The vehicles were quite big — substantially larger than a Matilda or Vickers — but were obviously tanks of some type nevertheless that travelled on long, wide sets of tracks. Both of them were seemingly identical, painted in khaki, brown and dark green stripes similar to those the pilot had seen on British tanks. Each sported a large turret atop the centre of their hulls mounting what appeared to be long-barrelled cannon on either side. A cluster of six long tubes were also mounted outside each of the guns, while several other large devices were hung from the front of the turret or projected above it that he couldn’t identify.
As the pair of tanks reached the concrete they each halted momentarily to allow a trio of men to enter the vehicle through a large hatch in its turret after which each cleared the shelter of the C-5M’s tail and powered away off the taxiway in clouds of exhaust. The first disappeared into the darkness along a track running parallel to the long, concrete runway, presumably heading for the opposite end with only its tail and headlights visible for a long time until they too eventually vanished.
The second of the tanks headed off in the opposite direction toward a large mound of earthworks, the top of which stood two stories above the ground level and was dimly visible beyond the OR’s barracks to the south west. He lost sight of the vehicle momentarily as it moved behind the nearer buildings before spotting it once more, driving lights blazing as it climbed the moderate gradient to the top of the artificial hill. Once there it almost disappeared entirely into what was obviously a prepared defensive position.
Before its lights shut down and it too vanished into the darkness once more, Trumbull noted that the only part of the vehicle that could still be seen was the large, bulbous turret and its side-mounted weapons. The squadron leader was no fool, and as his mind took in the placement of the vehicle and the complete field of fire its raised position afforded, the immediate thought that came to him was that the vehicle was intended for anti-aircraft defence. Having seen the missiles Thorne had used earlier to destroy one of the enemy Flankers, he suspected the six tubes mounted beside each cannon might well contain similar weapons. Although it was no more than a guess, it somehow seemed a logical assumption, and those missiles would most likely provide long-range defence to compliment the deadly-looking guns.
He’d experienced ack-ack fire a few times in his career — twice from German gunners on the French coast and once, rather more irritatingly, from an over-exuberant Bofors crew at one of his own airfields — and it was something he didn’t care to experience again if it could be avoided. He could only wonder at the potential power of the weapons each vehicle mounted and hope fervently there’d be no air attack against which they’d be called on to defend.
As he continued to watch on that early morning, Trumbull shivered at the cold despite the warm clothes and fur-lined flying jacket someone had found for him. He turned away from the windows, finally deciding to try and get some sleep…sleep that proved to be a long time coming and even then, one that was restless and filled with strange dreams.
The Officer’s Mess was much warmer thanks to the raging fireplace in the wall opposite the door, close to one end of the small but ornate, wooden bar. It was a relatively small mess, having been originally designed specifically for the group of officers who’d just entered, and was also relatively cosy as a result. The panelled walls were sparsely decorated with small, original paintings that, by the look of their naval themes might well have been scrounged up from the main areas of the naval base itself.
A de rigueur portrait of the King hung above the bar of course, and a collection of a dozen or so armchairs in worn but well-kept condition — all large and comfortable to be certain — were clustered beside and around circular drinks tables that sat at knee height. Someone had followed Alpert’s earlier orders and seven filled champagne flutes now sat together on a silver tray on one of those tables near the centre of the room.
“Now there’s a bloody good idea,” Thorne declared loudly, first through the door and spying the booze immediately. “Nice goin’, Nick old son!” He made a beeline for the table as the rest of the seven present filed in behind him. Thorne, in his mid-forties, was the commander of their newly-arrived unit — the unit named ‘Hindsight’ as Schiller had correctly assumed from the other side of The Channel.
“I heard that, boy!” Captain Jack Davies added as he entered close behind, dressed in a black pilot’s G-suit and dark blue parka of Arctic capabilities. “Goddamn, it’s cold out there. Anyone told those bastards at meteorology it’s actually still summer here?” Despite years of experience, Davies refused on principle to accustom himself to British weather. He possessed a broad, country face and a smile filled with impossibly-large teeth that resulted in him being a not altogether unattractive but also a not altogether handsome man either. Davies, apart from being equal second-in-command, was the only man qualified to fly the F-22 Raptor. A veteran pilot with service in Bosnia along with several tours of Iraq and Afghanistan, Davies had also spent time as one of the USAF’s lead test pilots on the aircraft before transferring to the Hindsight unit eight months before.
“God forbid they’d have cold weather in the States of course…” The dark-haired, female naval officer behind him added, baiting him in long running gag between the two. Her voice was tinged with a moderate Glaswegian accent and her hair, although cut in a short bob and barely reaching the back of her neck, still served to frame her pale skin, well-defined high cheek bones and a finely-shaped nose. Commander Eileen Donelson was twenty-nine years of age in comparison to Davies’ thirty-six, although she stood at least fifteen centimetres shorter than the Texan’s one hundred and ninety. Donelson also held the same standing within the group as Davies — that of equal 2IC- and filled the role of Thorne’s engineering and military ordnance adviser.
The rest filed in behind them. Nick Alpert, a year or two older than Thorne, had worked in British Military Intelligence before transferring to Hindsight and was probably the only person on the team who knew as much about their objective and enemies as Thorne himself. As tall as Thorne, he was thinner and of a bookish appearance that was accentuated by the small, circular spectacles perched on his nose. His key task within the unit was as intelligence officer, and with liaison between Hindsight and Whitehall.
Alpert was followed by a man little taller than Eileen Donelson. In his early forties, Robert Green was one of those men Trumbull had noted wearing the rather strange, mottled camouflage and slouch hats — an example of which he carried in his hands. The field uniform he wore carried a pattern known as Auscam, as was the pattern on the thin Japara jacket he wore over them. Green, a colonel with the Australian Special Air Service and commander of a six-man squad of SAS, carried an unruly shock of red hair that could only be kept under control when cut close to the scalp as he currently wore it.
The sixth person to enter the room wore the green dress uniform of the United States Marines and radiated career officer to the core. In his late forties, Michael Kowalski was a man of average height and lightly-greyed dark hair, and held the rank of colonel with the USMC. Kowalski had seen service in both Gulf Wars, Afghanistan and in numerous other trouble spots during his thirty years in the military. Although he’d certainly have denied it, Kowalski also probably came closest to possessing outright good looks of the males of the group, the grey at his temples only adding to the strength and even proportioning of his features.