“And this?”
“I don’t know how to deal with it.”
Yakov slammed a large open palm into Turcotte’s chest.
“You’re human.” His hand thumped his own chest. “I’m human. That’s it. That’s all. I spent all my life, while you were cutting down these trees you care so much about, tracking these aliens and their creatures. They killed my friends, they destroyed my country. Destroyed many other countries and killed millions — billions of people most likely — over the thousands of years they have been here on our planet. We know they caused the Black Death. Tried to bring a version of it back that we were barely able to stop.
“All those years I spent in the dark, tracking them, I had to, how do you say, deal with it in some manner. Make my mind”—Yakov searched for the words—“wrap around what I was doing, understand it. Just as you had to understand what you were doing. And do you know what I decided? What it came down to?” Turcotte shook his head.
“I am human,” Yakov said. “They, and those who work for them, aren’t.” “That simple?” Turcotte asked, “It is that simple.”
Martaugh slid his feet up the ramp. He didn’t dare take a step, afraid his boot would make too much noise. He’d watched the BBC. He knew about the aliens, Area 51, the world war. Everyone did. He had no doubt somehow that this was involved. How he had no idea.
He moved inside. There was a green glow. Martaugh swallowed, but continued forward. The ramp went up to a metal door that was half-ajar. Using the muzzle of the Sterling, he slowly pushed the door open, revealing a chamber. The first thing he noticed was the pale woman covered with blood strapped to a gurney, her right arm ending in a stump.
“Good Lord,” Constable Martaugh muttered.
He sensed, rather than heard, someone behind him and he swung about. His finger froze on the trigger the shock was so great. He saw it wasn’t a person, but a thing, an unspeakable thing, even as the tentacle wrapped around his throat. He opened his mouth to scream, and that was a mistake.
The coast of England appeared ahead and Turcotte looked down at the GPS navigational screen to check their location and the direction to Stonehenge. He adjusted course and the mothership turned slightly to the left.
“One minute out,” the pilot informed Spearson via the intercom.
The colonel pulled back the bolt on his MP-5 submachine gun and made sure a round was in the chamber. Seeing that action, the rest of the men in the helicopter’s cargo bay did likewise.
The Lynx flared as it slowed, losing altitude.
“Talk to me,” Spearson ordered the pilot, who he knew was flying with night-vision goggles and had a clear view of what was ahead. Spearson also had night-vision goggles attached to his helmet, but he couldn’t see past the pilot.
“There’s some sort of black sphere, about five meters in diameter, hovering just in front of the center ring of stones. There appears to be a doorway of some sort, emitting a green light. There’s also a police Land Rover parked nearby. No sign of whoever drove it.”
Black sphere? Spearson had kept up with the torrent of intelligence reports about the recent world war, fought primarily in the Pacific and Middle East and he could recollect no such description. Something new. Something different.
Spearson had been under fire many times, in Northern Ireland, during the Gulf War, in Ethiopia — but he felt a shiver of unease as the Lynx’s skids hit the ground with a slight thump. He didn’t have to yell any commands. He knew the men would be right behind and spread out tactically. That was the difference between the SAS and a regular line unit. He ran from the chopper toward the black sphere, shoving his night-vision goggles down on their slot on his helmet. He blinked for a second as the darkness gave way to a bright green scene, The black sphere was perfectly still, hovering a few feet above the ground, part of the outer shell forming a ramp to the ground.
Spearson froze as a figure carrying a Sterling submachine gun came out of the opening. He had the muzzle of the MP-5 centered on the man, when he stopped his finger, just short of firing, as he recognized the uniform.
“Over there!” the constable yelled, pointing to the left, away from the monument. Spearson turned, as did all his men. Nothing.
Spearson heard the sound of an automatic weapon going off as the first rounds hit him in the chest, knocking him backward. The police officer was moving toward the SAS troopers, weapon to his shoulder, firing.
Spearson landed on his back, his chest aching from the impact on his Kevlar vest. He lifted his head as his men returned fire. He watched in disbelief as the cop was riddled with bullets, yet kept firing. Two more SAS men went down, one fatally shot in the face.
The cop’s weapon — an old Sterling, Spearson could see through the goggles — clicked on an empty chamber. The SAS troops kept firing, literally tearing the cop to pieces until his body collapsed.
Spearson got to his feet. One of his men ran forward and checked the body. Spearson indicated for the rest to follow him. He edged around so that he could see into the pod. A door blocked the way just inside. “Blow it,” Spearson ordered.
One of his men pulled a small shaped charge out of his pack and ran up to the door, placing it in the center. He pulled the fuse.
“Fire!” the demolitions man yelled as he exited the craft and dived for cover. Spearson hit the ground, tucking his head down. There was a sharp crack. He got up and cursed. Only a two-foot-wide hole had been blown in the door.
He heard shots behind him and spun about. The man who had been with the cop’s body had shot another SAS trooper right in the face. The second man screamed, hands to his face, blood pouring between his fingers. The SAS man fired at his comrades, head shots as he’d been trained.
“Goddamn,” Spearson cursed as two more of his men went down. He squeezed the trigger, the bullet hitting the man in the head, just above the right eye, below the edge of the helmet. Blood and brain flew out the exit wound in the back of his head. And still he fired. Another SAS man was down.
Spearson sensed something overhead, but didn’t take the time to look up. He fired, pulling the trigger as quickly as he could, head shots all, hitting his own man repeatedly until he finally collapsed.
“What the hell was that, sir?” one of his few surviving men demanded as they converged on the body. It was unrecognizable. Spearson had literally blown the man’s head off.
Spearson glanced up. The stars were gone.
Then he was blinded as a brilliant light filled the sky.
Turcotte was waiting right by the cargo door and as soon as Yakov opened it, he rushed down the still-extending gangway to the ground. He had an MP-5 in one hand and Excalibur in the other. The Russian must have also found some way to illuminate the ground below, because it was as bright as if it were high noon.
Turcotte took in the tableau. The large stones were right in front of him, the black pod, a Land Rover, bodies. A few men in uniform still standing, ripping off overloaded night-vision goggles. He recognized one of the men — Spearson — from the mission in Ethiopia.
“Colonel,” Turcotte called out as he headed for the SAS Commander.
Spearson blinked, trying to reorient himself, still confused and dismayed by the insane actions of his own man.
“Colonel, what do you have?” Turcotte was next to him, noting the bodies. “What happened?” Spearson shook his head, confused and shocked. “I don’t know. The police officer shot at us. Then one of my men — I don’t know why.”