S.T.I.N.K.B.O.M.B.

by Rob Stevens

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘So I sent you the coded message. It’s basic trade craft.’

  ‘The message wasn’t exactly coded though, was it?’ Archie laughed. ‘It was just written quite small.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Barney grinned. ‘I didn’t want any enemy agents to decipher it.’

  ‘Don’t you ever get tired of pretending to be a spy?’ Archie asked.

  ‘Everyone needs a fantasy,’ Barney conceded. ‘You dream about being a pilot and I dream about being a spy. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?’

  Archie hesitated for a moment. ‘Yup,’ he said. ‘We’re just a couple of dreamers.’

  ‘Code red, code red.’ Barney was looking towards the exit at the end of the corridor where Harvey Newman and a bunch of his mates were loitering. ‘Enemy operatives up ahead.’

  ‘Great,’ sighed Archie. ‘That’s all we need – a run-in with Hardly Human.’

  Barney studied his mobile as if it was a palmtop computer. ‘Intel reports suggest suspects are prone to mindless aggression of the roughing-up variety and planning an imminent strike. Your orders are not to engage with the enemy. I repeat, do not engage.’

  ‘What do you mean, “intel reports”?’ asked Archie as they approached the group of thugs.

  ‘It’s short for intelligence rep—’

  ‘I know what it’s short for, you wally. I meant, “Where does your intel come from?”’

  ‘I overheard him talking in the bogs,’ Barney conceded. ‘Newman got double detention for giving Miss Smith verbals. He said he’s ready to pound someone.’

  The gang blocked the corridor. ‘Excuse us, please,’ said Archie. ‘Can we just get past?’

  ‘Well, look who it is,’ sneered Newman. He circled the two friends once then stood so close in front of Archie that their noses were almost touching. ‘All right, Hunt?’

  ‘Hello, Hardly.’

  Newman frowned. ‘What did you just call me?’ he demanded, grabbing a handful of Archie’s shirt.

  ‘I meant to say Harvey. Slip of the tongue, sorry.’ Archie smiled amiably as Newman’s eyes narrowed. He was a solid lump of a boy with pinkish skin and gingery blond hair cut into a flat top.

  If I find out that’s some kind of smart-alec nickname then I’ll mash you like a … like a …’

  ‘A potato?’ suggested Archie helpfully.

  ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you?’ snarled Newman.

  Archie shrugged. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, you’re not the only one who can think up clever names,’ Newman said. ‘I’m going to start calling your friend here Fatty.’

  ‘That is clever,’ said Barney. ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘As for you, Hunt, I’m going to call you Four Eyes. You know, because you wear glasses and that.’

  ‘Yes, I pieced that together for myself, thanks,’ said Archie, absently adjusting his spectacles. ‘Brilliant – well done you. Anyway, must dash.’

  ‘Not so fast.’ Newman put a hand on Archie’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. ‘What got into you in biology? You looked like such a weirdo.’

  Archie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Moore the Bore just seemed to be living up to her name more than usual.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I was bored too. But I didn’t pretend to fly round the classroom going, “Come in, mission control, can you hear me, mission control?”’ For his impression of Archie, Newman adopted a high-pitched warble that made his cronies snigger. ‘How come I get double litter duty for giving Smith a bit of lip and you get away scratch free for acting like such a clown? You were like that toy that thinks he can fly in that cartoon. You know, Buzz whatsaname. In fact, forget Four Eyes – I’m going to start calling you Buzz.’

  Newman emphasised the last word by shoving Archie.

  ‘You can go now, Fatty and Buzz,’ Newman smirked, standing aside to let Archie and Barney pass.

  The two friends exchanged glances then Barney pushed open the exit door.

  ‘Bye, Hardly’ said Archie, stepping into the afternoon air.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Buzz Lightwater.’

  ‘You mean Lightyear, brainache,’ Archie muttered under his breath.

  ‘HEY!’ Newman ordered. ‘What did you say, Buzz?’

  ‘Me? Nothing,’ Archie said innocently. ‘I probably misheard but it sounded like you just said Lightwater.’

  ‘Yeah? And so what if I did?’ Newman snorted.

  ‘I think you meant Buzz Lightyear,’ Archie said slowly.

  ‘No I never,’ Newman insisted, bunching his fists and frowning.

  ‘My mistake.’ Archie smiled pleasantly. ‘So who is this Buzz Lightwater then?’

  Newman studied Archie for a moment before turning to scan the expectant faces of his gang. Looking back he considered his options for a few seconds before replying with two simple words.

  ‘Get them!’

  Two of the bullies grabbed Barney, yanking his rucksack off his shoulder and tipping its contents on the ground before laying into him with their feet and fists. Meanwhile, Newman charged at Archie, who braced himself for the pain he was about to endure. Apart from being much slighter than Newman, he had never been in a fight in his whole life. But as the punches few at his face Archie felt a strange sense of control come over him.

  As though it was second nature to him, he skipped backwards, blocking or dodging every single blow. When there was a lull in Newmans onslaught Archie intuitively planted his left foot, leaned back and drove his right foot straight into his opponent’s chest. To his amazement his kick lifted the bully clean off his feet, knocking him flat on his back.

  Seeing Newman floored, his cronies forgot about battering Barney and scarpered immediately. Newman himself clambered hurriedly to his feet, jabbing his finger and warning Archie to ‘look out next time’ as he backed sheepishly into B block.

  ‘Whoa! Dude!’ Barney laughed. ‘That was awesome! What got into you?’

  Archie pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. ‘I dunno,’ he replied, his face pale with shock. ‘It just, sort of, came naturally.’

  ‘Well, just so there’s no confusion next time,’ Barney said, dabbing at his bloodied lip with a tissue while retrieving his James Bond lunch box, ‘Do not engage the enemy translates into Don’t wind up Harvey Newman.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Archie, picking up a couple of exercise books and handing them to his friend. ‘I thought it was some sort of code.’

  ‘For what? Try and get us duffed up at all costs?’

  Archie smiled weakly.

  ‘M’s going to kill me when she sees my coat,’ said Barney, inspecting a tear under one arm.

  ‘Tell your mum it was my fault.’

  Barney smiled and shook his head. ‘An agent never blows another operative’s cover. Besides, it was worth it just to see you kick Harvey Newman’s butt. You were like some sort of super-ninja-nerd. Seriously, where did you learn those moves?’

  Archie clenched his hands in his pockets to stop them trembling. ‘Honestly, I haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘Well, it was wicked.’ Barney smiled. ‘Totally weird – but wicked.’

  Blushing, Archie smiled. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘I’m a bit shaken,’ Barney admitted. ‘But not stirred.’

  ‘You’ve got two bogeys in your six o’clock.’

  Archie Hunt reacted instantly to the familiar voice in his headset, slamming forward both thrust levers and pulling the control column into his stomach. The jet aircraft responded immediately. It was a Dragonfly 600, a revolutionary business jet that boasted incredible aerobatic performance. Engines screaming, its nose reared up and it arced into an increasingly steep climb.

  Archie glanced to his left, stifling a groan as the G-force pushed him into his seat. Far below, the surface of the Channel was sparkling in the afternoon sun as it lapped up against chalk cliffs and sandy beaches. When his torso was parallel to the horizon Archie checked the stick forward and the jet power
ed vertically upward like a rocket piercing the clear blue sky. ‘Yeeehaaah!’

  The voice in Archie’s headset was impassive. ‘Don’t forget you’re not Captain Kirk, and you’re not flying the starship Enterprise. Check your airspeed.’ Archie scanned the two screens on the panel in front of him, comprising the aircraft’s flight instruments, assimilating the information in a moment.

  The Dragonfly’s two jet engines couldn’t sustain the vertical climb much longer. The aircraft was simply trading speed for height, like a cyclist freewheeling up a steep slope. Soon its momentum would run out and then the aircraft would simply topple out of the sky like a toy plane.

  Pulling back on the stick, Archie kept the wingtips level as the aircraft looped on to its back. He dropped out of his seat and felt a momentary stab of panic before his shoulder straps snapped taut to arrest his fall. Hanging in his harness he shoved the control column forward to hold the Dragonfly’s altitude and checked his instruments.

  Glancing momentarily at the coastline above him, Archie felt his eyes bulging as the blood rushed to his head. Then, as he slapped the stick against his left thigh, the world spun round the aircraft’s nose until the earth was beneath him once again. When the wings were level he centralised the controls, arresting the roll with a crisp jolt.

  ‘Watch your airspeed.’ The voice in Archie’s headset was calm but firm.

  Archie pushed the throttles forward but the plane’s body angle was too steep, his reaction had been too slow and the aircraft began to wallow like a sinking ship. Suddenly the Dragonfly flipped on to its back, twisting to the left, spiralling like a corkscrew as it fell.

  Archie knew the drill for spin recovery off pat and recited it in his head as the plane plunged towards the water. Forcing himself to adhere to the procedure, he relaxed his grip on the control column and extended his left leg against the rudder pedal. The aircraft’s nose seemed to drop further as its rapid clockwise pirouette began to slow down. He glanced at the altimeter as he waited for the rotation to stop.

  The Dragonfly had already dropped four thousand feet. It would take less than a minute to plummet the remaining ten thousand feet between him and disaster. Looking through the windscreen, he reckoned the world below was spinning more slowly but it was expanding at a frightening rate as it rushed up to meet him. Tiny details were emerging as if he was on Google Earth, zooming in on his point of impact. He could see the swell of the ocean and ripples on its surface and brightly coloured windsurfers skipping along in the breeze. All the time the plane was falling.

  Seconds passed.

  The aircraft tumbled another few hundred feet.

  The plane had virtually stopped spiralling as the altimeter whipped through five thousand feet. Archie couldn’t hold his nerve any longer and he hauled the controls into his gut.

  ‘Wait for it,’ urged the voice in his headset. But it was too late.

  The air still wasn’t flowing smoothly over the aircraft’s wings and Archie’s input only made matters worse. In a split second the world was spinning violently as the plane speared towards the earth in a tightening corkscrew.

  ‘I have control!’

  Breathless with terror, Archie watched as his father gripped the control stick between his knees. Richard Hunt was an ex-Royal Air Force test pilot who had flown countless combat missions over Iraq and the Balkans. After proving his skill and bravery at a young age he had been recruited to the SFS – the highly classified Special Flying Service – an elite squadron of fighter pilots trained to land behind enemy lines and carry out covert commando missions. While everyone knew tales about the daring missions carried out by the SAS, the SFS remained so secretive that only a handful of high-level government officials were even aware of its existence.

  Archie knew that if anyone could save them, it was his father.

  With arctic coolness, Richard Hunt centralised the controls and applied full left rudder. Then he started talking to Archie through the intercom in the sort of reassuring voice surgeons use when they’re explaining an impending procedure to a nervous patient.

  As his father commentated, Archie instinctively gripped his armrests and pushed himself back into his seat. The windscreen was filled with a terrifyingly close view of the sea, which would be pouring through their shattered canopy if they didn’t pull out of their dive in the next fifteen seconds.

  Richard continued, ‘Fifteen hundred feet, rotation rate zero, initiating recovery at twelve hundred feet.’

  The sight of the unusual jet aeroplane tumbling earthward had caught the attention of a number of holidaymakers on the beaches of England’s south coast. Some were frozen open-mouthed while others already had their camera phones poised, capturing the imminent impact, as they estimated the price they’d be able to demand from satellite news channels for their exclusive footage.

  Just when everyone in the crowd was sure they were about to witness a horrific plane crash, the silver sweptwing jet began to recover. Swooping perilously close to the water, the aircraft drew gasps of wonder from its audience, almost skimming the waves before pulling out of its dive and climbing steeply away. As it headed skyward it completed an immaculate four-point roll, pausing briefly after each quarter-turn.

  Archie exhaled long and hard.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he breathed.

  ‘We’re still in one piece, aren’t we?’ Richard steered the plane inland.

  The Dragonfly crossed the coast and descended into a wooded valley, like an insect targeting the crease of a sleeping rhino’s skin. Dropping the undercarriage with the flick of a lever Richard banked hard right, carving a turn low over the vast chrome and glass house he shared with his son.

  The aircraft Richard had flown in the SFS was the Harrier jump jet, a plane capable of hovering or executing a vertical take-off and landing by directing the thrust from its engines through controllable nozzles. Since leaving the SFS Richard had assembled a team of engineers capable of adapting the Harrier’s vectored thrust technology to design the world’s first Vertical Take-off and Landing (VTOL) private plane.

  The Dragonfly was popular with millionaires, who liked the idea that it matched their helicopters’ versatility while flying at five times the speed. Richard had used some of Hunt Aviation’s handsome profits to fund a fleet of Red Cross Dragonflies, which were proving invaluable in providing swift medical care to people injured or endangered in remote war zones.

  Archie brimmed with admiration as he watched his father coordinating subtle movements to achieve a rock-solid hover. Easing back the thrust levers, Richard finessed the controls and the Dragonfly began to descend vertically. Seconds later the aircraft’s landing gear touched down and Richard taxied it towards his private purpose-built hangar.

  When the engines were shut down Archie unclipped the canopy’s red safety lever and slid the glass dome backwards along its rails. He felt devastated about the near catastrophe he had caused – angry with himself for messing up the spin recovery and ashamed that his father had witnessed his failure. Not only was Richard Hunt a test pilot of immense skill, he was the one person in the world whom Archie had always wanted to emulate and make proud.

  Gripping the top of the windshield, Archie climbed from the cockpit and walked round the plane’s sleek torpedo-shaped nose to meet his father. With his long gangly limbs, Archie was taller than most of his classmates and tended to slouch to compensate. His tousled hair gave him the appearance of someone who had just rolled out of bed but his brown eyes peered keenly through the rectangular lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Dad,’ he repeated, meeting his father’s eyes. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘No.’ Richard nodded as if to accept his son’s apology. Archie looked up at his father, waiting for him to say something else – to offer some encouragement or praise to buoy his spirits. At last Richard ruffled his son’s hair and said, ‘Let’s see what’s for tea – I’m starving.’

  Later that afternoon Archie wa
s on Facebook when he got a new message from someone whose profile picture was a silver X on a red background. After reading it twice he grabbed his mobile and called Barney.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Archie.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Listen, can you come over before school tomorrow?’

  ‘Can do. What’s up?’

  ‘I just got this weird message on Facebook. I think you might be able to shed some light on it.’

  Barney stared at the computer screen in Archie’s bedroom, his mouth hanging open slightly, as it had been for the last few minutes. He read the message out loud for the eighth time, his voice trembling with excitement.

  ‘My name is Agent X-ray. You don’t know me but I am a government operative. If you are willing to help your country in matters of national security, meet me at the corner of Ashdown Road and Cavendish Way at 8 a.m. tomorrow. Come alone.’

  ‘You can own up now,’ said Archie, gently shoulder-barging his friend.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Barney, taking his eyes off the screen at last.

  ‘I’m on to you, Agent X-ray.’

  ‘What? No! I didn’t send that.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I swear on my signed copy of Silverfin.’

  ‘Well, if you didn’t, who did?’

  Barney’s eyes widened. ‘It could actually be from MI6,’ he breathed.

  ‘Sure, that’s obviously the most likely solution,’ said Archie dryly. ‘But, just for argument’s sake, let’s work on the unlikely scenario that I haven’t been contacted by an actual secret service spy. Who else could it be from?’

  ‘What about Newman? He might be waiting on that corner with back-up – ready to get you back for the other day.’

  ‘Nah.’ Archie shook his head. ‘Check the spelling.’

  Barney looked back at the screen and nodded. ‘I see what you mean – there’s no way Newman could spell government operative.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if he could pronounce it.’

  Barney laughed and shoved the last quarter of a slice of buttered toast into his mouth.