Malcolm — who, I now noticed, looked somewhat feverish— seemed deeply troubled by this statement; before he could answer it, however, Tarbell's voice came over the shipwide address system. "They're hailing us," he said. Then he patched the voice of one of the pilots through: "Unidentified aircraft: you are in violation of British airspace. Accompany our escort to the nearest field or be fired upon."
Touching a keypad on the console in front of him, Malcolm replied pointedly, "'English aircraft: as far as we're concerned this is Scottish Republican airspace. You therefore have no authority to challenge us." He turned to Slayton. "Can we outrun them?"
Slayton shrugged. "We haven't come up against this model yet. We should be able to, but they've got a signature lock now— wherever we go they'll be able to track us, and if we head for the island they'll come after us with a lot more than just a squadron. We could dive, but we'll have to slow down — not much, but it would be enough to let one of the Predators catch up to us. And over the open sea I don't think they'd hesitate to go nuclear. The only choice I can see is going back up, but—"
There was a moment's silence, leaving it to me to step in: "But what?"
Malcolm, whose face was definitely growing paler by the minute, tapped a finger impatiently. "Colonel Slayton is attempting to be tactful, Gideon. The truth is that we've been away for an unusually long stretch, this trip, and it's becoming somewhat urgent, as I'm sure you've noticed, that I get back to our medical facilities on the island." Beads of sweat began to form on his brow, as had happened before: clearly another attack was coming. Knowing the origins of his mysterious illness and the circumstances of his past as I now did, I was filled with even greater sympathy than I had been on the first occasion. I also felt heightened respect for his stoicism: "This really is irritating," was his summation of the situation. "All right, then, Colonel, if we must—" He stopped suddenly, listening; then he held a hand to his collar. "You're sure?" he said over the link to his sister. He began to crane his neck, looking all around the transparent sheathing of the hull. "How far? I can't see — wait, there they are!"
Slayton and I turned with him to catch sight of another squadron of planes descending from behind and above us. Their silhouettes were more conventional than those of the British planes, and they weren't as fast — clearly, these were much older models. But they nonetheless swept in to engage the superior craft of our pursuers courageously. As they passed close by, I could see that they had large crosses of Saint Andrew painted on their fuselages.
To my puzzled look Slayton said, "Some of our friends in the Scottish Republican Air Force, Dr. Wolfe."
One of the results of England's international redefinition following the controversy over the Churchill-Princip letters that had "revealed" British leaders to have been responsible for the First World War had been a decision by the Scottish Parliament to formally declare its nation's independence. What was unknown to the world was that Malcolm's team, having forged those letters, had been indirectly responsible for that momentous vote. In addition, when Malcolm had sold his controlling interest in the Tressalian Corporation so that he could devote himself fully to his disinformation campaign, he'd used some of the fantastic proceeds to secretly purchase a group of small Hebridean islands from the Scots. The price had been substantial enough to allow Edinburgh to launch an effective armed resistance to England's efforts to resubjugate its northern neighbor, and in the years since, Malcolm had continued to contribute generously to what London insisted on calling "the Scottish rebellion" but the rest of the world had dubbed "the Scottish war of independence." Some of the practical results of his generosity were apparently now on display in the air around us.
"But will they really attack the English planes?" I asked. "They don't look like they'd stand a chance."
"They wouldn't," Slayton said. "They're flying old Harriers, armed with Sparrows — too slow, and not enough punch. But that's not the point. All they have to do is keep the English planes occupied long enough to give us a chance to dive."
So they, and we, did: within moments our ship was once again under the waves. We cruised quickly through the Pentland Firth and westward into the Atlantic, then southwest, at a shallow enough depth to be able to tell that the ocean surface above us was extremely agitated. I was nevertheless unprepared for just how rough the waves were when we shot back up into the air: it was fortunate that we didn't have to ride them but could cruise along at an altitude of some fifty feet.
In a matter of minutes our destination became visible: seven small bits of land dotted the water ahead. As we approached, I could see that they were marked by high, dramatic rock formations, hidden coves, and windswept green fields.
"Well, Gideon," Malcolm said, his discomfort alleviated at least somewhat by the prospect of an end to our journey, "welcome. Welcome to the Islands at the Edge of the World…"
CHAPTER 22
Such, apparently, was the sobriquet long ago given to the little archipelago that was collectively known as St. Kilda. Protected most of the year by waters so rough that ships did not even attempt to approach it, St. Kilda seemed the perfect haven for Malcolm and his team. It had been uninhabited by humans since 1930 and was now home primarily to a fantastic assortment of seabirds — gannets, kittiwakes, puffins, and the like — which flocked so densely at various points that they changed the very color of the landscape. But what was most striking about the islands was their air of almost palpable mystery: the sea-sculpted rocks, remnants of an ancient volcano, bespoke a shielded past full of dark secrets and perilous adventures. A romantic assessment, perhaps; but then, by the time we landed I had become possessed by every kind of romance.
On the main island of Hirta, Malcolm had constructed the base of his operations near the decaying remains of a small village that was centuries old. The buildings that made up his facility were cleverly designed to match those older stone ruins, though the technology that the newer structures housed could not have belonged any less to the past. All maintenance and operative systems were so fully automated that there was no need for any human presence at all; the island could be left deserted for weeks or even months at a time. As to style, the interior of the compound echoed the marked contrast aboard ship: functional minimalism in the laboratories and control rooms, inviting antiques in the living and lounging areas. Housed in one mock church was the projection unit for the ozone weapon, which apparently could also be used to adjust conditions on the island temporarily when the climate of the North Atlantic became too severe. As Larissa and Colonel Slayton got Malcolm settled into his regimen of rest, self-treatment, and self-medication (he had an understandable aversion to doctors), the others showed me to a room that had a truly striking view of an eerie cove and the sea beyond. During the next two weeks or so, as Malcolm privately regained his strength and then went to work in a lab that he reserved as his sanctum, I passed the time with the rest of the team, investigating the islands, learning more about the technologies the group had developed, and pondering the effects of our recent escapades. It was an energizing time, and as it passed I became aware that I was speaking and acting not like Dr. Gideon Wolfe of Manhattan, professor at John Jay University and respected member of American society, but rather as someone who, like the others, had renounced his native citizenship and become a man without a country. When I'd boarded Malcolm's ship in the Belle Isle prison, I'd become an outlaw — in the finest sense of the word, I told myself, but such distinctions would matter very little if I crossed paths with the authorities. And so I dived headlong into my new role, discussing potential new hoaxes and learning about new weapons and technologies during the day and becoming ever more passionately fascinated by Larissa at night.