease fire and return home. Moments later he ordered Warcry back to base.
His officers were too professional to question his orders but he could see the puzzlement on their faces mixed with the chagrin of letting the Hun get away with the loss of just an airbase.
He was puzzled too. Whitehall had been determined to teach the Germans a firm lesson. The plan had been to knock the German economy back at least twenty years. The Third Reich and its rearmed Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe was to be dealt a mortal blow from which it would never recover. MI6 were abroad in Germany with orders to assassinate the Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler. The Empire was taking its revenge. And now it was pulling back. Why? He couldn’t tell and he would have to wait until the fleet returned to base before he would find out what the cause was. Perhaps the attack had gone catastrophically wrong on the other fronts that were being opened up. Certainly the Luftwaffe were stronger than what he had been led to expect and the north west of Germany was relatively lightly defended compared to Berlin, the Ruhr and other industrial areas that were being attacked. Damn. It would have to wait until he got home.
6 In the Back of Beyond
The Excalibur landed briefly at the British Military Intelligence base at Machrihanish. Machrihanish was an desolate spot away out across the Mull of Kintyre on the Scottish coast, west of the village of Campbeltown. Further west was the open Atlantic which was a rough cruel sea at the best of times, north, south and east were dominated by bleak moors and uplands dotted with copses of straggly trees, often covered in mists and low clouds. Only the fishing village of Campbeltown betrayed the fact that man had colonised this bleak outpost of Britain. The isolation was perfect for Military Intelligence being far from prying eyes. Even so no chances had been taken. A single track mud road was the only clue that anything could possibly be there, leading to a lone ramshackle croft which stood cowering against the winds that powered in from the Atlantic, protecting a few strips of tilled land in its leeside.
The entire base was built deep underground where, over many years, massive rooms and caverns had been blasted out of the hard rock. In these rooms and caverns the MI4 research labs worked around the clock producing new and innovative gadgets and weaponry for the good of the Empire.
MI7, the Atlantean and Ancient Anomalies division of British Intelligence, had their largest presence on the British mainland located here. It was here that MI7 held their greatest and most prized artefacts rescued from the drowned land of Atlantis. Huge friezes were stored in temperature controlled rooms and minutely studied for clues about Earth’s Atlantean past. Mummified remains of long dead rulers lay in jewelled splendour sealed in air tight vaults saved from ruin by diligent British explorers such as Sir Arthur Hawkins and Tarbert Powell. It was rumoured that Hanger number 6 held something so incredible, so top secret that even the Prime Minister wasn’t aware of it. And the weapons that had been recovered. Thirteen thousand year old tubes of hollowed granite attached to elaborately curved hollow gold boxes full of elaborate and convoluted tubes and crystals; crystal tubes that amplified energy into searing beams that sliced through even the toughest metal; swords made of metals that were not even on the periodic tables, that hadn’t dulled or blemished in thousands of year of disuse.
It was barely a day after his rescue from the iceberg that Murdoch was carried from the Excalibur to one of the entrances hidden in a nearby hillock. From there he and his escort descended rapidly by means of a lift into the bowels of the base. Murdoch was sure the sign said Level 10 but he couldn’t be certain.
Dark clouds pressed at the side of his vision and he fought to stay awake. He must have lost a lot of blood. One of the men carrying him slapped him hard on the side of face sending pain shooting from his injured ear.
“Murdoch! Stay awake man! We’re nearly at the infirmary,” said the man, a soldier from his attire. “He won’t last long,” he added, addressing his companion.
Seconds later the two men half carried, half dragged Murdoch onto a waiting operating table in a spotlessly clean white surgery. A masked doctor and two nurses took over from there, injecting Murdoch with a blue liquid. He passed out.
When Murdoch woke, he felt as if he’d been out of it for a good couple of days. He felt pretty rotten and weak. His right ear ached abominably and his head felt tight but that was probably due to it being swathed in bandages. He could feel bandages wrapped around parts of his legs and lower torso. Murdoch felt in bad shape.
“Hello Murdoch. Finally back with us in the land of the living?” The gruff voice of Sir Walter Grimes, greeted Murdoch. Sir Walter was Murdoch’s boss. A small man with a large moustache, he’d written the book on espionage which was partly the reason British Intelligence was having a bad time of it lately. Grimes hadn’t moved with the times and was still applying techniques and strategies that had been old thirty years ago.
“Good morning sir. Or afternoon or evening,” Murdoch replied his head pounding with every word he said.
“Morning. You’ve been out of it for quite a while Murdoch, my boy. A good three days dontcha know? Gave us all a good fright taking a beating like you did. Dr Maybury was up around the clock patching you up.”
“Give him my regards,” Murdoch winced in pain. Then his memory came flooding back along with a wave of nausea that nearly caused him to black out. “Did you get everything I told Davidson on the Excalibur?”
Grimes patted Murdoch’s forearm. “Never fear. Davidson radioed MI6 directly, who got in touch with the Admiralty at Whitehall. Good timing old chap. Stopped us wiping out Johnny Fritz! Blasted Jerries took down the Wellington though.”
Murdoch raised his eyebrows at that. He wondered how the Germans had managed to destroy a dreadnaught as deadly as the Wellington. He didn’t ask though. He would read the final report when it landed on his desk.
“Whitehall is in a right tiff about that,” Grimes continued “Old Taylor was telling me yesterday that we’re going to have to accept the loss of the Wellington and apologise to the Germans for invading their territory!”
Murdoch didn’t add that if the intelligence had been better the Air Arm wouldn’t have attacked Germany in the first place.
“So…. America. That’s a bit unexpected isn’t it?” Murdoch brought the subject round to what he was really interested in.
“Dashed bad news that,” Grimes spluttered his moustache bristling in fury. “That base you escaped from was a bloody hollowed out iceberg! Seems the dashed coffee drinkers have a fleet of warships in the area as well but we can’t find it! We’ve still no idea how they managed to attack Glasgow without us seeing them. The Germans aren’t talking to us now we’ve blown up a few of their airfields. Can’t accept it was all a honest mistake.” Grimes spluttered again.
“Any word on how advanced the American research into the power crystal technology is?” asked Murdoch guiding his superior onto a topic less likely to induce a heart attack.
“Nothing. Not a squeak. Our man in the Far East uncovered some info regarding Doctor Jonathan Knight providing advice on a Nazi German expedition to Nepal a couple of years ago. Didn’t think anything of it at the time. Hitler has a fascination with old legends and Nepal is rooted in legends about Simbla, Camala….”
“Shambala,” corrected Murdoch.
“Whatever,” harrumphed Grimes, “This Dr Knight has been heavily involved in the study of ancient archaeological sites around the world. The fact that you saw him in Greenland has us wondering just quite what the chap’s up to.”
“The Americans used a dreadnaught sized airship for transport,” interrupted Murdoch, “I could hear the engines which sounded similar to that of a British dreadnaught. The layout was also pretty familiar. Either it was a British dreadnaught….” Grimes snorted loudly at this “….or industrial espionage has been carried out on a massive scale. The fact that such a ship is in operation means that the Americans have harnessed the power crystal technology….”
“Yes, yes Murdoch,” Grimes broke in testily. “We do have brains thank you very much.”
Murdoch eased himself into a more comfortable sitting position. A nurse rushed in to fuss over him, plumped up his pillows and tutted severely at Grimes warning him Murdoch wasn’t to be disturbed for much longer as his condition was severe. She then rushed out of the room apparently for medicine for another patient in the hospital.
“Well, any further gen from our men in the field?” asked Murdoch once the nurse’s footsteps had faded away.
Grimes looked troubled. “It seems to be pretty quiet out there. We’ve heard of rocket tests at the White Sands Proving Grounds in America but that’s about it. Security must be water tight. Our boys are having real problems tracking down the research laboratories. We’ve heard a whisper that a subsidiary of General Motors has been transferring large amounts of equipment to Central America. Our friends in Canada mentioned that a huge new top secret complex has been opened up in Nevada. Mere whispers though, Murdoch my boy. We need something concrete! Britain could be facing the greatest threat to its sovereignty yet and we don’t have a bloody clue what’s going on!”
Murdoch had problems feeling any sympathy for Grimes. Grimes had repeatedly ignored Murdoch’s and other senior intelligence officers recommendations to recruit more field agents in the Americas. His famous phrase “Blasted coffee drinkers are barely out of the trees!” was often imitated in frustration when the officers got together at the Garrick for a quick snifter or two. Murdoch didn’t think too highly of the coffee drinkers himself but he did respect their ability to make trouble for the Empire. He’d long held suspicions that the 'accidents' on the English Channel Bridge had been down to American saboteurs but he’d never been able to uncover any proof.
Still, a threat to the Empire was a threat to be dealt with and he’d have a damn good try at dealing with it! He almost passed out as the room spun around him. Murdoch coughed and lay back against the pillows until the dizzy spell passed.
Grimes hadn’t noticed anything untoward and was still raging against the Americans. They were an unsporting bunch now.
“So what are your plans?” Murdoch interrupted.
“Eh? What?” Grimes seemed startled at the interruption.
“Your plans. What are they?” Murdoch almost feared the answer.
“Top secret I’m afraid, old boy!” Grimes replied cheerily.
Oh yes. Tip top. That meant Grimes didn’t have a clue what he was doing next.
“I can tell you what you’re doing though next once you get out of here.”
“Oh yes. Tip top,” Murdoch said drearily dreading what was coming next.
“The Ark Royal and her battle fleet have secured that iceberg base of the Americans that you were rescued from.”
“All this without declaring war?” Murdoch asked incredulously.
“Merely ensuring that a loose iceberg won’t endanger national shipping lanes. They’re fuming, of course, but they don’t want the world to know what they’ve been up to while they’ve been hiding their faces the past couple of decades. As I was saying,” a pointed look saying that further interruptions wouldn’t be tolerated, “You will be our chief intelligence man on the ground supervising the search for information. You’re not fit for fully active duty.” Grimes added, pre-empting Murdoch’s protest.
“I have to go now,” Grimes added. “You’re expected to be reasonably fit within a few days. I expect a detailed report on this ice base from you within a week.”
“Fit?” Murdoch said incredulously. “Fit? I'm sure I've got a couple of bro
ken ribs at the very least!” Murdoch was no wilting violet but he knew broken ribs would take upto eight painful weeks to repair themselves.
Grimes waved his hand airily. “Doctors gave you a once over with a fancy doo dah Atlantean wand thinginmy mabob, what? Apparently it helps knit up broken bones damned quick. Also melts silver as well... Dashed strange what?”
“You authorised the use of an untested technology on me?” gawped an astonished Murdoch.
“We need you on your feet, Murdoch old boy. All hands on deck and all that nonsense. We're facing a potential world war here. Now – as I said, a report within a week please.”
7 Shock and Awe
The rapid chatter of heavy machine gun fire was drowned out by the deeper
guttural growl of a gatling cannon chewing out cannon shells. Wooden beams creaked and metal squealed as they were ripped apart by cannon shells and diamond tipped chainsaws. Rifle fire crackled across the open courtyard ricocheting off the giant armoured figures that glittered darkly with the orange fire that spewed from their guns as they strode steadily across the packed dirt surface, batting the thick wooden gates aside with impunity.
The sound of the intense battle was muted by the thick stone walls that surrounded the garage. The garage wasn't particularly big – only around a hundred feet on each side with a thick metal door at the end. The smell of oil, diesel and cordite hung in the air. Black patches of oil lay thickly on the stone floor, collecting around the cast iron feet of the varied twelve foot tall metal figures that stood around the three walls. Metal gantries rose up on either side of the figures, holding them in place. On the wall above the gantries were painted the stars and stripes of the United States of America, bright red and whites dirtied from the grime of the garage.
An Atlantean Triumvirate Page 9
