On Her Majesty's Behalf (24 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-five

The Tower

London

V
ERONICA AWOKE TO
water splashing across her face.

She lifted her head, sputtering to get rid of the mouthful of the stuff she involuntarily inhaled, and opened her eyes to find herself sitting waist-­deep in water amid a crumpled pile of wood and cloth. Her gaze fell upon the red, blue, and white roundel hanging in front of her and she realized with a start that the water was the Thames and the wreckage was all that was left of Freeman's plane. That's when the whole sorry event came back to her.

They'd apparently survived, if the fierce pain she was feeling where the safety straps were digging into her shoulders was any indication. She shifted position, loosening the pressure enough that she could reach down below the seat to unhook first the left-­hand strap and then the right, freeing her from the belts' hold. With the pressure relieved she was able to straighten up a bit in her seat and take a look around.

She could see immediately that the plane had come to rest in the shallow water near the north bank of the Thames. The nose and wings were a crumpled mess, but the main portion of the fuselage had remained reasonably intact. Freeman was in the cockpit in front of her, slumped over the instrument panel, unmoving. From this angle she could see that his face was above water, so he wasn't in any immediate danger of drowning, but she wasn't able to discern the extent of his injuries.

Looking downriver she could see the square face of the Tower of London looming on the edge of the left bank and, just beyond it, the wide bulk of the Tower Bridge spanning the Thames. She knew there were government offices inside the tower, perhaps some with food and water, and she knew that was where they had to go.

But first she had to tend to Freeman and get him out of the aircraft.

The twin cockpits were only separated by a narrow stretch of fuselage no more than a foot in width and Veronica knew she would have no trouble clambering from one to the other, but when she moved to do just that, the wreckage of the plane suddenly lurched sharply to the right, sending her sprawling in a heap against the front cockpit wall.

When she tried to regain her footing, the plane shifted position again, sliding another foot farther into the river.

With dawning horror the truth of the situation finally sank through her still fuzzy thought processes. The whole plane was slowly being pulled by the current out into deeper water. If that happened, they were in serious trouble.

A glance at Freeman showed him still unconscious. If she didn't get him free of his safety straps before the plane went under, he was going to drown before she could do anything about it. She knew she had to act and act fast.

Move, girl!

Ignoring the movement of the aircraft beneath her, Veronica scrambled over the short divider between the two cockpits and hauled Freeman back against his seat from behind. Blood covered the front of his shirt from a wound high on his shoulder. He groaned when she moved him, and she took that as a good sign.

At least he wasn't dead yet,
she thought. Being stranded in this place alone was not something she wanted to experience.

The cockpit was already half filled with water, and it was growing deeper by the moment. She reached down beneath the surface and began tugging on the straps that kept Freeman secured to his chair. Her actions caused the tail of the aircraft to start sliding around, away from the bank, and she knew in just a few moments they'd be broadside to the flow of the river. At that point the current would yank them out into deep water where, given the condition of the wreckage, they'd sink pretty darned quickly.

She had to get them out of here!

The straps weren't cooperating, though. She tugged and pulled, but something must have gotten twisted up in the crash because she couldn't get them to move at all, never mind slip off the hooks that held them in place. A closer look showed they were pulled taut across Freeman's chest as well, so much so that she would have had trouble trying to slide her fingers beneath either strap.

The wreckage chose that moment to lurch several more inches into deeper water.

You're running out of time!

Her hand bumped up against something attached to the outside of Freeman's boot, and when she drew it out of the water, she found herself holding a wide-­bladed combat knife. The moment she recognized it she went to work, using the blade to cut through the straps that held Freeman in his seat.

It was tough; the material was reinforced to withstand the heavy shocks of flying, never mind being waterlogged from sitting in the river, but she kept at it, sawing furiously. When the first strap parted with an audible snap, she turned and started on the second one.

That's when she noted that they were adrift.

The current was slowly pulling them simultaneously away from the bank and downriver. At the same time the front of the aircraft was sinking below the surface, the weight of the engine dragging it down toward the bottom.

She had a few seconds, at most, to get them out of here.

“Come on! You bloody stupid sonofa—­”

The knife cut through the final section of the belt. Without hesitation Veronica grabbed Freeman by the jacket and pulled him with her over the side of the cockpit, into the water.

When she surfaced seconds later, one arm wrapped around Freeman's chest from behind to help keep his head out of the water, Veronica saw that she'd been just in time. As she watched, the tail of the plane tipped upward and then quickly sank beneath the waves as the weight of the engine dragged the rest of the wreckage to the bottom of the Thames.

Not that Veronica was immune to the current; far from it, in fact. Even as she watched the plane sink she was being carried steadily downriver, Freeman still held tight against her upper body, and she knew that if she wasn't careful, she'd be carried right down the Thames estuary and out into the sea. Drowning in the English Channel was slightly more attractive than getting eaten alive by shredders, but only slightly. She wasn't going to go out that way if she could help it.

Her only option was the tower.

Long used as both a prison and a place of execution, the Tower of London was infamous for its long and bloody history but it had the one thing she needed right now above anything else—­a way out of the river.

Traitors' Gate, the only water gate entrance to the tower, had originally been built by Edward I in 1275 as his own private entrance to the castle when St. Thomas's Tower was being used as accommodations for the royal family. When the Tower of London became a prison, the gate earned its more infamous nickname because it was through here that prisoners were brought in by barge off the Thames, passing under the Tower Bridge where the heads of those recently executed were displayed on pikes. The prisoners were then turned over to prison officials inside the safety of the tower walls.

Veronica knew that an arched tunnel led beneath the Tower Wharf to a set of stone steps that led up from the river directly in front of St. Thomas's Tower, one of the smaller buildings in the tower complex. If she could get them close enough to the wharf, she should have time to maneuver them into the tunnel before the current pushed them past.

Already tired from her fight with the safety belts and the aftereffect of all the adrenaline coursing through her system from the crash, Veronica nevertheless began to swim against the current, kicking her legs as hard as she could, hoping to get in closer to shore before the cold water leached the last of the strength from her weary muscles. She kept her arm clamped tight around Freeman's chest and did her best to keep his head out of the water as she went. For every foot she managed toward shore, though, the current carried her a half-­dozen more downstream, and she was soon stroking with her free arm, Freeman's combat knife still gripped securely in hand, as well as kicking with her feet to get her out of the flow of the current and over to the bank.

Just as she thought she couldn't do any more, her outstretched hand smacked against the stone wall that held up the Tower Wharf and she breathed a sigh of relief. The current was weaker here along the base of the wall and she was able to hug the wall for the last several yards as the archway leading to Traitors' Gate loomed closer. When they were parallel with the opening, she kicked out with her legs and forced them out of the current entirely, putting them in the calm waters of the narrow estuary that led beneath the wharf and under Traitors' Gate. From there it was a simple matter to dog-­paddle the length of the tunnel, slip under the half-­raised portcullis that was used to block off the entrance every evening, and then stagger a short way up the staircase at the far end, dragging Freeman behind her as she went. Once they were both out of the water, she collapsed on the stone steps and tried to catch her breath, letting the knife slip from her fingers to the ground beside her.

She didn't know the shredder was there until it was almost upon her.

Some long-­buried instinct for self-­preservation caused her to lift her weary head and she caught sight of the shredder while it was still a ­couple of yards away. Adrenaline dumped into her system, sending her heart hammering into overdrive, and she snatched at her belt, clawing for her pistols, only to find it wasn't there. She must have lost them in the crash!

She still had Freeman's knife, though, and as the shredder rushed down the steps toward her, she grabbed the knife from the step beside her, gripped it tightly, and stood to meet the shredder's charge . . .

 

Chapter Thirty-six

On the Thames

London

T
HE MEN WERE
tense as they rowed cautiously toward the
Reliant
. Burke didn't blame them; he was tense, too. He kept waiting for a mob of shredders to come pouring out of the hatch, and every second that passed in eerie silence only served to tighten his nerves.

Sergeant Drummond stood in the bow, having volunteered to be the first aboard. Burke had served with his fair share of men over the years and had to admit that the Black Watch sergeant had certainly proved his worth on this mission. Behind Drummond was Jones, another man with nerves of steel, and then Burke himself. The three of them had volunteered to be the ones to clear the boat, which seemed fair to Burke given that it had been his idea in the first place.

While the three of them handled the dirty work below, Corporal Williams and Private Cohen would guard the hatch. Both men were under strict orders to seal the hatch if it looked like any of the shredders were going to escape the confines of the boat. Neither of them had looked happy, but they'd accepted the orders and Burke knew they'd carry them out if it became necessary.

Let's just hope it doesn't.

Last but not least, Doc Bankowski and Professor Graves would remain aboard the lifeboat, oars in hand, ready to get them out of there at a moment's notice.

To everyone's surprise they reached the boat without any shredders pouring up from below.

As Bankowski and Graves brought them up alongside the hull, Sergeant Drummond deftly jumped up onto the deck, Jones at his heels. Burke followed suit, only to have his lead foot hit a patch of decking slick with river water and go right out from under him. His reflexes took over, putting out a hand to catch his fall.

Unfortunately for all concerned, it was his mechanical one.

The resulting bong that echoed through the hull when his metal fist made contact with the outer deck felt like the loudest sound in the entire world at that moment.

Everyone froze, Burke included.

For a long moment no one even dared to breathe. All eyes were on the hatch.

Waiting.

Watching.

Expecting a horde of ravenous zombies to come swarming out of the belly of the boat and fall on them at any moment.

But nothing happened.

The only thing coming out of the boat beneath their feet was silence.

Drummond looked back at Burke and when the other man nodded his head, he stepped quietly over to the hatch. He hesitated the barest fraction of a second and then poked his head quickly over the opening before ducking back again.

He gave it a heartbeat and then did it again, this time more slowly.

A hand signal told the others he wasn't seeing anything significant.

Jones helped Burke to his feet, and the two men joined Drummond by the hatch. The ship's battery was still good, for there were lights on in the bridge compartment at the bottom of the ladder. Cautiously, one after another, they started down.

This is it,
Burke thought, as Drummond made his way down the ladder.
We're trapped in the narrowest of tubes without room to maneuver or even bring a weapon to bear. If they have any sense at all, this is where they'll jump us.

Drummond stepped off the ladder, no worse for wear than he'd been seconds before. Burke watched him glance both ways, fore and aft. Then came the signal for the others to join him.

His heart hammering in his throat, Burke followed.

The first thing he saw as he stepped off the ladder was the eviscerated body of Captain Wattley. His flesh had been eaten right off his bones, but it was clear from the uniform he wore just who it was. Burke felt a pang of regret; differences about the mission aside, the gruff sailor had been a good man.

A few other bodies lay where they had fallen, most of them unrecognizable thanks to the way the shredders had torn at the exposed flesh.

Under cover of the guns carried by his two companions, Drummond stepped to the far end of the compartment and gently pulled the bulkhead door shut, spinning the handle to seal it closed for the time being.

The plan was for the trio to move aft, clearing the rear of the boat before moving forward and doing the same to the bow. Sealing off the forward compartments would keep any shredders from sneaking up on them from behind.

They waited a moment by the bulkhead door to see if anything responded to their presence. When all remained quiet, they turned and headed aft.

Compartment after compartment, they found the same thing; a few bodies here and there, but no sign of any shredders. Damage to the interior of the vessel appeared to be minimal as well for it seemed the shredders' initial attack had been so overwhelming that word hadn't had time to spread through the boat fast enough to allow any of the sailors to mount a coordinated response. With the aft section of the boat cleared, the trio turned their attention to the forward compartments, only to find the same results.

Once the all clear was given, the squad set about making the boat seaworthy. Williams disappeared into the engine room, after shanghaiing the wounded Cohen to help him. Doc and Graves were given the task of trying to identify the bodies, then wrapping them in blankets weighted down with whatever they could find and giving them a quick burial at sea. A few of the men, Drummond in particular, pressed for the bodies to be taken to France with them, but they had already started to decompose and without adequate refrigeration equipment it just wasn't possible. Regretfully, Drummond at last agreed.

Drummond and Burke spent some time familiarizing themselves with the boat's controls so that when the time came, they'd be able to manage the vessel while under way. Both men were quick learners and the fact that all the control systems were clearly marked in English certainly made their task easier.

An hour after boarding, they were ready to give it a go.

There was another moment of tension as they waited for Williams to fire up the engines. He'd been right though—­a diesel was a diesel—­and the big engine came alive with a grumble that vibrated through the whole boat.

Once the cheering stopped, Burke gave the order to haul up the anchors and get under way. They started out with the engines at less than one-­eighth speed, moving out from under the shadow of the bridge and giving them time to get used to how the boat handled. They had one scary moment when they scraped hard against something submerged in the water, but the bulkheads all held and the inexperienced crew breathed a sigh of relief.

Since they weren't familiar with all the complexities of the boat, they kept things simple. Burke stood over the open hatch in the conning tower, shouting commands down to Cohen, who stood at the base of the ladder and relayed them to Drummond, who was sitting in the driver's seat. Next to the sergeant, in the planesman's chair, sat Graves. While Drummond kept them on the straight and narrow, it was Graves's job to keep them on the surface and running level. Jones and Doc Bankowski were out on deck with Burke, scouring both banks for signs of the downed aircraft. Jones was using the spotting scope off his rifle while Doc had a pair of binoculars they'd found in the captain's cabin.

Yard by yard, they made their way down the river.

Burke hadn't forgotten about Charlie and his team of German commandos, so he made it his mission to watch for signs of the enemy as well as for the missing aircraft. It wasn't an easy task; much of the city around them was in ruins thanks to the German bombing campaign that had coincided with the release of the gas, and shadows loomed everywhere amid the rubble. Between that and the shredders wandering the streets, it made Burke's job a tough one.

They had moved about a half mile downstream and were just passing beneath Waterloo Bridge when Doc gave a shout.

“I think I see something! Over there!”

He was pointing to something on the south bank of the river, behind the remains of the National Theatre, so Burke shouted down orders to hold their position so they could investigate. Williams was quick to respond and the boat came to a halt in the shadow of the bridge above.

Burke and Jones quickly moved to Doc's side.

“What have you got?” the major asked.

“Over there,” Doc said, pointing. “Behind that building with the slate roof; is that the tail of an aircraft?”

Burke didn't see it until Jones handed him the spotting scope, at which point the round curve of the airplane's rudder came into view. But their initial excitement was quite squelched when Jones spotted a section of the wing nearby with the German cross boldly emblazoned upon it.

It was an aircraft, all right, just not the one they were looking for.

“Must have been playing escort for the airships that conducted the bombing raid,” Burke said.

“One less pilot to be shooting at our boys at least,” Jones replied, “and good riddance to him.”

Burke nodded; it was a sentiment with which he could easily agree.

The trio turned around, intent on returning to their respective positions, when something dropped onto the deck of the boat from the bridge above. It rolled for a moment then came to rest against the deck gun about ten feet in front of them.

Burke recognized it immediately.

He'd spent years in the trenches and knew a German stick grenade when he saw one. The wooden handle made them easy to throw and the bulbous head contained the explosives that made them so deadly. His gaze immediately traveled to the handle of the device, looking for the cord that would be there if the thrower had forgotten to arm the grenade, hoping against hope that it was still there, but of course they couldn't get that lucky.

Time slowed to an imperceptible crawl, every second feeling like an eternity as they ticked by in Burke's mind.

One.

Burke started forward, his mouth opening to shout a warning.

Two.

Someone shoved past him, kicking him aside, as a voice shouted in his ear.

“Grenade!” Jones cried, as he pushed past Burke and threw himself atop the explosive, smothering it with his body.

Three . . .