Alex Scarrow - The Eternal War

‘Understanding, sir?’

Colonel Donohue nodded. ‘Neither side really wants this nonsense to spread. So the French are prepared to let us go in on their behalf and sterilize the wound , so to speak.’

‘That’s very trusting of them!’ called out someone. A ripple of good-natured laughter spread among them.

‘Quite so.’ He smiled. ‘And more fool them.’

Heads nodded. Although it was still officially supposed to be top secret, every officer in every participating regiment was well aware this little uprising was a convenient opportunity for the British to launch their final push against the North. In fact, this futile act of rebellion couldn’t have come at a better time for them. The French were prepared to hold back while the British stepped in and crushed it, not knowing their intention was to continue pushing on, punching through their North’s front line and rolling up their east-coast flank.

‘Captain McManus?’

‘Sir?’

‘I think this might just be a splendid opportunity to field-test our Dreadnoughts before the proper fighting begins … don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Take your company ashore as support for them … but I’d really like to see how well our experimentals perform on their own, all right?’

‘Support only, yes, sir.’

‘Rest of you can follow in the second flotilla. Best not have too many of our chaps nearby when those monsters get a sniff of the enemy.’

Colonel Donohue turned round again to look at the landing area on the far side of the river. A low mist of gunsmoke hung above it like a membrane, and every now and then a distant crackle of gunfire was accompanied by another faint plume of blue-grey smoke winking into existence.

‘And God help those poor souls when that happens.’

2001, near New Chelmsford

‘Bob? How much further now?’

Bob eased back on the throttle sticks as the tractor’s big ridged wheels rolled down into a shallow river and splashed arcs of spray either side of them.

‘Information: two miles, one hundred and seven yards from this location.’

The tractor emerged from the river on the far side, leaving two deep ridges carved in the wet mud of the riverbank.

‘Two miles?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Then stop right here.’

Bob did as instructed, easing the throttles down to an idle, disengaging the gears and pulling a braking lever. He looked at Liam. ‘Why?’

Sal nodded. ‘Yeah … we’re nearly there!’

‘That’s exactly why,’ said Liam. He turned and pointed out of the mud-spattered rear window of the cabin. ‘We’ve left a trail a blind man could follow. If there were any policemen or militia called to find this tractor … it won’t be difficult for them.’

It was approaching dusk. The sun was casting a rose-hued glow and long cool shadows across the pastoral landscape around them. Far away to the right, a small village nestled among sycamore trees, and chimneys leaked threads of smoke into a peach sky.

‘If we drive all the way to the rendezvous point,’ he continued, ‘we could be leading a posse of coppers or soldiers right to the window. It’s two miles from here … if we get running, we could be there in what … twenty minutes or so?’

Bob nodded. ‘This is a sensible tactical decision.’

Lincoln groaned and pointed at his old boots — one of them was flapping open at the front where a seam in the leather had split. Long hairy toes waggled through a threadbare sock. ‘My feet are as spent as a pauper’s purse.’

‘Oh shadd-yah! You lazy-bones.’

Liam opened the cabin door and jumped out on to the riverbank. ‘Come on! It’s not far now!’

Bob dropped down heavily beside him. ‘Correct, not far.’

Sal pushed Lincoln out in front of her. ‘We’ll be there soon enough.’

2001, New York

Maddy looked at the monitor in front of her. Another fuzzy, low-resolution, blocky image of what appeared to be a muddy field full of long wooden sheds. She could see a few trees, and a sky growing dark.

Computer-Bob was sending a narrow-thread signal to the rendezvous location, briefly checking every ten minutes for any density fluctuations and grabbing a pinhole image of the location at the same time. It was slowly eating into the full charge they’d had on the displacement machine; of the twelve green charge-LEDs, three of them were dark now.

Another dozen glimpses and they were going to be eating into stored energy they’d need to get Liam and the others back to 1831 and bring them home.

Come on, Liam! Where the hell are you?

He could make out six more landing rafts slowly chugging their way across the river. Devereau watched with growing unease as the soldiers still holding a position on the shingle behind their panel-barriers began to edge away from the middle of the landing area — where the six boats seemed to be heading towards.

‘James …’ he said in the gathering gloom. Wainwright was somewhere nearby. ‘Wainwright!’

He heard Wainwright make his way along the trench, a hasty word of encouragement and a pat on the shoulder for each man he passed. Presently he was beside Devereau.

‘What is it?’

Devereau pointed and handed him his field glasses. ‘Reinforcements coming.’

Wainwright squinted into the lenses, adjusting the focus as he panned up along the box-like hull of one of them. The protective panels were up, hiding whatever troops were inside. He thought he caught the bobbing of a head over the top — some sort of movement from within. He adjusted the binoculars on the flag fluttering lifelessly at the back of the craft, beside the helmsman’s position.

‘If I could just see the regimental banner … I can tell …’ His words faded.

‘What? What is it?’

Wainwright lowered the glasses. ‘Black Watch.’

Devereau knew them: one of the British army’s very best regiments. He puffed his cheeks and forced a smile. ‘Well then, we shall have a more even-handed fight this time round.’

Wainwright shook his head warily. ‘No … William,’ his voice a whisper for Devereau’s ears alone. ‘This isn’t good. The Black Watch are the regiment they have been trialling experimental units with.’

‘Experimental units?’

The haunted look on Wainwright’s face told him more than he wanted to hear. ‘Good God … you don’t mean …?’

‘Eugenics … yes.’

Devereau turned to look back at the river. The six high-panel-sided rafts were nearly all the way across, the sound of their motors chugging and spitting in the stillness that had settled over this contested patch of cratered and weed-strewn wasteland.

He stroked his beard absently, insistently. ‘Then … we must be sure to concentrate all our fire on those rafts. On whatever monsters are inside.’

Wainwright nodded.

Because whatever creatures are in there … if they get into the trench …

‘The men should know this,’ he added.

‘Agreed.’

Devereau cupped hands round his mouth. ‘Listen … men!’

The soft murmur of voices along the trench, a hundred different whispered conversations, ceased.

‘The rafts approaching … those vessels out there contain eugenic units!’

He’d expected a roar of panic, perhaps even the clatter of weapons dropping and the first of his men clambering out of the trench and making a run for it. Instead he was met with absolute silence and several hundred grime-encrusted faces along the line of the trench turned his way, faces absorbing the meaning of what he’d just said.

‘Understand, we CANNOT afford to let these monsters reach us! Is this clear?’