Three hours later, he was on the outskirts of Nottingham, doing the unthinkable. He was asking directions. His little convoy had managed to take a wrong turning and somehow got hopelessly off course. The problem was that somebody, in a fit if excessive zeal or perhaps ingrained memory of anti-paratrooper precautions from World War Two, had taken down all the street names. Rather than waste precious petrol he’d stopped at the first large store he’d seen, a garden supply center, and gone in to find out where he was and what he had to do to go where he was supposed to. His uniform had got him some quick attention.
“Twelve sacks of fertilizer.” The voice came from behind him, from a man speaking to one of the service clerks.
“Any particular kind sir?”
“Nutrafin.”
That made the staff pay attention and Archibald’s ears pricked up. Nutrafin was an ammonium nitrate fertilizer and, while not exactly a controlled substance any more, it was an ‘object of interest’ when purchased in bulk. Twelve sacks of the stuff were more than slightly ‘bulk’. That made the purchase more than slightly ‘interesting’.
Discretely, Archibald turned around and looked at the would-be purchaser. He was unkempt, dirty, disheveled, well, a man who spent his time working on other people’s gardens and didn’t get paid more than a very basic wage could well look like that. There was something else about him though, something that Archibald couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was as if he wasn’t quite here, as if a part of him was detached. Perhaps he was educationally sub-normal and this was the best job he could get? But if that was the case, why would he have been trusted with what had to be a major purchase?
“I’m afraid we’ll have to get an order that large from the warehouse Sir. It’ll take a while, would you mind waiting? Or perhaps you’d like to come back for it?”
“I’ll wait. And hurry up, the Goddess is waiting.”
Normally a remark like that would have added at least 30 minutes to his wait time but the garden center staff had noted there was something odd about this man as well and wanted him out. Archibald sympathized with them but the incongruity of the remark nagged at him. A worker might well refer to an imperious and demanding female manager as “the goddess” but there was something in the man’s voice that belied that explanation. There had been an echo of love. Adoration even? For a brief second Archibald toyed with the idea that the man might be the bottom in a BDSM relationship but his sordid appearance didn’t fit that either. Then his distanced attitude clicked in Archibald’s mind. He’d read an intelligence report about the gorgon incidents around Sheffield, how they appeared to be able to control people, even those who were wearing their tinfoil hats. Eye witnesses to the two doomed police officers had remarked on their distant, remote appearance. And the gorgon had vanished despite an intense hunt.
“Look, do you have a large-scale map of the area in your back office? That would make sorting me out a lot easier.” Archibald spoke easily and was relieved that the on-the-ball manager picked up the hint.
“Yes, of course Flight Sergeant. Should have thought of that myself. Come with me.” The two men walked away, into a back office where there was no map but which did possess a telephone with an outside line.
“Thank’s. Can you stall that man until I get help?” The manager nodded and quietly left for the warehouse. Delays were about to multiply drastically. After all, nobody could work slower than a British worker when he put his mind to the problem. Behind him Archibald picked up the phone, punched “9” and then dialed the number for the service hotline.
“This is Flight Sergeant Archibald here. Could I speak with the duty officer please?”
“Captain Mannock here Sergeant.”
“Sir, I’m at the Moors Garden Center, just outside Nottingham. A man’s just come in here, asking for twelve sacks of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. He’s an odd one Sir, I may be all wet but I think he’s entranced. He’s acting just like the descriptions of those two coppers the gorgon killed. And nobody buys that much ammonium nitrate for their back yard.”
At the other end of the line, Richard Mannock drummed his pencil on the desk. It was weak, certainly, but this came from an NCO, almost certainly a recalled veteran. Such men did not jump at shadows. Anyway, the leads on the missing gorgon had dried up and there was nothing else to follow. And if gorgons could entrance people, then it was possible they might be able to exploit their knowledge. Most people knew how to make ANFO.
“Well done Sergeant. Can you follow him when he leaves?”
“I’ve got RAF trucks here Sir, bit obvious for a tail. Hold one.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked at the manager who was just re-entering the room. “We think we’ve got a line on the gorgon that did for Sheffield. Have you got a van or car I can borrow? And a cell-phone?”
“We’ve got the garden center van, its just a plain white one. And you can have my cell phone. But the petrol?”
“If the van’s full and we get the gorgon, I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry about petrol again. Thank’s mate.” Archibald took his hand off the mouthpiece. “Got both Sir. We owe the garden center manager who’s arranged them. Owe him a lot.”
“Noted Sergeant. Get on with the tail and don’t be seen. Call us when you’ve found where he’s going or if you lose him. We’re sending a team down now, they’ll be there in an hour or so. Even if this guy isn’t entranced and its something else, its still worth looking into.” The telephone clicked and Archibald guessed that wheels were already starting to turn very fast.
“Here’s the keys Flight Sergeant.” The manager handed them over and Archibald left by the back door, clutching a local map in one hand. A few minutes later, the suspect finished loading the sacks into the back of his car and, with the rear suspension sagging dangerously, left. Archibald eased out and followed him, trying to keep at least one car between them. It wasn’t hard, the man was driving slowly and steadily, apparently not paying any attention to what was happening around him. That caused a few outraged honks from horns but he apparently ignored them.
Eventually he turned into the driveway of a detached house in what looked like a council hosing complex. He got out of the car and opened the garage door, allowing Archibald to see more sacks of fertilizer stacked up inside. The Sergeant drove past, stopped a hundred yards or so down the road and then got on the cellphone. This time he got straight through to the duty officer.
“Captain Mannock Sir? Sergeant Archibald again. I’ve followed the suspect to his home, there’s a lot more fertilizer in his garage, saw it as I drove past. The address is.” Archibald fumbled the map for a second. “18 Grays Lane, Clifton Council Housing Estate.”
“Good man. An emergency response team is already on its way down. Wait where you are and they’ll be with you soon.” Mannock hesitated slightly, the Sergeant had done well and he didn’t want to sound as if he was putting the man down. “We’re sending in the heavy mob so they can do the rough stuff. We need you to identify the man from the garden store after they’ve finished cracking skulls.”
Archibald grinned to himself, he’d been in the RAF long enough to recognize a tactful ‘stay out of their way’ when he heard it. “Very good Sir. Message understood.”
He settled back in the driver’s seat and, on a whim, opened the glove compartment. To his delight there was a Mars bar and a Twix pack in. Munching on the chocolate and watching the house through his mirror, he almost missed the sight of two Chinook helicopters passing overhead.
B-1B “Dragon Slayer” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, Approaching Dis
Major Curtis Trafford shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing that it was going to get a lot worse. He had been airborne for ten hours, Dragon Slayer pounding north, over the sea of murk that represented the dust clouds covering Hell. They had traveled more that six thousand miles since take-off and he was already aware that he was now deeper into Hell than any living human had ever gone. He also knew that his status in that respect was increasing every minute as the B-1s continued their marathon flight and that meant the aircraft’s fuel tanks were steadily being depleted. Coming up was their first refueling point, the tankers were already closing in on the agreed rendezvous point and their beacons showed clearly on the navigational displays.