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Quartermain gently lowered Horton's body to the ground behind the crates. He'd liked the quiet man rather more than the bluff Cavendish, and his death was a blow. Then he rolled to where he could see the invading soldiers and let drive with his heavy revolver. A wave of firing came the other way and he flinched back as bullets cracked and whined around his cover. Once again, he cursed at leaving his rifles in the car.
Back in the observation point, Holmes worked his way to the far side from the attack and slipped out. Two soldiers stood there, still unsure what to do, and he gestured them urgently towards the structure. Churchill would tell them what to do. Then he set off at a dead run towards the gatehouse, barking instructions at the squad in front of the barracks to defend the Flying Machine, which was still ascending slowly and tentaively as Bastable struggled to master the alien controls.
Churchill had got Cavendish and the other civilians tucked into cover inside the OP, though if the enemy won more of the field they'd be exposed again through the open front. As two British soldiers vaulted over the far wall and snapped off hasty salutes, it struck him that he was the ranking officer rpresent and had better get things organized. He directed the two men to positions near Blakeney's and started them returning fire, then glanced out to his left and saw a squad of men jogging from the barracks towards the place from which the Flying Machine had recently risen.
The two sentries who'd been posted at the side of the OP nearest the attack piled in next to Quartermain, having sprinted for his cover on realizing they were exposed. One rammed cartridges home into his magazine and the other levelled his weapon and killed an attacker as neatly as if he'd been on the target range. As he did so, a bullet struck the hunter in the side and he staggered sideways. Everything went black for a moment, and then swam back into focus. Experimentally he flexed his hands. Everything still seemed to be working, despite agonizing pain. Very good. He'd been shot before....
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With a speed born of desperation, Holmes tore across the grass to the car that had brought them here, and flung himself inside. His exposure to motor-cars had been minimal, but a lucky guess got it started and Holmes guided it, bumping and jouncing, across the grass after the squad of soldiers. Quartermain snapped off another shot and was quite surprised to see one of the enemy soldiers drop. Not bad at this range, he thought, as his two companions worked their actions. Ducking to the other side of the crates, he started as a cry rang out from an attacker shot by one of his companion soldiers. Although he didn't speak the language himself, he was pretty sure it was French!
Above, Bastable had just about steadied the Flying Machine, holding it level while he considered what to do next. This was rendered moot as the French attackers completed assembling their device - one of the new quick-firing machine-guns - and began bombarding the Flying Machine with bullets. The increase in firing convinced Churchill that the OP wasn't going to be safe for much longer, and he used a mixture of intimidation and polite persuasion to get the civilians over the side and running for the barracks. Although wooden, it was a complete building and better cover.
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The soldiers of the squad who'd been outside the barracks were startled to discover a wildly veering Mercedes-Benz SSK rapidly coming up behind them. "Get on!" screamed Holmes as he passed. Two flung themselves onto the running boards, while the rest saw Churchill beckoning them over from the OP and turned that way. Quartermain glanced sideways at the racing car, recognizing the figure hunched over the wheel, and grinned. Maybe the tide was turning, he thougtht. At that moment, one of the two soldiers sharing his cover went flying backwards, a 5.56mm carbine bullet somewhere behind his face, and Quartermain flinched. Battle was now joined all across the field, with men falling on both sides, though the attackers' exposed postions made them easier targets. All their energies seemed directed at protecting the machine-gun as it hammered lead up at the Flying Machine. Most bounced off, but some was getting through, and Bastable appeared to be having trouble controlling it again; it was slipping off to the side, towards the Admin building.
The French soldiers were now getting rather close to Quartermain's position, but this was bad news for them, because they came into realistic range for his heavy revolver. Levelling it rather more carefully, he squeezed off a shot that sent the nearest blue-clad man over backwards, carbine falling from his nerveless fingers. His satisfaction was blunted a little as he noticed two more Frenchmen circling wide to try and flank his position. If they got to where they were going, they'd be able to rake the area behind his crates and he'd have no cover.
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Under Churchill's direction, the four men remaining of the squad from the barracks were adding their fire to that already coming from the OP, and French casualties were mounting. The machine-gun crew, however, were still pounding away at the Flying Machine, which was slipping off to one side more and more quickly, its' stability lost as more and more bits were blown off.
Hands white on the wheel, Holmes hauled the car onto a different path at the last moment, and caught a brief glimpse of a pale, terrified face before a horrific crunch and lurching confirmed that he'd successfully driven into a group of French soldiers. Three battered corpses spun away as the car, now making grinding noises, barrelled onwards towards the seaward fence.
Quartermain and his companion soldier managed to kill both the flankers, but shots were still being directed at them and the hunter's revolver was now empty. He tried to take the fallen soldier's rifle, but the survivor objected violently and Quartermain, now feeling his wound as the adrenalin wore off, conceded the point.
All eyes were drawn to the sky, and for a moment everyone paused in what they were doing. The now badly damaged Flying Machine tilted further and further, rushing towards the ground at ever-increasing speed as Bastable's last traces of control were lost. It struck the ground fifty yards from the Admin building and disintegrated into several large chunks of tumbling wreckage. Churchill caught a moment's sight of the horrified faces of the two soldiers still guarding the building as the massive wreck bounced towards them and then they, the Flying Machine, and the building were gone in a massive explosion, green and orange flames billowing out in all directions.
Holmes hauled at the steering wheel, trying to change the car's trajectory so he could hit the machine-gun crew as well, but there simply wasn't room to make the turn. The vehicle flashed past the weapon and its' crew and slewed to a halt just short of the seaward fence. "Out!" yelled Holmes, and the two soldiers sprang out, readying their rifles. Holmes also emerged, clutching the small Heat Ray he'd taken from a Remote Walker. A French soldier lifted a carbine to try and shoot at him, and he fired the alien weapon. The invisible ray of heat missed almost entirely, but it roasted the man's right arm to the elbow - the arm holding his weapon. All the cartridges in it exploded at once and red-hot shrapnel tore through him in a dozen places. He fell without a sound. Holmes gestured with the weapon, and the two French officers dropped their own weapons with alacrity.
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Scattered shots still rang out as a couple of French soldiers fought to the end, but the fight was basically over. The civilians emerged from the barracks, and as Cavendish stood staring, stricken, at the place where the world's only Flying Machine had met its' end, the soldiers set to securing the prisoners, tending the wounded and counting the dead. Quartermain had a quick rummage through Horton's pockets, intent on checking for clues to the meaning of his cryptic conversation with Churchill earlier. As he did so, he felt eyes on him, and looked up to see the soldier who'd denied him a rifle earlier frowning down at him. "What the Devil d'you think you're doing?" he asked in anger and disgust. Quartermain thought quickly. "I'm securing his effects for his next-of-kin," he said rather lamely. The soldier did not seem any the less suspicous but at that moment, Churchill's firm voice interposed. "Well done that man," he said, "I'll take charge of that, thank you." Quartermain handed over the notebook and assorted ID cards from Horton's wallet, but kept the dead man's beautifully made .38 revolver, an imported Colt Police Positive Special and far better than his own.
As the soldier went off, reassured by Churchill's authority, Churchill quietly slipped the notebook and cards back to his companion, muttering "Be a little more discreet next time, old chap," as he did so. They both examined Horton's poor corpse. The bullet had struck him in the temple; but to determine whose round it had been would either involve sawing the top of his head off to get it back, or knowing which way he'd been facing when it hit him. Quartermain still harboured dark suspicions about that, but his own wound was a more pressing problem. The bullet was still in him, he could feel it, and only hospital care was going to get it out so he could start healing.
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It took Holmes some minutes to break into Cavendish's thoughts as he stared at the ruins of the Flying Machine, and when he did he was faintly apalled to realize that the destruction of it was bothering him far more than the deaths of Horton or the other fallen soldiers. Finally, he shook off his thoughts and came to assist (as the only fluent French speaker) in the interrogation of the French officr, a Captain Vallons.
As they did so, a patrol of four men Churchill had sent to check on whatever boat the French had used returned. It seemed the two men who'd killed the guards on the seaward towers had made off with the boat.
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Vallons, surprisingly, was quite open about the reasons for being here. The French Government, he said, had been increasingly unhappy about the fact that, all the Cylinders being in England, all the technological secrets of the Martian invaders would fall to the British. The idea of a working Flying Machine had been the last straw, and his team had been sent to destroy it to deny it to the British.
Under closer questioning, it emerged that the only "government official" Vallons had met was a "Special Investigator" appointed to secure this technology, whose name he gave as Moriarty. Holmes started visibly at this, and asked Vallons to describe this man. Vallons asked for paper and pencil, and sketched a drawing of a man. A single glance was enough; this was indeed Holmes' arch-adversary, Professor James Moriarty. It was, in fact, the best picture of the Napoleon of Crime that Holmes had ever seen, and he folded it carefully and put it away.
After Vallons was led away to join his men, an urgent discussion ensued. Quartermain wondered aloud if Horton had been a double agent, something Cavendish denied vehemently. "This doesn't sound like something the French government would do," he added. Holmes frowned. "It doesn't sound like something Moriarty would do, either," he said slowly, "it sounds like a decoy. A distraction." They stared at each other for a moment. "We need to go back," said Churchill urgently.
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An hour later, they were waiting at Arbroath station for the train to be readied. Cavendish had attempted to telephone through to Kensington without success. This was not entirely unknown, as the London telephone system was still very unreliable. Holmes had managed to reach Mycroft's office, but had failed to find his brother himself and declined to leave a message.
Approaching Cavendish privately, Holmes let him have the benefit of his point of view in no uncertain fashion. After expressing his belief that the "secret" organization had not so much a leak as a giant plug-hole, he urged Cavendish to continue to attempt to contact Kensington from other stations along the route, as despite the apparent success of the French attack, it was nothing but a distraction from something else. Holmes did not believe for one moment the tale of the French being jealous of the British discoveries of Martian technology, and he did not believe Moriarty would engage in anything this crass.
Horton's last warning he kept in mind, but kept to himself; he felt, more than ever, that his employer was untrustworthy - though he was far from convinced that Cavendish would go so far as to sell out his own country. Stranger and more dastardly deeds had been done in his experience, however.
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Session Date: 31st March 2015 |
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