Chapter Ten

Jacob’s Ladder

1.

FOLKARD FELT DIZZY, but knew he needed to press on. The sight of the Russian aether battleship had engendered a steely determination in his men—now they knew the true scale of their enemy’s plans the importance of success was brought into sharp relief, as were the terrible odds they faced. It was a mutual feeling that linked them, one that did not need to be voiced lest the enormity of their mission overwhelm them. Still, what Folkard wouldn’t give for a battalion of heavily armed men, artillery and air support…

His mind was racing with possibilities as they sneaked up towards the fence. They got as close as they dared and stopped to form a tight-knit circle. Enderby nodded to him to give the men a final briefing and pep talk before proceeding. Folkard nodded back, and looked to each of the men in turn. They were strong, resolute, prepared. None let fear show in their faces.

“Men,” he began, “the display of the Russian’s new technology we just witnessed was a shocking one, and only serves to demonstrate just how important our mission is—though I hardly have to say that. In light of this discovery, our primary mission objectives are as follows: Number one, sabotage. This new weapon represents a threat to the security and safety of not only our home nation, but potentially the entire world. If possible it must be destroyed, or put out of commission as much as is possible with the resources we have at hand.

“Number two: Intelligence gathering. As you have no doubt been made aware, this new ship has been built using the Sovereign’s blueprints, and I need not point out the similarities between this new vessel and the pride of Her Majesty’s fleet—you have seen that well enough yourselves. It is of paramount importance we discover how the Russians managed to obtain these secret plans, as well as how their version differs from our own in terms of build and capability. In short, keep your eyes peeled and grab any files or folders, however irrelevant they may seem. At present, I’d be happy to acquire the cleaning rota if it gives us even the smallest advantage.”

The men smiled ruefully, glad for this burst of irreverence in an otherwise gloomy monologue.

“In short,” continued Folkard, “keep your wits about you and we’ll all see England again. An England which, God willing, will continue to be the glorious seat of the Empire and the pride of the seven continents that we know. Our efforts today depend upon it.”

The men nodded solemnly. “Anything to add, Mister Enderby?”

Enderby shook his head. “I believe you have covered everything, Captain. Eloquently and poignantly, I might add.”

“Thank you. Let’s just hope our actions reflect our sentiments.”

The men quickly checked their weapons and had a last look through their kit. The plan was to employ stealth as much as possible, get as close to the hanger—if not the ship itself—without being detected, though the likelihood of this was diminished greatly by the scores of patrols that paraded around the base. They were to split into two groups, Folkard leading the first and Enderby the second, and should one team be discovered the other was to follow the sound of gunfire and hopefully get the jump on their assailants.

A large, nondescript building sat close to the nearest section of fence, and would offer them some small protection from the Russian’s line of sight. They hurried across, and Enderby quickly and neatly snipped out a hatchway using a heavy pair of pliers. He yanked up the section he had cut free and ushered the men through, Folkard last.

They pressed their backs firmly to the wall of the closest building, ever vigilant. Folkard’s team was to set off first, heading clockwise around the base’s perimeter towards the huge hangar, with Enderby and his group waiting five minutes before setting off counter-clockwise.

“Good luck, Folkard,” nodded Enderby.

Folkard returned the gesture.

“You too. See you at the hangar.”

Folkard ducked down and began to lead his men into the dark and the depths of the base. Cover was minimal. This was a typically sparse Russian set-up; besides the looming shadow of the hangar and the several windowless, redbrick buildings that surrounded it, the ground was mostly bare. Watchtowers peaked at the base’s four corners, with two or three others built inside, their searchlights sweeping endlessly across the bare, snowy floor. Folkard feared their presence would not remain undetected for long. The prevalence of the patrols and the fact that each man had to dash between the outhouses separately meant their journey to the airship’s nest was taking far longer than Folkard felt comfortable with.

They had progressed maybe fifty metres in. Folkard and one of his men were flattened against a building, looking back nervously to where the third of their party was crouched at the corner of the previous hut. He was waiting for a chance to make a break for it. Two soldiers had stopped directly opposite where he hid, laughing idly and passing a lit cigarette between them. Folkard watched them and swallowed drily, sweating in spite of the cold. They smoked to the very nub before tossing the end into the snowdrifts; one of the soldiers gazed lazily about and Folkard unconsciously pressed himself harder against the wall. The soldier who had tossed the butt gestured to his companion to wait for a moment. Folkard caught a snatch of his words, as he vulgarly detailed the satisfaction he would feel after relieving himself behind the building… The very building where Folkard’s other man was hiding. Folkard caught his eye, gestured quickly that an enemy soldier was approaching. The agent nodded his understanding and readied himself, slowly drawing a knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh.

The Russian whistled tunelessly as he ambled towards his death without a care in the world, condensation jetting from his pursed lips in time with the noise. Folkard almost felt sorry for him—he couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and hadn’t even managed to grow the beard that was so necessary for such a desolate outpost. The boy must’ve been so cold…

Before he had even rounded the corner the British agent’s arm had whipped up quickly to choke him. The Russian didn’t even have time to cry out before the black-bladed knife was thrust up viciously into the soft underside of his jaw. Blood began to flow from the wound, soaking the snow and the agent’s arm… The young soldier began to spasm, his leg kicking out wildly, before he slumped down, a lifeless rag doll. The agent laid him gently on the ground and peeked out to where the other soldier waited, signs of impatience already apparent.

“Sergei!” he called back. “Ty, chto tak dolgo?” he emitted an annoyed grunt and tramped across to the building. “Ya zamerzaiu, perestanʹ tratitʹ moye vremya…” The agent was ready again. He leapt up and grabbed the man as he rounded the corner, but this was no boy soldier. The Russian was big, fifteen stone if he was an ounce and covered in muscle. He struggled against the agent’s grasp, sweating and swearing, and with a strong, deft swipe of his paw he managed to deflect the knife before it connected with his throat. He reached back and twisted the agent round, fumbling with his right hand for the pistol in his holster. This brief movement was all the agent needed, and in a split second he brought the knife to bear once more and plunged it into the Russian soldier’s side. The Russian fell back, the hilt of the blade sticking out of him. As he crashed to the ground he yanked his gun up, grimaced in pain, and fired. The shot was like a thunder-crack, the eerie silence of the base shattered in an instant.

The bullet caught the agent in the right side of his face, and once where there was a brave Englishman’s smile, there now only remained a crater of splintered bone and sinew. A livid spray of blood, the shape of a rooster’s tail, coated the wall behind him. The Russian groaned and rolled over, trying to yank the knife from his belly, but before he could even compose himself Folkard had dashed back and dispatched the man by plunging his knife into his chest.

There was no time to hide the bodies—he could already hear yelled Russian commands and the heavy clump of boots running towards his position. Folkard looked back and caught the eye of his remaining compatriot.

There was nothing to do now but try to get to the hangar as quickly as possible. The need for secrecy was long gone, and death was in the air.

2.

OF COURSE HE was tied up. The blitzing headache he could cope with; numberless mornings after too much brandy had seen to that. What really irritated him was the ponderous predictably of it all. Still, he’s never been knocked unconscious in Asia before, so that was something.

He realised he was blindfolded, too. Of course! Naturally, when the blindfold was removed, he would find himself being threatened with some weapon or other. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. He mentally shrugged to himself.

And as for that putin Coyne, well… If Arnaud was lucky he’d be stuck wherever he was long enough to think of some particularly grim way to avenge himself. Something ungentlemanly that, at the very least, would begin with a dashed good thrashing at Arnaud’s hands. He might not have been a trained spy but he’d spilled enough acids and corrosive chemicals on his hands during his years as a geologist to put up with a bit of pain. As well as that, the anger he felt over his own stupidity—and how Coyne’s backstabbing may well have put his friends’ lives in danger—had imbued in him a torrential fury that would only be sated by giving the blackguard the drubbing of his measly life. And Nathaniel… he prayed with a sincerity that came from a deeper place that Nathaniel was safe.

Still, the revenge fantasies could wait. More pressing was deducing the situation he faced, however much that was possible. He mused sardonically on the fact that, even though he had been denied the power of sight by his captors, the cretins has not bothered to stop his ears. As smart a man as Arnaud could glean much just by keeping his mouth shut, and listening well.

The low clank of machines—no, tools, in the background. Subtle movements and low footsteps, a few metres directly in front of him. Someone padding around, so the floor was soft. Carpeted perhaps? Closer to him came another chink, glass on glass, but not the sound of drinks. It was a sound he knew equally well, test tubes and conical flasks, the mixing of molecules and formulas. The smell pretty much confirmed this, eggy sulphates and bitter acidic tangs, the familiar fug of the lab.

He also felt warm—not the blazing, oppressive heat of the unyielding Calcutta sun but a pleasant, homely warmth. Interesting. Whosoever had captured him was at least rich enough, intelligent enough or both to keep the temperature at a tolerable level.

Then came another sound—a match being struck, the long slow suck of someone inhaling heavily on what sounded like a pipe. But there was a desperation in the draw inwards, a neediness quite unlike the gent-about-town puffing contentedly on a cheroot. Arnaud’s nostrils were suddenly filled with a dense, herbal aroma that caught the back of his throat with a harsh, chemical haze. He held his breath, desperate not to cough.

“Oh darling, do you have to?” purred a female voice, sultry and seductive, impossibly cool and controlled. It was tinged with the delicate lilt of an Indian accent.

“Yes!” a European male voice barked back. “Yes! Always! Now he’s here… Oh, my angel, my queen, but I didn’t mean to shout…”

It was the voice of Garrecreux. Older, cracked and wheezing, yes, but the nasal drone and Gascon twang were unmistakable. To hear it after so long, after so many years… It was strange. Arnaud had no respect for the man, even less so after his obsequious fawning to the woman, whose identity Arnaud was sure he knew. But Garrecreux disgusted him. Without thinking, the bitter memories and disgust made him sigh, and he breathed in heavily. The acrid sting of the unusual smoke caught the back of his throat once more and, powerless to stop, he coughed loudly.

“Oh tish, Arnaud,” purred the woman’s voice, suddenly close to his ear. “And you managed to last so long…”

The blindfold was whipped from his head so quickly that even the gloom of the laboratory made him blink. After a moment, when his eyes adjusted and he was able to focus, he found himself unexpectedly agreeing with Garrecreux.

He was looking into the face of an angel.

She was, thought Arnaud, quite simply the most exquisite-looking woman he had ever laid eyes upon.

Her face was the shape of a teardrop-cut jewel, wide at the top and gently tapering down to the rounded tip of her chin. Her eyes were open and welcoming, a deep velvet brown, her nose a button in perfect proportion. She had flawless skin the shade of lightened mahogany and her hair was so dark and heavily lustrous that it seemed not a single strand could be defined… It was only the cruel smirk that twisted her full lips that betrayed the malice infesting her veins.

She was wearing a traditional Indian sari modified to accentuate her curves. It displayed her status as half-siren, half-Amazon, a golden breastplate studded with lines of rivets, curved from her shoulder around her chest, with another piece sweeping gracefully across her thighs. The bright, exotic oranges and purples of the material shone through the gaps in her armour, stark and beautiful in contrast. Her smile twisted again, her eyes narrowed and she leaned in to kiss Arnaud fully and softly on the lips.

“I hope you like that smell, my love,” she whispered breathlessly, “for you’re going to have to get used to it…”

As she pulled from the kiss there was an agonised groan from behind her. She turned gracefully, and as her hips sashayed seductively she revealed the pathetic sight of Fabrice Garrecreux cowering behind her.

If Madame Moonsinge was a paradigm of beauty, Garrecreux’s state represented the very basest level of degradation and weakness. He had aged terribly, his skin raggedy and sallow, covered in nicks, bruises and liver spots. Thin, yellowing hair receded from his balding scalp, fronds and snatches of it sticking out piecemeal from behind his ears. His lips were thin with patches of dried spittle in the corners. He stooped like a hunchback, wearing a long, buttoned-up double-breasted lab coat with a high Nehru collar. As Arnaud had heard, a pair of thick, tinted welding goggles were strapped to his face with a thick, studded leather band. Even from here, Arnaud could see the skin around the lenses was sore, weeping and corrupted. It was he that had been smoking the upright wooden pipe that was the source of the noxious odour, and he placed it next to him on the lab and hopped manically across to where Arnaud was tied.

“Arnaud, Arnaud!” he jittered excitedly, “You’re here, you’re here at last. Here to help me, you bright, bright boy!”

Arnaud spat to his right.

“Go to hell, Garrecreux. If you had any decency left in your rotten old corpse, you’d be helping me.”

“Oh yes, oh yes!” Here the madman giggled in a shrill, high-pitched waver. “I heard, I heard about your plan! Oh, I can tell you everything you need to know about our wonderful discovery. Bright boy, bright boy! And what a joyous coincidence it was to discover you were coming for me, when for so long I have dreamed, have dreamed of employing your mind to assist me in my aims! And they brought you to me, they brought you, just as I asked! You know what that means, Arnaud? She’s happy with me! Happy! She wants me to have the things I most desire!”

“You’re deluded, Garrecreux. A drug-addled, degenerate wreck. I’ll never help you, you or your vile succubus.”

Madame Moonsinge spun around in mock surprise.

“Succubus! I like that, the boy’s got spirit. What a pretty little plaything he’ll make.” She gestured to Garrecreux, who bowed and wrung his hands before skipping across to a bench. With his back to Arnaud, he began to unpack a small, wooden box.

“And as for your assistance, my exquisite little pet, I do not recall offering you a choice. You’ll soon see, Arnaud. Beautiful Arnaud. We’ll take you to such places that you’ll beg to help… You’ll beg to have me kick you in the dust.”

Garrecreux appeared behind her, brandishing a large, blunt-ended glass syringe that was filled with an iridescent, pale green solution that glimmered as it caught the light. Arnaud began to struggle against the ropes, but they were too tight. His right arm was bared to the elbow, the crook and its vein open and exposed… Madame Moonsinge leaned in again, and nuzzled against his ear.

“Oh my darling,” she breathed, her hot breath contrasting with the coldness of the needle as it pierced his skin. “The things you’ll see…”

3.

FOLKARD AND HIS remaining agent were dashing full-pelt towards the hangar. Commotion followed them. Folkard guessed that the discovery of the three bodies they’d left behind was still occupying the majority of the guards, and he was glad that this, at least, had bought them some time. But was it time enough? Slapdash and confused as they appeared to be, the Russians would quickly focus their forces on guarding the hangar…and that’s when things would get tricky.

The hangar was directly before them, and Folkard and his man skidded to a halt behind a building directly opposite the door at the front. Folkard cursed. They were quicker than he anticipated, and the large doors they had to enter to reach the Russian’s secret weapon were now surrounded by perhaps a dozen guards, each one scanning their surroundings with rifles held ready at their shoulders. As each did a sweep they would call to the others; “Nyet… Nyet… Nyet…”

“Blast,” hissed Folkard. “Outmanoeuvred.”

“If I might suggest something, sir?”

Folkard looked at his companion-in-danger—what was his name again? He had been told both his and the other agent’s name during their briefing at the Admiralty, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember it. The last emotion Folkard would have thought he’d be experiencing at this time was embarrassment, but there it was, mixed in amongst the dread, adrenaline and, most startling of all, a sudden memory of Charlotte.

“What’s your idea?” he asked.

“Distraction, sir. I could pelt it back to that building there. I’m quick enough on my heels and it’s not all that far. Should be able to make it before they get too many shots off. If we’re lucky it should draw a few of them away.”

Folkard couldn’t argue with the logic, however risky it sounded. Yet he knew that if he agreed, the agent’s chances of making it out alive were slim to none. He had ordered men to their deaths before, but before he had always known that there was a chance of survival if they kept their wits about them and had fate on their side. This time, however, the chances of this man seeing another dawn were so slim as to be negligible. Embarrassingly so—there was that alien emotion again.

“I know what you’re thinking, sir. But I’ve seen that monstrosity the Russians have cobbled together and if anyone can bring the bastard down, it’s you. I owe you every chance. Countless lives and the safety of nations depend upon it.”

Folkard swallowed. The agent’s brave and noble words cut him to the quick—yes, the security of the world was at stake, and innocents would surely suffer if the Russian battleship wasn’t somehow disabled… But he knew. He knew from the moment he set eyes on it that this ship was the key to him returning to the Heart, and to Charlotte. The two were linked in some strange, ethereal manner that he could sense at the back of his mind, a yawning tug that rose to the forefront of all his senses.

“What’s your name, agent?” he asked quietly.

“Fleming, Sir. Lieutenant Robert Fleming. Friends call me Bobby.”

“Well, Bobby,” and Folkard clasped his hand to Lieutenant Fleming’s shoulder. “You’re a braver man than I. Godspeed.”

“Thank you, sir. Tell ’em I died well.”

Nothing more needed to be said. The two men locked eyes for a moment, and Folkard nodded. Lieutenant Fleming turned to make his way to the other end of the building when a terrible screech and the clanking of gears filled the air around them. The great roof of the hangar was slowly opening again…

“They’re trying to get away before we find out too much! Go, man! Go!”

Fleming nodded and sprinted to the other end of the wall. He paused for a moment, took a breath to ready himself, and ran out into the full sight of the Russian soldiers.

Their yells intermingled with the deafening roar of machinery, the soldiers began firing as Fleming sprinted away from them, a savage volley of bullets in his wake. Folkard took a quick look back—it seemed as if the brave Lieutenant was going to make it to the next hut! As he disappeared around the corner, eight of the guards took up pursuit—a far better number than Folkard could’ve hoped for. Taking out the remaining four would be difficult, but not impossible. He unholstered his pistol. Time was of the essence.

Without thinking he whipped round the corner and brought the gun to bear. His first two shots downed the guard closest to him with ease, the next winged the guard standing next to him. The other two Russians were quick to ready their rifles and returned fire, pinning Folkard to the wall as the shots gouged chunks out of the brickwork inches from his face. The shots stopped and Folkard leaned out again—the soldier he had winged was on the ground, his trouser leg soaked in blood, but he had nevertheless managed to prop himself up and was assisting his comrades with the shooting. Unfortunately for him, his inability to move made him an easy target and Folkard put him down with a single shot to the forehead.

Then came the second volley and Folkard hid again, taking the opportunity to reload. He couldn’t keep this up. Slow as the roof of the hangar was to open, it wouldn’t be long before the airship ascended and his mission—as well as his striving to reconcile with Charlotte—would be for naught.

He tried to return fire but to do so in that interminable hail of gunfire would be suicide. He gritted his teeth, frustrated. He would not let it end like this! A wild notion overtook him, the madness sparking in his brain, to just run towards the guards, pistol blazing, screaming out his lungs… He took a deep breath, and yelled.

All six of his bullets were spent in but a second or two, and all went wide. He screamed at the top of his voice, wide eyed and bestial, knowing he would tear the throats from the Russian dogs with his teeth, even if he had to do so with a slug of lead in his gut.

And yet the Russians were otherwise engaged! One of them suddenly jerked back, the top of his head blown clean off, and almost simultaneously the other was knocked off his feet by two fatal shots to the chest. Still dashing towards the hangar door, Folkard looked across to see Enderby and his two agents running in the exact same direction.

“Folkard!” he yelled, “Quickly man, go! It’s nearly open!”

Folkard redoubled his efforts, the muscles in his legs starting to ache. He reached the door and dashed inside, taking in the sight of the ship once more.

Up close it seemed even more brutal, its stark paint work and sheer scale intimidating and awe-inspiring in equal measure. He noticed on the prow, written in blood red, stencilled Cyrillic, the word Императоръ. Imperator—the Tsar’s self-proclaimed title. Underneath this, wrapped around the claws of a golden depiction of the Russian Imperial Eagle, was the rest of the ship’s name—Александр II. The full title of this monster was revealed.

Imperator Aleksandr II. The rest of the hangar seemed deserted. A huge pit stood in the floor to accommodate the length of the battleship’s aether propeller governor, the belly of the ship resting on huge struts drilled at its edges. The walls were taken up with various pieces of bulky machinery, steel lockers and tools for maintaining the ship. Much of the upper reaches of the vast room were taken up with the gigantic engines which cranked the roof open, and even now Folkard could hear the deafening thrum of Imperator’s engine cranking up to speed.

He quickly looked for the easiest way to get aboard. A gangplank still stood on the right-hand side of the vessel—hardly a sensible procedure, but he guessed the Russians were too keen to get Imperator away as quickly as possible—and so Folkard sprinted towards it.

Enderby appeared at the doorway and quickly took stock of the room. He noticed where the captain was headed and, wishing them luck, instructed his two men to stay by the door and fend off the guards pursuing them. The number of men the British had managed to sneak onto the base was as yet unknown to the Russians, and his men were well-trained when it came to resisting the methods the Russians used to force their prisoners to talk. The Russians would eventually believe the mission had been a total failure—with two captured British agents, and two dead—and any incursion on the Russian battleship would go unnoticed until it was too late.

Folkard sprinted up the gangway. A Russian guard stood at the top before an open bulkhead door and, taken completely by surprise as Folkard raced towards him, fumbled inexpertly with his rifle. Folkard reached him and instantly knocked the man unconscious with a swift, heavy punch to the jaw.

“Folkard!”

The airship began to rise! Folkard turned around to see Enderby flailing with the gangplank. The slight buffeting of the ship had dislodged it and it began to slide away, would leave the scrabbling Enderby stranded…

“God damn it, man! Help me!”

He reacted quickly, grabbing the end of the gangplank firmly and resting his weight there to keep it steady. Enderby launched himself up on all fours. He rested his hands on his knees as he got his breath back, the gangplank clattering to the floor as the ship began its ascent.

“Welcoming committee seen too, I take it?” said Enderby, nodding at the unconscious Russian.

“Not quite. Help me get his clothes off. We’ll tip him over the side when we’re over open territory.”

The two men set to work as Imperator drifted upwards into the chilling night sky over Severnaya.