Doctor Who_ Battlefield - Marc Platt [13]
She lost contact just as the command car came to an abrupt halt where a fallen oak had blocked the road.
Zbrigniev backed up until he found a side turning into a narrow wooded lane. The corner verge was churned to mud, a sure sign that they had found the convoy’s new route.
Bambera tried the radio again; it was still dead. But she reckoned that she might have a chance of finding the convoy before she’d had to report its loss.
Zbrigniev was already growing accustomed to the stillness that followed the storm. Nature seemed stunned by the ferocity of its own outburst. A sudden movement along the road ahead was doubly surprising.
‘Brigadier.’
‘What now?’ she complained.
‘Hitchhikers.’
Bambera had a brief glimpse of two figures as they passed. A long-haired girl in black with her thumb out and a glare of contempt on her face. and an older man in a straw hat.
‘Shame.’ she said and the car sped on.
The Doctor noted the new winged globe insignia as the UNIT car passed, before he returned his attention to the small tracking device he was carrying.
‘Don’t stop then. I don’t care!’ yelled Ace after the vehicle. She turned back in disgust to the Doctor. ‘What year are we in’?’
‘Near the end of the twentieth century.’
‘Can’t you be more specific? Eighties or nineties?’
The Doctor stared up at the cloudless sky and frowned.
‘On the grand scale of things, Ace, what’s a decade?’ He set off along the lane, unconcerned by the mud and puddles.
A Range Rover turned the corner behind them.
‘Professor!’
The Doctor kept walking. ‘I don’t suppose it’ll stop.
Ace.’
‘Don’t be such a pessimist. Professor.’ Ace stuck out her thumb anyway and the car pulled over beside her. The tax disc in the window said 30.6.99.
Doubling back with a satisfied smile, the Doctor said,
‘Of course being a pessimist has its extra share of pleasant surprises.’
Carbury Trust was stencilled on the car door. The driver’s window wound down and the genial face of a grey-bearded man in his late fifties studied them.
‘Good morning. Need a lift?’ he said in a northern accent.
‘Thank you very much,’ said the Doctor, eyeing the dark shape sitting on the back seat.
‘Hop in the back.’ The driver unlocked the door and added. ‘Don’t mind Cerberus. Just push him out of the way.’
The Doctor was already climbing inside. He was about to raise his hat to the other occupant, when he found himself nose to nose with a large Irish wolfhound.
Ace took one look and decided to sit in the front with the driver.
‘Move over Cerberus, you great hulk.’ he said and pushed the wolfhound out of the way.
‘Nice doggie,’ added the Doctor. He looked enviously into the front where Ace was already belting up. Cerberus looked at the Doctor and panted loudly in his ear.
‘I take it you were caught in the storm,’ said the driver as he pulled the Range Rover away.
‘Storm’?’ asked Ace.
‘Yes, you’re right. Storm is an understatement. But then the weathermen never allow us the luxury of a hurricane, do they? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this one though. Bizarre.’ He swerved to avoid a fallen branch.
‘Oh yes, the storm,’ agreed the Doctor, adjusting his tracking device. ‘Nasty noisy thing.’
‘Ferocious, more like. Plenty of damage around too. You must have found somewhere decent to shelter. Where were you heading?’
The Doctor looked at his tracker. ‘North-east.’
‘Heading for the dig, eh?’
‘An archaeological dig?’
‘Yes, I’m on my way now to check that it’s still there!’
He glanced amiably at the Doctor via the driving mirror.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. Doctor Peter Warmsly. I’m site manager for the Carbury Trust Conservation Area.’
The Doctor opened his mouth to answer and Ace said,
‘I’m Ace and this is the Doctor.’
‘Another doctor, eh? What of? Science? Medicine?
Philosophy?’
‘Just a Doctor,’ said the