Omega (60 page)

The two pilots had watched the whole murderous ritual, held almost hypnotically in their seats, feeling its evil like a corrosive vapour in the air. When the huge sarsen trilithon had splayed outwards and collapsed on the Black Mamba and her High Priest (who seemed to have lost his nerve but been dragged back, in that crazy horseback spiral), Brodie had instinctively reached for his switches to take off, visualizing a shock wave that might damage the helicopter. But he had realized at once that no shock was coming, only the faintest tremble. It did not make sense because the trilithons were barely 200 metres away, and a narrow fissure had appeared in the ground across the heart of the Henge and reached almost halfway to where they sat. The chopper should have been shaken like a child's rattle. . . . The horses, away on their right, had plunged and pulled at their reins and three of them had managed to tear free from the fence and had bolted. But then animals, Brodie told himself, sensed many things that men and helicopters did not.

'They're finished now,' Denning said. 'Look - without
her,
they don't know what to do.'

It was true. Most of the Angels of Lucifer were wandering or crouching among the megaliths, bewildered and aimless. Three or four were arguing between themselves, as though they had the will to assume leadership but not the agreement. The seven sacrificed bodies lay in a row outside the sarsen horseshoe, bloodstained and forgotten.

'What do
we
do, Skip?' Denning asked.

'I don't know, Den. I just don't know.'

Denning glanced at his commander and friend, concerned. It wasn't like the Skipper to be indecisive. He must be as numbed by everything as he felt himself.
...
Denning turned his eyes to the Henge again and suddenly froze.

'Skipper - the Dust!'

Out of the fissure the dreadful miasma of the Madness was seeping, unnoticed by the Angels till it was already enveloping them. Brodie and Denning, well conditioned by drill, grabbed their respirators and snapped them over their mouths while the drifting cloud was still
100
metres away.

Then the Angels realized and panicked.

For a few seconds they ran hither and thither, hopelessly trying to dodge the Dust. Then two or three of them began to race towards the helicopter and, like a cattle stampede, the rest followed. Brodie took one look at the wild-eyed naked mob, coming closer every second, and hit his switches. The rotors whirled into life and the chopper rose, sliding briefly over the vision of crazed upturned faces and pleading outstretched arms, then banking as though to shake free of the horror. . . . Up and up into the dawn sky till Brodie felt free and content to hover.

'They were doomed already - they'd breathed it,' Denning said.

'More than that, Den. They didn't
deserve
rescuing.'

'Do any of us? If Operation Skylight's allied to
that
sort of thing?' It was almost a seditious question and he wondered how Brodie would take it; for the captain, much as he liked and respected him, was a conventional soldier with a very simple sense of duty.

'That depends,' Brodie said, to Denning's astonishment, 'on what we do now.'

'Our orders say "In the event of complete loss of contact with Karen Morley and her group, you will report the fact, and your position, to Base, and await instructions",' Denning pointed out.

Brodie did not answer for a while but rotated the chopper slowly so that the horizon passed before their eyes in a stately panorama. Then he smiled and said, 'Damn the orders. We will spend a little time sweeping the area with our detector scoop open, to see if what I suspect is true -that the only Dust outbreak was at Stonehenge. Then we'll put her down in a nice field somewhere and think. Not awaiting instructions, Den - awaiting enlightenment. . . . Are you with me?'

The lieutenant leaned back in his seat, feeling a contentment he had not yet even begun to analyse. 'I'm with you, Skip. I'm with you all the way.'

'B' Company was being transported by the RAF and the major resented the fact. Once, his company had had its own choppers, flown by
pilots under his personal com
mand; but all such privileged units had been stripped of their aircraft on Beehive Amber, every machine being transferred to a flexible common pool. The major knew it had been necessary; Operation Skylight, for example, could only have been mounted on a shuttle basis. But at least he might have had the luck to be shuttled by Army machines. The RAF had an infuriatingly irreverent attitude to 'Pongos'.

He felt unreasonably relieved when the RAF had deposited 'B' Company on the outskirts of the little Suffolk town of Needham Market, his alloted HQ, and departed. Not even a decent salute from that puppy of a flight
-
lieutenant. Oh well - forget them. 'B' Company had work to do.

The major wished
he could pin down the vague fee
ling of unease that possessed him. He didn't dislike the RAF
that
much. And, anyway, they had gone.

He watched his three platoons deploy for the advance into the town - left front, right front and one in reserve in case of trouble. Of course there would be none.

Even as he formulated the reassuring thought, the firing started. Shotguns by the sound of it, from that house ahead of No
5
Platoon. But why weren't No
5
replying? The target was clear - he had seen the muzzle-smoke himself.
...

He rapped a fire order to the mortar section corporal beside him. A couple of mortar bombs through that slate roof and the rats would come running.

No
5
Platoon still hadn't replied to the single opening volley. What the hell were they up to? They were out of shotgun range anyway - they had the bastards on toast!

He realized the mortar hadn't fired yet, either, and he rapped over his shoulder: 'You heard me, Corporal! Get cracking?'

'Why?' the corporal asked, calmly.

The major could not believe his ears. He spun round to face the corporal, who stood by the mortar with his thumbs stuck in his belt.

'Why, man? Because I gave you an order! By Christ, I'll have your stripes!'

'There are people in that house, sir.'

'Of
course
there are bloody people! That's why I want it demolished. They're firing at us!' And what the hell was
he
doing, arguing with an NCO?

'Only warning shots, I think, sir. Our lads are still out of range. And the firing's stopped.'

'It'll bloody soon start again when they're
in
range!'

'I don't think so, sir. Look.' The corporal pointed past him towards No
5
Platoon.

The bewildering unreality of the scene left the major, for once in his life, without even an expletive. The men of No
5
Platoon were walking relaxedly towards the house. Some had their hands shoulder-high; one or two waved white handkerchiefs; some even had their hands in their pockets. And not one of them carried a weapon. The major saw, incredulously, the rifles and LMGs lying abandoned on the grass where the platoon had first deployed. . . . And coming to meet No
5
Platoon, three civilians were emerging from the house, their shotguns broken open and cradled casually in the crooks of their arms.

'If I were you, sir,' the corporal said kindly, 'I'd take a walk into the town - more of a village really, isn't it? -and start making friends. There's bound to be a committee or something. See how we can fit in with them, like. After all, it's not many weeks to harvest. They could probably do with our help.'

He watched as the major stumbled away towards the houses without so much as opening his mouth. Not a bad old stick, as company commanders go, the corporal thought. Bark worse than his bite. Just a bit slow on the uptake, sometimes.

At Camp Cerridwe
n some of the Army assault group lay on the grass enjoying the sky - after all, they hadn't seen much of it recently - while" others strolled around the cabins inquisitively. Those with an eye for craftsmanship admired the way obvious amateurs had solved the problems of building. The Signals sergeant, who had been an electrician before he enlisted, muttered in frustration because the water-powered generating system had had its vital parts removed; it was obviously a nea
t job and he'd have liked to see
it in action.

The assault group commander, a young captain with a face like a Mafioso, sat on the river bank arguing with his two platoon commanders and the CSM.

'I'd like it, too, for Christ's sake. But there's nearly 100 of us - and if we can get the wives out of Beehive (and take that grin off your face, Sar'-Major, you randy sod) we'd be more like 150. This place just couldn't absorb us. By the look of it, it's about the optimum size already - they wouldn't thank us for turning it into a ruddy town.'

'Couldn't we build another, downstream a bit?' one of the lieutenants suggested. He was, after all, a Welshman.

'Not enough hectares to support us,' the CSM said. 'You could see as we came up - they've got every meadow and clearing in use, right down to the village. No, it's a pity, but I reckon the OC's right.'

"What do we do, then?'

'Look around for somewhere with elbow-room, is my idea,' the captain said. 'Settle in and as soon as things are quiet, send the choppers for the wives.'

'I hope they'll be able to refuel.'

'Well, if they can'
t, the girls'll
have to walk, won't they? Good for their figures. We're not leaving them in that stinking warren, that's for sure. Besides, if we didn't get 'em to the lads quick, we'd have a mutiny on our hands. And you know how seriously I view mutiny.'

Everyone smiled politely at the OC's little joke.

'I wish we could hang around for a day or two and meet the dreaded witches,' he went on. 'They've done a grand job here and it'd have been interesting to talk to them. But they'll probably stay under cover till we're well away. You can't blame them. After all, they may not know what's been happening.'

'Bet they do, sir,' the CSM said. 'They're bloody telepathic. My aunt was one. Unnerving - we couldn't keep a thing from her.'

'I think I'll stick to radio,' the captain said. 'You can always switch that off. . . . Right, Sar'-Major, get 'em fell in. Take-off in twenty minutes. We'll put down at the village and ask if there's a site-around here where a mob of old sweats can plant spuds and things. . . . And tell this undisciplined shower that if they leave so much as a fag-end littering this nice clean camp, I'll have 'em on jankers for fourteeen days.'

The Royal Navy had, naturally, suffered worst from the great earthquake of the year before, with its attendant tidal waves. Of its total tonnage,
64.3
per cent had been lost at sea, either sunk or flung against various coasts; 27.1 per cent had been damaged beyond repair in port; and the remainder, with the proud exception of HMS
Ringo,
had also been in port but less damaged so that repair might be possible when and if the facilities became available. No estimate of how many men of the lost ships' companies had survived was possible, because those fortunate enough to be ashore or to reach land had been cut off from all channels of command, and had had no choice if they wanted to survive but to regard themselves as discharged and try to join local communities.

So all that had been left of the Senior Service, as a functioning organization, was the Admiralty command structure in Beehive, unhappily lent piecemeal to the Army and RAF to keep them employed - and HMS
Ringo,
alive and well and living at Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides.

HMS
Ringo
(Commander J. B. MacLeod, RN) owed her escape from the universal disaster to her function. A nuclear submarine designed for maximum-depth work, she had been on a survey mission
6000
-plus metres down in the Cape Verde Basin at the time. Her mother ship on surface,
Ringo's
only contact with the outside world, had received the Admiralty's urgent warnings, and realizing that
Ringo
had not a hope in hell of surfacing
and
reaching port in the hours available, had wisely ordered MacLeod to stay where he was for as long as he could. The mother ship had then raced her guts out to reach Dakar, the nearest port, where she had in due course been smashed to scrap-iron by the tidal wave - though most of her ship's company got away and were absorbed, with seamanlike adaptability, into the life-style of various villages in the Senegalese hinterland, where the earthquake had wreaked much havoc and extra hands were welcome.
Ringo
had stayed below, riding out currents and buffetings unprecedented at such a depth, for another twenty-three days, till MacLeod calculated that surface conditions should be manageable.