Chapter 17

He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Something wasn't right. There should have been a gentle nudge as they passed the end of the merge lane. "Myrddin," Sir Samuel addressed the AI partition dedicated to security, "please have Matilda scheduled for a service. I believe there an issue in the drive line."

"Affirmative."

Matilda, his 1964 Silver Cloud, once belonged to his grandfather. He had had her wheelbase stretched enough to allow him to seat four chauffeured passengers, with two rear facing. The increased length resulted in fabricating a two piece drive shaft for ground clearence. The resulting gemometry could be overstressed if debris or mud put the drive shaft out of balance. The forward universal joint would start to fail damaging the front yoke, requiring its frequent replacement. His father had emphasized the need to feel how Matilda moved to avoid major drive train damage.

With that out of the way, he checked a few concealed compartments. The two Ingram MAC-10s were secure, extra magazines at the ready. Sir Samuel Cassell was never a marksman: he preferred using the .45 APC variant, big bullets with the potential to transfer tremendous amounts of kinetic energy. He trusted stingers but, if the need arose, he wanted no misunderstandings about the message he was sending.

On his laptop, Sir Samuel reviewed the plans for securing the cemetery during the ceremony. Invisible force field generators guarded the lines of sight. Clem had prepared a few nasty antipersonnel surprises. Dutifully, Priscilla had changed those to non-lethal alternatives. CCTV cameras were being used by Bubba's team to scan for known operatives. As long as he and the other Ospreys stayed on the path, he was assured of their collective safety.

Major General Alistair Vickers and Rear Admiral Edith Ogden-Sikes spent the morning in Dover, at a United Kingdom Officer Training Commencement. Even with the changing political climate, the opportunity to gain bragging rights over the Americans still fueled Her Majesty's troops. This year it came down to the Orienteering Competition, and two time faults.

The attack at the botanical gardens, while regrettable, provided additional opportunities. There was another connection between Earth based terrorists and Confederacy traitors. Unlike before, this was a conspiracy. The cost was lamentable.

The list of potential traitors was beginning to take shape. The King of Clubs was becoming bold, more importantly; the arrogance of the man was growing. The one big advantage the King of Clubs once had was eroding. Time was beginning to run out.

Sir Samuel began organizing the discussion topics for the drive to the cemetery. It was still an hour until he reached Dover. Some of the information was sensitive enough that if it were connected to the general and the admiral, 10 Downing Street would seek retribution. He also had several backdoor requests to make.

"Davey," the transmissions were in the open, "the lorry is stuck. The shoulder gave way, none of the drive wheels are touching the ground."

The game board had its first pieces in place. "Until the recovery truck arrives, everyone work out of Reggie's rig. The generator will allow you to run the welder."

Jamming equipment stood at the ready. The target would be isolated.

"Davey, does Emily have the supplies ready?"

"I should deduct the recovery bill from them."

The point and chase vehicles had been identified.

"It wasn't our fault. We parked exactly where the permit allowed us to."

The ambush site was prepared.

"I will reroute Emily to bring the package of cheques to you."

The lead car would be removed to add to the confusion. It was almost time to clog a few roads; then force the mice to run a maze into the cat's clutches.

Sir Samuel only had to wait about twenty minutes on the admiral and the general after arriving in Dover. Once aboard Matilda, they discussed recently retired and potential discharging NCOs. "I will not say how he knows about our arrangement," Sir Samuel handed each person a copy of the request, "but my favorite Van Doo requested a list of non-coms. As you can see he is seeking," Sir Samuel lifted the paper to read, "particularly stubborn individuals who will strive to perfect their unit commanders."

"What scale would the extraction need to be?" Edith inquired.

"Whitefeather makes his own arrangements." Cassell put the paper he was reading down on the laptop. "Left to his own devices, he tends to leave little or no footprint, and when the need arises he cleans up after himself."

Alistair added, "I have a few who should make muster. I'll have you a list by gin night." All there knew he meant at the officer's club that coming Wednesday evening.

Lynn's Range Rover followed the Rolls Royce at a discreet distance, Clem riding shotgun. A small cache of heavy weapons lay within easy reach, in the storage containers behind their seats. One-half a kilometer behind, Jimbo drove the unmarked tan transit van. Russell sat in the rear of the van, monitoring the drones that tracked their progress. The large cream-colored estate wagon led the procession, carrying the last four members of the team, Claudia, Peter, Jacob, and Mark, waiting to act.

Another transmission in the open using a distinct frequency, the next phase, "Hakim, we need to be ready to block that hole. The squirrels are about to exit the crawl space." Traffic was about to be rerouted.

To block the M2 took only a demonstration of physics. A car braked sharply. The truck following a bit close tried to make a radical lane change. When the driver tried to correct the under steer, a strap securing the barrels of food waste destined for a hog farm snapped. This caused a cascade of tumbling blue containers spraying slop across the lanes. The cars slid in the soupy mess, trying to dodge each other. In thirty seconds, the M2 no longer functioned as intended.

The first phase of the rerouting was accomplished. It was time to deal with the A249. The instruction was nothing more than a simple phone call. Enid heard the chorus of Naked in the Rain, which was the signal.

Enid was glad to be part of the protest. She knew two things: once the evil aliens starting getting close humanity would unite and drive them away; and the technology provided by the Confederacy would save the Earth's ecosystems. The government had access to all this eco-friendly energy and transportation equipment. They were being criminally corrupt supporting big oil companies that continued to endanger the North Sea.

Enid pulled the cord. A quart of oil was injected into the catalytic converter causing smoke to billow from the exhaust. She swerved side to side to spread it across the carriageway, and making her ruse look even more like a serious problem with her engine. Traffic ground to a halt. Once stopped in the middle lane, Enid abandoned the smoking vehicle and blended in with the crowd. As they eased forward, she slipped back. Eventually she entered the door of a panel van disappearing from view.

The driver informed Sir Samuel that an accident had occurred up the road two minutes earlier. Leaving the M2 the convoy exited toward the roundabout leading to the A249. Almost immediately, a car fire blocked the road a few miles ahead.

"Clem, I do not like this," Sir Samuel spoke aloud. He turned to his passengers. "We need to fasten our seat belts."

Clem's response was immediate, "Agreed. Claudia, execute end run."

The side windows on the estate wagon darkened. Surging ahead, it began to weave and bully itself through traffic. The heads up display gave Claudia an exit. Just ahead, she continued around the circle to Old Maidstone Road. A road construction sign greeted them as they passed back under the M2.

"Ahead at the first right, that is Wormdale Hill Road. Up past the paint ball excursion is a dirt road to the left." Myrrdin continued the explanation of his exit plan. "Two Ocelots are en route, ETA five minutes."

Peter reported a potential problem, "Clem, man with radio at the underpass."

"Hit him." Clem ordered.

One of the drones dove under the overpass and blanket stunned the area. Four seconds later, when Sir Samuel's car passed by the area, no one could see the prone figure.

As Claudia approached Wormdale Hill, a van backed into the road. The side doors swung open. Two SA80s opened fire on the estate wagon. A standard Mercedes E-350 would have had the 5.56mm rounds slicing through the windshield wreaking havoc on the passengers. The bullets deflected harmlessly away, leaving little lines of metal marking the impact points. Claudia cried in a loud voice, "Ramming speed."

The assailants concentrated their fire on her side of the car. By the time they realized their efforts were futile, it was already too late. Through the clear windscreen, they could see death was a ginger -- her horse wasn't exactly pale.

The actual weight of the estate wagon came in seven hundred kilos less than the real model. Jacob had time to activate the front force field and set it at an oblique angle. The field hit the van like a pitching wedge. As the van lofted upwards, the backspin ejected both shooters. After six revolutions in mid air, the van landed wheels down. Being unbuckled, the driver landed head first against the one of the rear wheel wells.

By the time Claudia spun about to follow, she found herself in the trailing position. All four electric motors responded to her foot pressing to the floor, rocketing the wagon onward.

"Who exactly taught you how to drive?" Jacob was tugging at his seatbelt up near his neck.

Claudia turned the wheel almost to a full counter lock. As the wagon drifted around the sharp right hand turn, she responded, "My great uncles in Nevada, Kurt and Kyle." The estate wagon now brought up the rear.

Lynn straightened the curve. The Range Rover took point as she sliced across the shoulder, bounding ahead. Clem saw a sign. It showed a putting green with a red flag and the word Sitingborne. The rest of the name and the sign fell away as Lynn obliterated it.

Lynn accelerated down to the left bend that would take them back over the A249. She could see the smoke from the car fire. Once beyond the over pass, a lorry blocked the road. Lynn stood on the brakes. Clem activated the Range Rover's forward shield. Seconds later, the anti-tank missile launched.

The force of the explosion tumbled the Range Rover carrying Lynn and Clem into the underbrush. Blue, black, and green were the dominant colors out of the front windshield. The low coherent stream of obscenities let him know three things: he was alive; Lynn was pissed; and somebody was about to be hurt. Looking at Lynn, he could see she was staring at a tree flush against her window.

"Lynn. Status."

"I'm capable; we need to exit your side." Lynn pointed out the back passenger window. "Our links are nonfunctional."

A second explosion caused Clem to focus. Matilda had suffered a direct hit to the grill. The driver hadn't activated the force field. "Myrrdin, activate Matilda's force field."

There was no acknowledgement. Lynn had just told him, the implants were dead, and hopefully she did not hear him.

Lynn was in the back seat, "Told you the implants are dead." She handed Clem an H&K MP5 and a satchel full of magazines. Lynn chambered a round on her AA-12 and retrieved her ammo bag.

"I'm going to regret not listening to you, ain't I?" He opened his door.

"This will fly like cracklin' in yellow cornbread," her pseudo Alabama foothill accent foreshadowed something bad. Clem translated the nonsensical Southern sounding quip to 'Bless your heart.'

Once they started across the overpass, Russell lost contact with the drones. Looking up, he was about to inform Jimbo when the world turned sideways. Russell found himself lying on his monitors as the van slid into the back of the Rolls Royce.

The world was tilted ninety degrees. He could see the back of the Rolls Royce through the front window. An explosion pushed the car closer to the battered van. Jimbo was unresponsive. Russell was alone. Wading through the jumbled contents, Russell checked his driver's pulse. His implant seemed to be dead. Russell could contact no one.

Occasionally, he could hear and feel bullets striking the windows or solid panels. Russell began to check the equipment and power levels. The Confederacy power cells remained at ninety-seven percent. The van had power for six days of continuous use. Russell activated the force field.

The lights never changed. Somehow, the emitters were not getting power. People were moving toward the back of the van. Russell could see a man standing in front of a lorry that had just blocked any retreat. He was holding a Javelin antitank missile.

He scanned the jumbled contents of the rear of the van. He began tossing items away to clear a path to the weapons locker. Fortunately, the fellow brandishing the Javelin was taking his time. Russell thought the man was actually looking for a weak point, the best place to blow him, Jimbo and the van to smithereens.

Once the doors to the weapon's locker were cleared of loose items, Russell opened it. He pulled an H&K free. Russell checked the magazine. After chambering the first round, he fingered the safety. Opening the rear gun port, he took time to survey the area.

With the van on its side, aiming would be a crapshoot. He believed he could fire along a vertical line. The angle between the gun port and his line of sight increased the difficulty. As he was about to pull the trigger, a sudden chugging sound to the left caused the rocket-man to drop prone.

Russell acted. He watched the first burst strike the ground, brutally short. Rocket-man tried to roll away. The nine-millimeter rounds that bit into the tarmac were quite a bit faster. The bullets ripped into his torso. He did not move again.

The chugging stopped. Russell heard, "Grenade," then three small explosions, two from the front, the last from behind.

"Claudia!" Jacob burst out. There was no answer. "Clem." Only silence greeted him. "We've lost contact with everyone."

"Weapon up," Mark as usual was very calm. He grabbed a bag and handed forward from behind the back seat. After unzipping it, he began pulling out his and Claudia's submachine guns.

A lorry burst through the underbrush, blocking their path. The tarp on the back disappeared. Fifty caliber rounds began peppering the windshield. Claudia drove into the underbrush at the front of the lorry. The wagon's reduced mass allowed them to plow in only eight meters.

Shots still struck the passenger side. "Out, out, out," ordered Peter. He forced the door and crouched toward the back. The heavy rounds that struck surrounding trees chewed into the wood spitting splinters. Lighter foliage disintegrated. Clouds of dust rose from ricochets and misses.

Once outside, they took up positions at each end of the wagon. "Assume body armor," Mark began, "head shots, a priority." He looked down at his legs. "Most mercenaries only wear vests, mobility verses protection. Aim for thighs and knees; if you can, double tap."

Claudia followed Mark around the back of the wagon. Something other than the fifty cal began to spit fire. The view from the wagon back toward the lorry began to blur from the dust. Peter led Jacob to a heavy hedge.

Fire came from the top of the lorry. The 'Ma-duce' machine gun peppered the undercarriage of the rolled Range Rover. The attempt to ignite the tank would be futile. There was no fuel tank and the batteries would not explode. Clem needed to take advantage of the gunner's sense of superiority while it lasted. He crawled into the undergrowth. Microfibers in his clothing shifted through a palette of natural colors. The resulting pattern helped to break up his outline.