CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THIS TOWN AIN'T BIG ENOUGH
THE FIVE SPITFIRES came in from the southwest, in a v-shaped formation. In the lead plane, hand wrapped around the throttle, Ack-Ack Macaque chewed nervously at an unlit cigar. The Fleet Air Arm Museum had been hosting five airworthy Spits in their hangars but, although he’d been able to scare up four pilots at short notice, none of them had any combat experience.
Ahead, through the armoured glass pane at the front of the cockpit’s perspex canopy, he saw the black and white zigzags painted on the Tereshkova’s five hulls. Annoyingly, his hopes that the museum kept a stock of live ammunition had been dashed, so his makeshift squadron would have to land on the old airship in order to load up with bullets from his personal stash. Between the five of them, they’d use up his entire stock.
That’s if the f*cking guns even work , he thought to himself with a snarl. He’d been assured that each and every one of the Browning machineguns on each of the Spitfires had been faithfully restored, and were therefore all in good working order; at least, theoretically. Whether they’d stand up to being fired in anger was another matter, and he half expected them all to either jam or explode as soon as their firing controls were depressed.
Still, he thought, I’ve done the best I can. They may be five museum pieces, and inexperienced pilots might be flying four of them, but surely they’re better than nothing?
Over a hundred years ago, the British had used these antique fighters to halt the Nazi advance and keep the Luftwaffe at bay. He gave the dashboard an affectionate pat. With a bit of luck, maybe the kites could work their magic a second time.
And anyway, what was there to lose?
He brought his plane around, lining up with the runway that ran diagonally across the backs of the airship’s hulls.
“It’s me,” he said into the radio. “I’m coming in.”
Who else would it be? Paul’s voice spoke in his headphones. Welcome home, monkey boy.
Beyond the Tereshkova’s bow, Ack-Ack Macaque saw the suburbs of London: leafy streets laid out in rows and crescents; red brick tower blocks; billboards; railway cuttings and embankments. From up here, it looked peaceful.
“Any sign of attack?”
Not yet. And no word from your evil self, either.
Strapped into his seat, Ack-Ack Macaque bristled.
“Hey, I thought I was my evil self.”
Paul laughed.
Sorry, dude. I guess you’re just going to have to face it. Like it or not, you’re one of the good guys now.
“Goddammit.”
He had the nose of his plane aligned with the runway. Because the Tereshkova was ploughing forwards at a respectable rate of knots, he would have to come in at an angle, using the rudder to keep himself on target. With his right hand, he toggled the lever that lowered the undercarriage. Behind him, the other four planes lined up like ducklings, ready to follow him down—ready to transform the Tereshkova from a passenger liner to an aircraft carrier.
a Ck-aCk maCaque left his plane with one of the mechanics and, without stopping to watch the others land, made his way down through the airship to the bridge.
Stepping into the room, he pulled out his lighter and lit the damp cigar in his mouth, huffing great clouds of blue smoke into the room.
“Hey, Boss. What’s shaking?”
Alone in front of the main window, Victoria wrinkled her nose and flapped a hand in front of her face.
“We had a visit from your old friend, Mister
Reynolds.”
“And how is the old bastard?”
Her hand went to the empty scabbard at her side. “Dead.”
“Good.” Ack-Ack Macaque looked around at the unmanned workstations. “So, who’s flying this thing?”
“Paul.”
“Seriously?”
“He seems to be doing a reasonable job of it.”
Ack-Ack Macaque loped over to the window. “Then I’m out of work?”
“Not at all, just redeployed.” Victoria crossed her arms over her chest. Medals jangled. “We need you on the front line.”
He looked at the distant towers of Central London, and tried to imagine them in flames, pillars of smoke reaching up into the clouds—a new Blitz to wipe away everything rebuilt since the last one.
“Who’s coordinating the defence?”
“Merovech’s enlisted some high-ups in the RAF. They’re trying to liaise with the Russians and the Yanks, but everybody’s talking at the same time, and no-one’s listening.”
Ack-Ack Macaque curled his lip. He had some strong opinions on the subject of commanding officers and top brass. When he tried to express them, words such as ‘arse’ and ‘elbow’ came to mind.
“So, we’re on our own?”
“No, we’ll have fighter support. There are two aircraft carriers steaming up the Thames, and we can call in planes from Air Command in High Wycombe.”
“What about the other cities?”
“From what I can gather, Edinburgh, Manchester, Paris and Belfast are covered. The rest will have to take their chances.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“There simply aren’t enough planes.”
Ack-Ack Macaque blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Well, I bought another five.”
Victoria turned away from the view. Looking down, he saw the capital opening up before them like an unfolding map.
“Listen,” she said, walking over to a cabinet set into the wall. Inside were half a dozen swords. She selected one and slid it into her scabbard. “There’s something else you can do, right now, that might just give us an edge.”
Ack-Ack Macaque removed the cigar from his mouth and held it between the fingers of his left hand.
“What’s that?”
“The leader of the Gestalt.”
He felt his lips draw back from his teeth.
“What about him?”
“He’s a version of you. He might talk differently, but deep down, you’re the same.”
“He’s a lunatic.”
“Exactly.” She came over and stood beside his chair. “Can you put yourself in his position? Can you think like him? You’re the best chance we have of second-guessing his tactics.”
Ack-Ack Macaque rolled the cigar thoughtfully.
“I thought he made his tactics pretty bloody clear.”
“Yes, but if we’re going to have any hope of defending ourselves, if we’re going to fight him, we need to know how his mind works.” She turned to a screen on the wall of the bridge, and it blinked into life, displaying a strategic satellite view of the city, with red and green icons marking the positions of known forces, and yellow arrows indicating major targets. “If you were him, what would you do?”
Ack-Ack Macaque gave the map a wary squint. Then he kicked himself to his feet and shuffled over to it.
“If it was me, I’d materialise here.” He tapped a point on the screen where the river snaked through the heart of the city, just downstream from Westminster Bridge. “And launch everything I had. Take it all out in the first few seconds: government, monarchy, civil service, everything. Wipe out every one of the bastards, and the battle’s over. There’s nobody left to give orders.”
Victoria stroked her chin. “Decapitate the state, you mean?”
“Yeah.” Ack-Ack Macaque couldn’t help grinning. “Knock out the high command, and you can mop up the foot soldiers later.”
“You wouldn’t just nuke the place?”
His grin spread. “I can’t lie, that would be very tempting; but I don’t think that’s his game. He doesn’t want everybody dead. He wants converts for his religion. He wants fresh brains for the hive, and he can’t have them if they’ve all been vaporised.” He took a draught of smoke, and then blew it out the side of his mouth. “If he can throw us into disarray, even temporarily, it gives his virus thingy space to work. By the time we’ve regrouped, we’ll already have been infected.”
Victoria leant close to the map, eyeing the Commonwealth Parliament – the seat of power for most of a continent.
“A single, overwhelming attack,” she mused, “and then all he has to do is sit back and wait for us to come to him.”
“Unless we nuke him first.”
She straightened up, eyebrows raised, her hand on the pommel of her replacement sword.
“Non! We cannot! This is London, for heaven’s sake. Eight million people!”
The monkey shrugged.
“Then all we can do is wait until he appears, and then hit him as hard as we can.” He scratched his cheek. “What does the girl say?”
“Lila? Pretty much the same.” Victoria let her shoulders drop. She ran a hand back across the dome of her scalp.
“There’s something else,” she said. “Reynolds left us a present before he died. It’s in the cargo hold directly above this room. If we’re not there waiting for the Leader when he arrives, ready to hand you over to him, it’ll go off.”
Ack-Ack Macaque gave a snort.
“That stupid f*ck.”
Victoria frowned. “Reynolds?”
“No, the Leader. He’s just made his first mistake.”
“How so?”
“Because I want to get onto his ship.” He curled his hands, picturing his thumbs digging into the other monkey’s larynx, choking off his air supply. “He’s got K8. If I’m going to get her back in one piece, I’m going to need to meet him, face-to-face. And if that happens, I can kill him.”
“But he’ll know you want that, won’t he?”
Ack-Ack Macaque shrugged. “Yeah, I’m sure he does.”
“So, why does he—?”
“Because he wants to recruit me.” Ack-Ack Macaque tapped his temple. “And because he’s f*cking nuts. He probably wants to fight me as badly as I want to fight him. There’s only room for one alpha monkey, and neither of us will stop until we find out which of us it is.”
“This town ain’t big enough for the both of you?”
He stuck the cigar in his mouth and grinned around it.
“It’s a primate thing.”
Abruptly, the map vanished and the wall screen cleared to a picture of Paul’s face.
“Head’s up,” he said. “Something’s happening.”
The display changed again, to a BBC News feed. The volume was off, but the pictures spoke for themselves. They were being relayed from a camera in Trafalgar Square, on the steps of the National Gallery, looking South down Whitehall towards the tower of Big Ben. Above the roofs, the sky crackled with blue and white sparks. People were standing and pointing, or running for cover. Police vans tore past, lights flashing. A cloud of pigeons flew in front of the lens. And then, blam! Something vast, black and impossible snapped into solidity above the city, blocking out the daylight. The picture went dark, and then came back up as the camera adjusted to the sudden shadow.
Ack-Ack Macaque scowled at the screen and swore under his breath. They were looking at the underside of an airship so large he couldn’t see its edges—just row upon row of gun emplacements; a scattering of engine nacelles; and more than a dozen large, armoured gondolas, each bristling with missile tubes and machine gun turrets. The thing had appeared partially inside the low cloud layer, and rivulets of displaced grey fluff rippled away to either side.
Turning away from the screen, he looked to the front window, and whistled. Ahead, the Leader’s flagship filled the skies. It must have been at least two kilometres long, more than twice the size of the Tereshkova. Its footprint stretched from Green Park to Waterloo, and every inch of it radiated a brutal menace.
And then, even as he watched, he saw the first missiles streaking down from the giant warship, hitting the self-same targets he’d just selected on the map, turning the skyline into a series of fireballs.