by Weston Ochse
They trudged up the stairs. Walker followed YaYa, who’d already been upstairs. They went into a bathroom and found Sir MacDonald in the bathtub, eyes staring sightlessly toward the paneled ceiling. Beneath these orbs his face was a bloody mess and looked as if an inexpert hand had frantically sewed and seamed his mouth shut. You could tell where someone stopped, then started. Several of the threads had broken and had been resewn.
Walker saw the dark red stain of blood that had seeped through the terry-cloth robe where the crotch should have been. Yeah. It was fucking terrible, but a growing part of him wished it had been him who’d done this instead of Ian. And if anyone wanted to judge him for this deserved desire, then let it be Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.
“Let’s get this done,” he said roughly.
Walker grabbed the arms and YaYa took the legs. They took the body into the master bedroom, laid it on the bed, then bound it in the bedspread, using ripped lengths of sheet to tie it. About halfway through, Walker noticed YaYa had stopped moving. He glanced at the kid and saw his teeth were rattling. His face had paled and sweat beaded on his brow.
“What is it?”
“I feel … there’s … something.”
Walker felt something too, but he’d been feeling a low-key supernatural buzz almost the entire time he’d been in England. But now that YaYa was feeling something, he tried to hone in on the feeling. Strange. It was as if it was centered right in front of them, but all that was there was the dead MP and the bed.
Walker suddenly stepped back.
“Did you check under the bed?”
“Of course…” YaYa stepped back too. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” All he saw was the dark edge of a solid shadow.
“Once we saw the body, it was all about that.”
“Did Hoover come in here?”
“No, she was in the other rooms.”
Walker pulled his pistol and dropped to his knees. A set of eyes met his own. “Get out of there.”
The eyes blinked at him.
He waved the barrel of his pistol. “Get the hell out.”
A hand came out. He grabbed it and pulled a woman free. She wore jeans and a blouse but had no shoes on, nor did she have any jewelry. Her blond hair was mussed, but her face was thankfully free of stitches. She looked for all the world like a regular girl, but Walker knew better. The moment he touched her he could feel the power coursing through her. He let her go and kicked her away.
“Get the witch.”
YaYa stared a moment, then broke into motion. He went to the top of the stairs and called down. Soon Laws and the witch were pounding up the stairs and into the room.
“I don’t know what she is, but she’s something.”
The witch took one look and laughed. “Sarah Pinney, what have you done? Did you look under the bed for a robe?”
YaYa reached under the bed and pulled out a scarlet robe, the same ones worn by the Red Grove. He held it in his mechanical hand like it was rotten.
Walker stood and backed away. He crossed his arms low and in front of him but still held his pistol.
The woman named Sarah was older than he’d originally thought. Her mousy blond hair held slivers of gray and crow’s-feet lived at the corners of her eyes and mouth. “Sassy, we thought it was you.”
“In all of my glory.” She took the robe from YaYa and inspected it. “I thought there were a few familiar touches in the Red Grove’s magic.”
The girl went to stand, but Walker shook his head and lifted the tip of the pistol slightly. She gave him a smile which said a girl had to try, then settled onto her butt. “You might as well know, since it’s almost over.”
“You’d be surprised how much we already know.”
Sarah giggled. “We know. Merlyn told us.”
Laws stepped forward. “Who is this, Ms. Moore?”
“She and I once trained together. She was going to be a part of the Fraternitas Saturni as well, but she didn’t have what it took.”
“Except she has a Tuatha inside her, now,” YaYa said.
Sassy nodded. “Except that. How’d you know?”
YaYa made a face. “It’s like a familiar smell, except it’s a feeling instead. Not at all pleasant.”
“Even with a Tuatha, this one is no match for me.” Sassy knelt next to the woman. “And it’s a nasty little beastie inside you, isn’t it? What is it?”
“A Baen Sidhe.”
“What’s her name?”
“I’m not going to tell you that.”
Sassy gave her a matronly smile. “Come now, Sarah. You’ve never been one to like a lot of pain. Do you really want to deny me?”
The other witch looked defiant for a moment, then sighed. She shrugged. “Fine. Have her. It’s not like you’ll be able to do anything with it. There’s nothing you’ll be able to do to stop it.”
“We’ll see about that. Now let me get to that Baen Sidhe. I could use a recharge.” She brought her Viking wand up and pointed it at the other witch. “You boys might want to turn away. This is going to get ugly.”
CHAPTER 48
POINT BRAVO, WARWICK, ENGLAND. LATER.
Preeti was anxious to get through. The total blackout was killing her. Not only did she need to find out about Trevor, but she’d also been trying to coordinate some backup for Ian and the men of SEAL Team 666. Her brother was helping her as well and both of them were butting up against a wholesale effort to keep information from flowing within the country and to turn the communication networks into a cat’s cradle of confusion. She couldn’t contact anyone meaningful, and when she could get through they were requiring her to authenticate a phrase for which she had no password. Lord Robinson was completely incommunicado. Even his private cell number was out of service. She was becoming increasingly concerned that they might be winning the battles but losing the war. She said as much to Genaro, who could feel her frustration.
“Have you tried to have someone external contact an internal number? Maybe it’s something they’ve done with the switches.”
She thought it was a great idea and contacted Pete Musso at SPG. She explained what she needed. Gave him several numbers, then waited. He came back in fifteen minutes and the news wasn’t good. He couldn’t get through either, and with a query to a colleague in America’s NSA it became apparent that Britain’s Government Communications Headquarters had locked down the communications systems and was only allowing connectivity through their master server in The Doughnut, their headquarters in Cheltenham.
Preeti slammed her crutches against the floor. “Damn it. What if they need help? There’s no way to get it to them.”
“This had to have been part of the greater plan. It makes you wonder how many people in high places are involved.”
“It could only be a few if they have the right access. After all, it’s Christmas Day. No one’s paying attention to anything except their families.”
Genaro had another idea. “What about friends from outside England? Help from America is too far, but what about France or Germany?”
Preeti felt a well of hope. “Or Ireland. Trevor and Ian worked with a couple blokes from the Irish Seventeenth Army Ranger Wing. On paper it doesn’t exist, but much like Section 9, they’ve been around for quite a while.”
She tried to call out but wasn’t able to connect. Which made sense, since GCHQ controlled all of Great Britain. She called back Musso and asked him to contact Conor McGinty and to give him a time to connect, which was thirty minutes from then. Musso said he would, and in the meantime she logged onto Facebook and pulled up a popular application used to play word games.
While she waited, Genaro made them another pot of coffee. She was on the third pot. Her stomach was torn up from the stress and the acid. He urged her to eat and she finally chose a slice of bread with some butter on it. She couldn’t bring herself to try anything else.
Two of her Facebook friends saw her online and tried to initiate a game, but she
ignored them. Finally, thirty-seven minutes after she began waiting, she saw the word Laith pop into her box. She replied with Luachra. Laith Luachra was the mother of Finn mac Cumhaill, better known as Finn McCool. Not only was he a great Irish mythological warrior, but it was also the nickname of the Irish Seventeenth Army Ranger Wing—the Finn McCools.
Then they opened a chat window.
Conor: Merry Christmas. What’s up?
Preeti: Nothing merry about it.
Conor: Uh-oh. Tell me.
Preeti: Jerry’s dead. Trevor may be too. Lost three others last week. Might lose the Queen. Need help.
There was a long pause.
Conor: Sorry about loss. Terrible. What news with Queen?
Preeti: All other coms are hijacked. Highest-level bad guys. Want to overthrow Queen.
Conor: We’ve been tracking something. Bad day to get help.
Preeti: Can’t help it. Do you have anything?
Another long pause.
Conor: Have two choppers at Culdros. Two men. Not going to be happy, but looks like you need it.
Preeti: You have no idea.
Conor: It must really be bad. How’s Ian?
Preeti: You can guess.
Conor: Yeah. I can. Listen, Patrick Kelly and Keith O’Reilly will be in contact. Keep lines open.
Preeti: Will do. And thank you, Conor.
Conor: As always, payment in beer.
Then he signed off.
Genaro, who had been following the conversation over her shoulder, straightened. “Ingenious. I read a book once about spies communicating during MMORPGs. What was your plan B if this didn’t work?”
She frowned and hugged her sweater around her. “Carrier pigeon.”
“I think they’re extinct.”
“That says it all.” She sat back in her chair. England had a long history of kings and queens and not everyone found the throne through peaceful means. What was that mnemonic they’d made her learn in order to recall the long line of English monarchs?
First William the Norman
Then William his son
Henry, Stephen, Henry
Then Richard and John
Next Henry the Third
Edwards One, Two, and Three
And again after Richard
Three Henrys we see
Two Edwards, Third Richard
If rightly I guess
Two Henrys, Sixth Edward
Queen Mary, Queen Bess
Then Jamie the Scotsman
And Charles whom they slew
Yet received after Cromwell
Another Charles too
Next James the Second
Acceded the Throne
Then good William and Mary
Together came on
Not till Anne, Georges Four,
And Fourth William all passed
Came the reign of Victoria,
Whose longest did last
Then Edward the Peacemaker
(He was her son)
The fifth of the Georges
Was next in the run
Edward the Eighth
Gave the Crown to his brother
Now God’s sent Elizabeth
All of us love her.
Then Preeti added two lines:
But now Arthur is here
And if you’re not white.…
She struggled to find the right word, but all she could think of was:
Then your life is shite.
And to think two Irish helicopters, five Americans, a Belgian dog, and Ian were all who could possibly alter this path. She began to cry, big, choking sobs. She cried for herself, she cried for Jerry, she cried for Trevor, and she cried for England … an England who’d embraced her family and every other family, regardless from whence they came.
CHAPTER 49
CULDROS ROYAL NAVAL AIR STATION, ENGLAND. 1115 HOURS.
Lieutenant Patrick Kelly cursed loudly in the cockpit of his Superhawk helicopter. “Seriously? Christmas Day we have to pull some English nit’s balls out of the fire?” He’d planned on a nice afternoon with a gal he’d met off base. She was single. He was single. He imagined getting some ribbon and wrapping himself up as a present so he could gift himself to her.
But then Conor had contacted him through flight control. It was strange at first that Conor hadn’t called him on his cell phone, but he’d explained that there were issues with communications at the current time, which was why Patrick had stood in flight control wearing a headset with an on-duty noncom staring at him while Conor gave him the rundown.
“Get Keith. You two have to meet some friends at Cadbury Castle. You’ll take your orders from Ian Waits. Do what he says until this is all over.”
Keith stumbled out of the hangar, zipping up his flight suit. He gave Patrick a quizzical look as he made his way to his own helicopter.
Patrick shrugged with his hands. He watched Keith’s walk. The kid had been in his pints last night and it was possible he could still have alcohol in his system. He waited until Keith put on his flight helmet and jacked in. Then he called over.
“You okay, brother?”
“Always.”
Patrick paused for a second, then asked, “You sure had a good time last night?”
“Fuck you very much.”
“Keith, I—”
“Forget it. I’m good. Let’s get spun up and over there to see what the hell is going on.”
Patrick had done everything he could. Keith was probably okay. He had the metabolism of a twenty-year-old and could fly circles around most pilots. Actually, he was lucky to have Keith with him. They were to fly Nap-of-the-Earth to avoid detection. Although NOE was unusual outside a combat zone, Patrick had gotten the impression from Conor that England had suddenly become a combat zone. Patrick was eager to find out why.
He’d already prepared the flight plans for their return home to Casement Aerodrome in Dublin. So he’d filed those, which meant they’d have to head north over the Celtic Sea, before heading east to Cadbury Castle.
He glanced over at Keith again and watched him go through preflight. They were more alike than different. They’d both lost family in Northern Ireland and had grown up with war all around them. So when they had the chance to spend time in the south of England, even during the cold, blustery month of December, it was a luxury they didn’t take for granted.
Both Keith and he had been enlisted soldiers prior to becoming officers. They hadn’t known each other when they’d transferred to helicopters, but they’d formed a fast and lifelong friendship in flight school, even if it felt sometimes that he was the older brother in their relationship.
Then they met the Finn McCools. Something in Keith’s and Conor’s files had made the McCools interested in them and they soon found their missions filled with odd creatures and cryptids they’d previously only seen on badly made movies on the cable TV channels. Part of him believed it was just this sort of mission that he was about to embark upon, which went a long way to ameliorate the disappointment he felt at missing his much-anticipated assignation.
The sky was overcast with a ceiling of five hundred meters. Visibility was at five kilometers. It had snowed lightly early in the morning, but the day was now crisp and clear, so flying shouldn’t be an issue.
With preflight done for both helicopters, he called flight control. The engines whined and the blades spun clumsily. But as they gathered speed they took on a slick appearance and the sound rose in pitch.
“FM One, this is Control. All flights are grounded. Repeat. All flights are grounded.”
“Control, this is FM One requesting clearance.”
“Negative, FM One. All flights are grounded.” The voice had been friendly but firm.
Interesting. “Control, we are en route for Baldonnel. Please grant clearance, over.”
“Negative. Stand down.”
He toggled to craft-to-craft mode. “Keith, looks like we’re going to have to make a run for it.”
&
nbsp; “What are they going to do, shoot us down?”
Patrick laughed but hoped that it wouldn’t come to that. It couldn’t. Or could it? “Ready?”
“You lead, I’ll follow.”
“Control, this is FM One. Request permission return to home base.”
“Negative. Stand down.” This time the voice was anything but friendly.
“Affirmative, Control. Thanks and Merry Christmas.”
He punched the throttle, lifted the collective, and pushed the stick forward. He roared across the tarmac, his ears suddenly filled with commands to stand down and return to base, but he ignored them like he did most things English.
“Patrick?”
“On your six.”
He reveled in the power of the new Sikorsky H-92s. The military variant of the S-92 and an upgrade over the S-70, the Superhawk boasted more than 3,000 shaft horsepower. Nominally assigned to the Irish Coast Guard, as was his cover status, they were meant for search and rescue. Of course the Ministry of Defence had ordered two extras for the Finn McCools to use. The delivery last year of these aircraft eliminated the need to keep the older ones aloft with spit, bailing wire, and prayers to all denominational deities. Patrick loved the feel of the craft.
The pair of green and white Superhawks flew at an elevation of thirty meters over the windswept empty grounds of Flambard’s Themepark. The Skyraker thrill ride towered over them for a moment; then they were moving on. Patrick switched off his Identification Friend or Foe transponder and had Keith do the same.
They soon passed Helston and turned northeast past Treswithian in order to stay away from the radar present at Nancekuk. When they hit the coast they kept going, then made a slow turn to the northeast. They crossed back over land at Bideford and reduced their elevation to twenty meters. At Tiverton they were forced to head south to avoid yet another radar.
Then they were at Chard.
Then Crewkerne.
Then Yeovil.
Cadbury Castle lay five kilometers to the north and they were on it in a matter of seconds. Rising 140 meters, the hill was surrounded on all sides. A road ran up one corner. Opposite this was a stair-stepping of land leading to the valley floor. It was a beautiful place, but that’s not what made both helicopters pull up.
