A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) (24 page)

We stared at her.

Peterson jerked himself back to reality. ‘Um …I think there are machines in the …’

‘I have all those,’ she said, jerking her head in the direction of Jenny and her box. ‘I need more. These may not be enough.’

We stared at her.

You would not believe the pictures cartwheeling through my mind.

After a long moment, Dieter pulled out his wallet and tossed two onto the table. ‘Two,’ he said.

Peterson grinned. ‘I’ll see your two and raise you one,’ laid down three, appeared to be struck by a sudden thought and snatched two back. Mrs Mack glared at him and he reluctantly let them go again.

Markham rummaged endlessly through pockets and wallet and produced a great handful. A great, multi-coloured, ribbed handful. ‘Way to go, Mr Markham,’ said Peterson in admiration.

After a brief pause that actually seemed to go on for quite a long time, the Boss laid down two. A more than respectful silence fell. Nobody caught anybody’s eye. Mrs Mack departed.

I heard the Boss murmur, ‘I sometimes wonder what goes on in that kitchen,’ and we continued with the briefing.

Saying goodbye to the pods was hard for everyone. They were to jump to our remote site, the location of which was a closely guarded secret. The Boss tried to make Dr Dowson go with them, ostensibly because he was our archivist but also because he was nearly seventy. He refused to leave, and in the end, the Boss relented.

The whole unit assembled in Hawking. I stood on the gantry with the rest of St Mary’s and watched them disappear, silently, one by one, taking my memories with them. Eventually, the vast hangar was empty. Dieter looked as if he’d lost his entire family, which, I suppose, he had. Polly Perkins was in tears. I wondered whether I would ever see them again. Whether any of us would ever see them again.

We were divided into teams.

I was in Markham’s team, along with Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson (presumably so we could argue the enemy to death), Peterson, and Mrs Partridge. Our position was at the foot of the stairs. From there, we could cover the entrance to the long corridor to Hawking, and the front doors.

Weller, Evans, and Clerk covered our rear from the half landing. Major Guthrie’s teams were ranged around the gallery. Dieter’s team was stationed outside Hawking. Helen was covering Sick Bay and the civilian staff were deployed around the building as reserves.

Everything was locked, shuttered, bolted, barred, barricaded, booby-trapped, and anything else we could think of. Unless they brought heavy explosives, the only ways in were through Hawking or the main entrance, and we reckoned they wouldn’t want to risk damaging Hawking, so the main door was where we were concentrated.

‘Remember,’ said Guthrie, at our briefing, ‘you are only responsible for your particular area. Be aware of what goes on around you, but if you look around, you will see each team is covered by the others. Check your range and designated target areas. Fire only along your lines of sight. Don’t go waving your weapons around from left to right. Trust your colleagues on either side of you. Trust those behind you.’

We spent hours on the ranges. At first, it was chaos and we were in more danger standing behind some of our volunteers than in front of them, but it settled down. We didn’t go for anything fancy – just aim for the centre of the body and pull the trigger. Single shots. Those of us with more experience did our best to pass it on. We held drills, stripping down weapons and re-assembling them with our eyes shut. Ditto re-loading. Mrs Partridge was our designated re-loader. She was quick, clean, and dexterous. I felt reassured, knowing she would be nearby.

Gradually, it began to gel. A feeling of optimism was encouraged, although I could see this wasn’t shared by Guthrie, or Markham, or anyone with any sort of combat experience. We were on our own. We would be pitted against better-armed, ruthless, professional troops who had already demonstrated their complete disregard for anything or anyone who got in their way. We were going to die.

But we’re St Mary’s and we weren’t dead yet.

I sat on the stairs, looking down into the Hall. It had been another long day. Night had fallen. Only a few lights burned. Guards were posted and most people were getting their heads down. The slightest sound echoed eerily around the empty building.

I don’t know for how long I’d been sitting there, alone with my thoughts, but even the hard wooden stairs were more comfortable than my cramped little concrete cell, and, quite honestly, I was too tired and unhappy to move.

I heard uneven footsteps approaching and when I looked up, Dr Bairstow stood before me. Scrambling stiffly to my feet, I said, ‘Good evening, Dr Bairstow.’

He looked at me for a while and then said, ‘I wondered if you would care to join me for a moment.’

Mystified, I followed him back to his empty office.

He pulled open a drawer and brought out a bottle and two glasses. He poured generously and passed me one.

He stood, in the dark, his back to me, looking out of the window.

His first words surprised me. ‘We can’t win this. I am presiding over the end of St Mary’s as we know it. No matter what they say, I should send everyone away.’

‘If I might argue with you briefly, sir …’

‘The word
briefly
never applies to any of your arguments, Dr Maxwell. The word
interminable
is a far more apt description.’

‘Well, actually, sir, the word
compelling
best describes my arguments, but, be that as it may, you should consider this. Everyone here is a volunteer. You heard Mrs Enderby. She said she believed in what we do here. We all believe in what we do here, sir. Some of us think it an honour and a privilege to be offered the opportunity to defend something as important as St Mary’s. Personally, sir, I count myself in good company.’

‘As do I, Dr Maxwell, the very best company. With one or two notable exceptions, I could not have asked for better people around me, which makes it all even more of a waste, I think. When I consider the planning, the effort, and the sacrifices made … and not just by this unit.’

‘Sir, if it was easy then everyone would be doing it. It’s no fun if it’s not difficult.’

He turned from the window to look at me through the gloom. I still couldn’t see his face.

I sat quietly, facing him. The light from Mrs Partridge’s office was behind me so he couldn’t see my face, either.

I thought about what this meant to him. This was his unit, his world. This was the culmination of everything he’d worked for. He’d built it up from scratch. He’d sacrificed his future to jump back and found St Mary’s. He’d fought the good fight up and down the timeline. He wouldn’t allow anyone to take it from him. He wouldn’t go quietly into the night. He would fight to his last breath.

And so would we.

I said nothing. Around us, St Mary’s settled and the last noises died away. The silence was very heavy.

When I had control of my voice, I said, ‘When Leon was here, what did he say?’

‘According to Leon … the day after tomorrow. The attack is scheduled for the day after tomorrow at about five o’clock in the morning.’ His face was still in shadow. ‘If they come …’

‘This is about much more than Helios, isn’t it?’

ʻYes. I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in this, Max. You and Leon deserved …’

‘Don’t be, sir. Perhaps some things are just never meant to be.’

He drew a breath and topped up my glass.

I changed the subject. ‘Sir, I haven’t thanked you for taking me in.’

He said gently, ‘I think that between such old friends as us, Max, thanks are not needed.’

I took a painful breath. ‘Will they come?’

I looked directly at him and he paid me the compliment of looking directly back.

‘Yes. I’m sorry, but I think they will come.’

I knew what he was saying. If they came, it was because Leon had failed. It would mean all the other St Mary’s had been unable to hold them back and that Leon was dead.

Chapter Fifteen

Midnight.

Team Markham assembled at the foot of the stairs, behind the big barricade. We checked each other over, tightening straps and slapping helmets. Mrs Partridge stacked her spare ammo. I inspected my weapons – two 9 mm semi-automatics taking 30 round clips, and a wide beam blaster, fully charged. Never having envisaged a situation where all of St Mary’s would be in the firing line, Major Guthrie didn’t have enough equipment for everyone and priority, obviously, went to the Security section. I had some armour and a helmet, but no night vision.

I stood at the foot of the stairs, got my bearings, and noted who was where. I verified my allocated target areas and the range. Beside me, Peterson was making sure his weapons pulled free from his sticky patches without snagging or catching on anything.

When we were satisfied, we sat down and made ourselves comfortable.

Then we waited.

Would they come?

I could hear breathing and the occasional rustle of clothing as someone shifted position nearby. Around us, the building creaked and settled.

We sat quietly, watching the hours pass. Every hour they didn’t come meant that Leon was still alive. That he was still out there somewhere. We made it through the small hours. Then 3 a.m. Then 4 a.m.

Around me, people dozed. Markham snored. I didn’t dare close my eyes. Peterson sat motionless alongside me. Earlier, I’d seen him take the opportunity to exchange a few words with Helen Foster. They’d stood a little apart, not speaking. He held her hands. I’d caught a glimpse of their faces and had to turn my head away.

Around four-thirty, the sun began to think about joining us and they still hadn’t turned up. I told myself it would be light soon and surely they wouldn’t risk a daylight attack. That they weren’t coming after all. That Leon had been successful.

There was an occasional murmur or someone rearranged their equipment, but otherwise we waited in silence. I checked myself for the umpteenth time.

Mrs Partridge waited slightly behind us with stocks of spare ammo. Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson were off to one side of me, whispering indignantly to each other in the dark.

I wriggled round, hissed, ‘What?’ and stopped and stared in disbelief at their miscellaneous weapons of mass destruction. I saw what looked like a flame-thrower apparently made of an old milk churn and some industrial hosing, caltrops, a homemade crossbow, half a dozen Molotov cocktails, and what looked like a Vickers gun from WWI.

‘What is all that?’

‘Back-up,’ said Professor Rapson and I wondered if it was too late to request a transfer to another team. There seemed every indication this one would fall victim to friendly fire.

‘Last resort,’ I said warningly, wondering if we were in more danger from behind than in front.

‘Got it,’ they said gleefully. Markham rolled his eyes.

Peterson turned to me. ‘Bet you wish you’d stayed at Agincourt, now.’

‘I’m prepared to admit it might have had attractions that I overlooked at the time. How about you? Any regrets?’

‘Well, I always wanted Carthage. And Waterloo. Thermopylae would have been good, too. I’m sorry to have missed that.’

‘Yes, me too. Well, if we ever get out of this, maybe you and I could …?’

‘Good idea. We’ll take a picnic. Now there’s a good title for a book.
Picnic at Thermopylae.’

There was a pause.

‘I’m glad we’re in this together, Tim.’

‘That’s us. Always together. Through thick and thin.’

‘Sick and sin.’

‘Loss and win.’

In my mind, I saw another Sick Bay. Another Tim.

I smiled, sadly. ‘One last adventure …’

They were brave words, but we really didn’t stand a chance. This wasn’t Thermopylae where a thousand stout hearts could hold off overwhelming odds. Or Agincourt, where brilliant tactics and iron nerve won the day. This was St Mary’s. A handful of people, inadequately armed, defending a dilapidated old building. A couple of well-placed mortars would bring the roof down, then it would just be a case of them mopping up the survivors, installing their own people, and then their victory would be complete. They would have it all.

If they came.

And if they did come, it was because Leon had failed. Somewhere, in some far-off time I’d never know, he’d gone down in a hail of fire … dying for what he believed in and the bright, brilliant flame that had been St Mary’s …

No. Stop that.

I thought of Leonidas of Sparta. He didn’t know the future of the western world rested on his shoulders but that didn’t stop him drawing his sword, planting his feet, and defying the entire Persian Empire.

Our forebears at the Gates of Grief didn’t know they were the direct ancestors of nearly everyone on the planet – they just built their little rafts, climbed aboard, and struck out for the unknown.

History glitters with the tales of men and women who, with no thought of reward or glory, make their stand and quietly do their duty. I wasn’t going to be a lesser person than my ancestors.

We crouched in the dark and waited for them.

If they came.

They came.

All the Heath Robinson devices installed around the building sounded off simultaneously, signifying the arrival outside of the Forces of Darkness.

My world stopped and for a moment, I just couldn’t move at all. Because I’d lost him. Again. Our second chance was never going to happen. All our plans … All those whispered conversations in a cold, dark pod … When we’d allowed ourselves to hope …

I looked down at the gun in my hand and felt everything begin to drift away. Peterson, who knew what this meant to me, briefly touched my shoulder, bringing me back.

I nodded and swallowed something huge and painful in my throat.

Then it was down to business.

In the absence of Major Guthrie, Markham spoke a few rallying words to the troops.

‘OK people, listen up. This is it. We all know what to do. If we remember our training then we’ll be fine. Our job is to hold the front doors and stairs for as long as possible. There will be noise and chaos and you’ll be scared, but that’s OK because we’re St Mary’s and no one does noise and chaos as well as us. Major Guthrie estimates we’ll be outnumbered about six to one …’

Around me, heads bobbed up sharply and Peterson said, ‘Um …’

‘So what I’m saying is, the first one to shoot their six nips back and puts the kettle on.’

There was a startled silence, then someone laughed and Mrs Partridge (wonderful woman) raised her arm and said, ‘Milk and two sugars please.’ There was more laughter and then, suddenly, this was it.

An amplified voice boomed from outside.

‘Dr Bairstow. This is the Time Police. You are no longer in control of this unit. Please instruct your people to lay down their weapons and surrender.’

My com crackled. Dr Bairstow was broadcasting to all of us.

‘Good morning. This is Dr Bairstow. Our pods and archive have been removed. You will get nothing from us. You should leave now, while you still can.’

‘Members of St Mary’s. We understand that you are acting on the instructions of your Director. Do not allow him to imperil your lives. Lay down your weapons and exit the building. We wish you no harm.’

Silence.

‘Dr Bairstow, you are outgunned and outnumbered. There is no other option other than to surrender immediately.’

There was a long pause and then Dr Bairstow said, ‘Very well, I am willing to discuss terms of surrender.’

A murmur ran around the building.

‘There are no terms. Simply lay down your weapons, exit the building, and await instructions.’

‘I’m terribly sorry; I seem, quite inadvertently, to have given you the wrong impression. It was your surrender I wished to discuss.’

Hardly had the words left his mouth than the whole world exploded. The front doors imploded. Someone, Guthrie, I think, bellowed, ‘Enemy at the gates! Good luck everyone.’ This was it.

We crouched behind our barricades and opened fire. Everyone performed perfectly. We laid down a continuous barrage and nothing got through the shattered doors. I kept firing until empty, passed for reloading, picked up my second weapon, and did it again. And again. And again. And again.

Guthrie yelled, ‘Cease fire!’ and silence dropped like a lead weight.

I shook my head to clear the ringing in my ears.

I could hear shots firing outside and around Hawking. We took advantage of the pause and shifted our position slightly. Mrs Partridge passed me two fully loaded weapons. I checked my unused blaster was still within reach and flexed my fingers, arms, and shoulders.

Markham turned his head and whispered, ‘Everyone all right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes.’

‘I think so.’

‘Don’t say it like that, Andrew. This is a military situation. You must strive to convey your information with the utmost speed and accuracy. Like me.’

I said, ‘So, you’re OK then, Dr Dowson?’

‘Oh, yes, yes, my dear. Never better.’

I avoided Markham’s eye.

We couldn’t hold them back. I don’t know why we ever thought we could. Dieter’s team fell back from Hawking and into the Hall in good order. Markham and I moved forward to give them as much cover as we could while the other teams covered us.

I fired until my head ached with the noise of it. My hands were burning. Occasionally, Mrs Partridge would hand me a reloaded weapon. I hadn’t realised she had moved forward with us. Thinking about it, I would have been more surprised if she hadn’t.

I could hear fragments of chatter in my ears.

‘Evans! To your right! To your right!’

‘Ritter’s down!’

‘Cover me! Moving forward!’

‘Pull him back! Pull him back!’

Slowly but surely, Dieter got his people away. I caught a brief glimpse of him, supporting someone whose face I couldn’t see.

Markham tapped me on the shoulder and indicated I should withdraw. Mrs Partridge was already gone. The barricades were opened and Dieter and his team were dragging their wounded through. The other teams upstairs continued to lay down fire so I turned, and keeping low, ran back towards the stairs. Throwing myself through the gap, I was seized by Professor Rapson and hauled in. Dr Dowson replaced the barricade.

Mrs Partridge was crouched over Ritter, her hands pressed hard over a horrifying chest wound. Her hands, bloodied to the elbows, were inside his chest. I couldn’t even see if he was still alive. She shouted, ‘Medics!’ and we got him away. The rest of the team dispersed to join the others around the gallery and on the floor above.

I turned back, found my line of sight, and the next minute they were appearing in the shattered doorway, firing as they came. I know fear increases numbers but it struck me we were outnumbered a good deal more than six to one. I wouldn’t be getting my cup of tea anytime soon.

My gun was so hot I could barely keep my grip. Sweat ran down into my eyes and blurred my vision. Despite my best efforts, my wrists and forearms trembled with the effort. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow. Casings flew around me, pinging off the floor.

After what seemed like an entire ice age, the firing ceased. I craned my head to see why. Yes, we’d held them, but they had only to keep pressing their advantage. It was surely only a matter of time. I looked at Mrs Partridge’s seriously depleted stock of ammo. She shook her head.

I checked my weapons. Both were empty. My blaster was still charged, but that wouldn’t last long.

For some reason the Time Police had withdrawn back through the doors again. Had they retreated? Surely, it couldn’t be that easy?

The Hall was littered with casings, pieces of barricade, lumps of plaster, and splintered wood. Thick, blue smoke stung my eyes and rasped my throat. The whole world smelled of cordite, burning wood, and dust. I was desperately thirsty.

I rolled over and lay on my back to catch my breath, staring up through the lantern at the dawning day. We’d been at this less than an hour. It felt like years.

Then, suddenly, they were back. I heard Guthrie’s voice raised in warning.

‘Incoming!’

A hail of something ripped across the Hall. Plaster cracked and was instantly vaporised into dust. The lovely old wooden bannisters disintegrated. Lethal splinters of wood ricocheted across the gallery. The noise was ear bleeding. I had no idea what sort of weapon it was, but whatever it was pointed at just flew apart in a shower of death and destruction. Around the gallery, people couldn’t move. Like me, they were completely pinned down. There was nothing we could do.

‘Heavy fire! Heavy fire! Take cover!’

It wasn’t just here in the Hall. Beneath me, I felt the building shudder. The blast doors were opening. Hawking was breached.

I was conscious of huge disappointment. I thought we would have lasted longer than this. We’d tried so hard. But, although I personally wouldn’t care to tangle with a bunch of tea-crazed historians, there was no getting around the fact that we were amateurs. They were about to roll straight over the top of us just as the Persians eventually rolled over the Spartans, all thanks to that treacherous bastard Ephialtes.

Why did I keep thinking of the Spartans?

I became aware that the sounds of gunfire were dying away. I risked a quick look around. Were we out of ammunition?

‘Attention,’ said Major Guthrie, in my ear. ‘All civilian staff withdraw. This is not a suggestion. Hand over any weapons and ammo remaining and get yourselves to safety. That’s an order.’

I felt, rather than saw movement around me. They were reluctant to go and I didn’t blame them. They were being cleared out of the way for the final act. I wouldn’t have gone, myself, and I was surprised they took it so quietly. I expected at least a murmur of protest from Professor Rapson, but one at a time they pulled back into the shadows and disappeared.

Guthrie spoke again. ‘We can wait to be cut to pieces, or we can take as many as possible with us. Load up. We move in thirty seconds.’

St Mary’s’ last charge.

I thought back to the day I first walked up the drive of that other St Mary’s, all those years ago. I never thought I’d end my days here, in a strange world, caught up in someone else’s war, about to die with my boots on.