The Night of the Triffids (33 page)

    

    The rest of the day was taken up with the routine of going back and forth between camp and floating depot. One of the pilots collected a small floatplane and headed south on the four-hour journey to Central HQ. Beside him on the seat was the envelope containing Sam's report, his warning about the water triffids and a request for fresh orders.

    The rest of the pilots and myself ferried tents, food, ammunition and aviation fuel from the depot back to camp.

    Despite the traumas of the day it felt good to be flying again. I relished the feel of the joystick in my hands, the comforting familiarity of routinely checking the gyrocompass and altimeter, trimming the mixture control. And the sound of four engines running sweetly was sheer music to my ears.

    As I made the return trip with the plane almost full to bursting with much-needed supplies, I looked out of the windows at the setting sun casting long shadows across the ground three thousand feet below me and I sang under my breath.

    It occurred to me then, flying solo as I was, that I could have ditched those supplies and swung the plane's nose east. The fuel tanks were full and by mid-afternoon, local time, of the next day I could have been gliding that plane down to land in an Isle of Wight bay. But I knew I wouldn't do that. And it wasn't entirely a question of loyalty to Sam Dymes and his people. No. I had made other plans. But for the moment I would have to keep them to myself.

    

    

    

    WORK. And more hard work. That was what filled my day following the trip to the floating depot that lay as eerily as a ghost ship out there on the lake. Helping to clear the incinerated remains of accommodation huts, I found myself breathing dust and eating soot. What made this mess more appalling were the human remains lying like blackened sticks in the debris. It wasn't long before I had a handkerchief tied across the lower half of my face to avoid inhaling the worst of the debris.

    At least now we saw progress. Anti-triffid squads had made short work of the plants that had surged in through the broken fences. The fences themselves had been repaired. There were minor miracles, too, for which everyone was sincerely grateful. An apprentice mechanic had been pulled alive from a well where he'd bolted once the shooting had started. Later that morning a pair of women in protective suits had limped in through the triffid groves. These were survivors from an outlying observation post, which had been surprised by the enemy before the attack.

    With the return of order to the camp - the setting-up of tents, the provision of open-air kitchens - our prospects seemed so much better. Things looked brighter still with the return of two of the big four-engine flying boats that had left at first light.

    A squad of heavily armed men and women disembarked on on a jetty. I counted fifty of them. They unloaded kitbags from the plane, along with boxes of ammunition. For the rest of the day the flying boats shuttled back and forth between the camp and Central HQ.

    At a well-earned lunch break I washed myself thoroughly, marvelling at how the water running off my body had become inky black from the ash. Then I sat down to the now-customary fish-and-triffid stew.

    Gabriel joined me. 'Reinforcements have arrived,' he announced as he broke bread into his bowl. 'Crack troops. So that should tell us HQ have something up their sleeve.'

    'Such as?'

    'Sam received sealed orders from the Marines' commanding officer about twenty minutes ago. He's going to hold a meeting this afternoon.' He looked at me. 'You're invited, by the way.'

    I spooned some of the spicy food into my mouth. 'Will there be any more reinforcements? I mean, fifty's a start but we lost more men than that.'

    'Manpower's overstretched as it is. The rest of the Marines have their hands full with counter-insurgency operations down in the Florida Everglades. And the air force and gunboats are working non-stop to keep a bunch of pirates out of our waters down in the Gulf of Mexico. That's before HQ even begin to think about taking on Torrence.'

    Once more my mind went back to my home island. More than ever it seemed a peaceful out-of-the-way spot, untroubled for years by either triffid or human enemies. It seemed to me that the Foresters had their backs to the wall. Bandits, pirates, even run-of-the-mill poachers seemed to be threatening every border.

    'And the sad thing is,' Gabriel said, 'we're not talking about swaggering brigands here. We've noticed that whenever there's a bad harvest or a hard winter raids on our own communities triple - whether it's to rustle cattle or steal a couple of sacks of potatoes. The truth is that those people who are raiding us are simply ordinary folk like ourselves who are driven by the threat - and the reality - of starvation. After all, if your child is dying of hunger do you just sit back when your neighbours have a full larder? You do something about it, right?'

    'Who are these people?'

    'Often we don't know. The only thing we're sure of is that they have nothing to do with Torrence. They seem to be small independent settlements, scratching a living - a pretty meagre living - up in the highlands.' He shrugged. 'When times get hard for them they come down and make life hard for us.'

    'Surely something can be done about them?'

    'We've expended a lot of fuel and pilot time trying to spot them from the air. But even if we do find their settlements the idea of bombing hungry families sticks in my craw.'

    'No, I mean start talking to them. When times are bad give them food.'

    'Give them food? Would that be a kind of welfare programme? Or like paying protection money to the Mafia?'

    'If you give them enough to stop them starving then you'd take away their reason for raiding Forester settlements.'

    'Good point, David. But we've tried that. When it comes down to it everyone views everyone else with mutual suspicion. It's like Ryder Chee and his family. We've lived cheek by jowl with those people for the last twenty years, as near as dammit. But when they came visiting two days ago that was the first time we've exchanged so much as a word with them.'

    'They've taken the first step,' I said. 'They brought medical supplies.'

    'And I thank them from the bottom of my heart for their assistance.'

    'Gabriel, I'm sure-'

    'And
I'm
sure that one of the reasons those guys came here, strolling through the triffids like they're no more venomous than cherry trees, was to indulge in some self-satisfied gloating.' His eyes had a hard glint to them. 'But my guess is that once we normalize our situation here we won't see hide nor hair of Ryder Chee or his clan again.'

    I swallowed the last spoonful of stew. 'I see what you mean about mutual suspicion,' I told Gabriel before returning to work.

    

    

    That afternoon I got word to attend a meeting in Sam's tent at three o'clock sharp. Gratefully, I left the blackened mess of roof spars I had been clearing, washed, changed my clothes and then presented myself at Sam's makeshift office with a minute to spare.

    Sam tended not to stand on ceremony. Without a word he waved us in as he poured coffee from a jug. I glanced round the table. Sitting there were the camp's surviving pilots, Gabriel Deeds, the commanding officer of the newly arrived Marines and a couple of Sam's team who provided secretarial support. Still without speaking he took a letter from his briefcase and spread it out in front of him. Then, without meeting our gazes, he said matter-of-factly, 'Lieutenant Truscott delivered this letter a short time ago. I'd like you to listen to this, please.' He began to read. 'From Central HQ, Chapel Hill. To Commanding Officer Samuel J. Dymes, Fort Comanche. By Direction of the Committee of Central Command you are instructed to secure original objective as stated in order 93C/1. Namely, deliver Subject "C" to Central HQ by Monday the twenty-first. You are reminded to devote the highest priority to this objective, and to achieve it at all costs. Reinforcements, together with supplies, sufficient to meet your objective accompany this communique. Transportation logistics are a matter for your own initiative. You are fully aware of the importance of this mission. In closing, I stress that I have absolute faith in your abilities as leader and your team's competence to deliver a prize of incomparable value to our people. Sincerely yours, Major General Cordelia Ramirez'. He took a deep swallow of coffee. 'For the benefit of people who haven't seen order 93C/1, subject "C" is Christina Schofield. Something you've no doubt already figured. Now… these orders tend to err on the side of brevity but I think we're all clear what the Boss is telling us to do. We are required to spring Christina from New York and deliver her safely to Central HQ by a week Monday, which by my reckoning gives us exactly ten days.'

    Gabriel put his hands over his eyes briefly as if in disbelief. 'Impossible,' he declared. 'We don't know where Christina's being held. What's more, we only have around fifty Marines to do the job.'

    Lieutenant Truscott took this as a slight. 'Mr Deeds, my men are perfectly capable of executing those orders.'

    'Look.' Gabriel's fist clenched on the table. 'No offence intended. But New York is still a heck of a big place. It's well defended with artillery and rocket batteries. It has radar, picket ships, a standing military of fifteen hundred men and a civil-defence force of close on ten thousand.'

    'Gabriel,' Sam broke in. 'No one's saying we're going out there to conquer New York. This is going to be a snatch raid. Once we have Christina we're outta there. And this might be a good time to remind people why we need to do this: Torrence intends to use the eggs in Christina's ovaries to create an army that will be immune to triffid venom. With that army he will crush us, as he will crush every community that will not surrender their freedom to him. In short, we either rescue Christina or…' He shrugged. 'We might as well sign our own death warrants.'

    'Excuse me, do you mind?' Gabriel nodded at the letter.

    'Be my guest.' Sam handed him the sheet of paper.

    Gabriel scanned it until he found a sentence that caused his eyes to widen. 'It says here that, "Transportation logistics are a matter for your own initiative".'

    Sam gave a weak smile. 'That's a fancy way of HQ saying, "We don't know how you're going to get the Marines to New York, but we're sure you'll think of something".'

    Gabriel jerked a thumb in the direction of the wrecked submarines. 'Our boat strength is down to a couple of canoes and a dinghy.' He looked at myself, then at the other two pilots. 'But I guess you've other plans?'

    'Indeed, Gabe. We can fly the snatch squad up to New York in three hours.'

    'Tell me you're kidding, Sam. Tell me this is a big joke, then we'll all have a side-splitting laugh. After that we'll get down to the real strategy.'

    Sam shook his head, his blue eyes serious. 'No joke, Gabe. That's what we're going to do. We've got three pilots and three good planes. We can easily transport a force of ninety up there and then bring them back safely.'

    Gabriel looked appalled. 'Come on, Sam. You've just heard me say that New York is protected by radar, searchlights and about a hundred anti-aircraft guns. Those big old flying boats will be sitting ducks.'

    'I didn't say I had all the answers, did I?' Sam's face crinkled into a grim smile. 'That's why I've invited our pilots. They're going to tell us how to beat the radar.'

    Gabriel let out a heartfelt sigh. 'It looks as if I've been given the role of devil's advocate here… and far be it from me to shoot down your plans in flames, if you'll excuse the ominous metaphor, but we only have two pilots.'

    'Two plus David Masen makes three.'

    'But the sheer sweat and effort it took to get David away from Torrence… You'd have to be mad to send him back there.'

    Sam smiled. 'Welcome to the lunatic asylum, Gabe.'

    'But for crying out loud, why? If David falls into Torrence's hands we're back where we started. Worse. Torrence will lock David away until he can use him as a hostage to get hold of the Isle of Wight and that hoo-hah machine that turns triffid oil into aviation fuel, gasoline and a whole lot else. Then we're all dead and buried.'

    Sam knitted his fingers together. 'Needs must, Gabe. We need to spring Christina from New York. As well as those fifty Marines we need engineers and sappers with demolition expertise. That makes a force of ninety.'

    'So they can be carried in two planes, not three.'

    Sam turned to me. 'I'm no flyer, David. Explain the problem to Gabe.'

    'Two planes can carry ninety people between them, but the more passengers or payload you carry the faster you use fuel. You need to split those ninety people between three planes for that kind of distance or you'd simply run out of fuel on the return journey.'

    'Then fly in a pilot from another base.'

    'You know that's impossible, Gabe,' Sam told him. 'They're overstretched as it is.'

    Gabriel accepted this with an expansive gesture. 'OK. Granted. Even disregarding that I think we're crazy to send David back into the lions' den, there are still fundamental problems. One. We don't know where Christina Schofield is being held.'

    'We do: the Empire State Building. Ninety-third floor.'

    'So you found a replacement for me on the inside fast enough?'

    'He or she,' Sam replied cagily, 'was already in place. You were the best, but we needed to know we had a substitute.'

    'Just in case?'

    Sam admitted it with a nod. More coffee appeared on the table; Sam lit a cigarette. And so the talking went on throughout the afternoon. Outside the meagre sun did its best to illuminate the world. A flock of geese flapped steadily southwards overhead, their honking cries filling the air. Beyond the fence, evicted triffids rattled their sticks, twitched their leaves and did their best to flaunt their sinister presence.