Doctor Who_ Delta and the Bannermen - Malcolm Kohll [4]
Delta turned to her fallen bodyguard, his weapon still in his hand. He was fading fast. ‘You saved my life,’ she said, crouching beside the mortally wounded Chimeron.
‘Go... get away... take this with you...’ he gasped.
Although very weak and in great pain he rolled over and produced a large silver orb from a pack on his back.
As Delta took the orb the Chimeron gave a final gurgle and died. A high pitched whining noise snapped her out of her painful reverie – the Bannermen were using a sonic drill and would soon smash through the rotalock. Delta jumped into the pilot’s seat and started frantically punching the controls. With more luck than skill the ship gave a shuddering groan and blasted off...
Chapter Three
Planet Earth. The blue orb was turning peacefully in space.
A Morris Minor slowly puttered down a narrow road meandering through a pine forest in South Wales, Britain.
Peering over the wheel was a skinny American with a crewcut and homrimmed glasses – Hawk. Seated beside him was a fellow countryman in a plaid jacket with an ungainly paunch rolling over the top of his trousers –
Weismuller. Their dress was highly fashionable for its time
– the time in question being 1959.
Hawk and Weismuller were more reminiscent of surburban America than the Welsh hinterland and looked strangely out of place. Within intelligence circles, the Welsh assignment was seen as being one of the most boring postings in the world – in fact it had become an established dinner party joke. Unfortunately, Hawk and Weismuller were used to the privileged position of being secret agents under the direct control of the President himself, and this lonely posting was generally seen as a demotion. Yet they both knew that if they were conscientious in their work they would soon be home, and eligible for promotion once more.
The Morris stopped at a lay-by and the two Americans got out. Glancing nervously around, Weismuller rolled up his sleeve and plunged his arm into a hollow tree trunk. He produced a small silver aluminium can, similar to a film canister, with a tight screw-top lid. Inside the can was a message on a slip of rolled-up paper.
Weismuller read the message with a heavy heart and passed it to Hawk. Hawk read the note. When he had finished he screwed the paper up into a tight ball and eyed it distastefully. With a sideways glace at Weismuller, Hawk gave a sigh and reluctantly put the paper ball into his mouth. He proceeded to chew the minute mouthful, and after what seemed like an eternity swallowed hard and it was gone.
Satisfied, Weismuller started back towards the car, saying, ‘I never had a red alert before.’
‘Me neither,’ said Hawk, sucking on his teeth.
‘I reckon we’d better find a callbox fast,’ said Weismuller, all business.
Hawk looked around – there were trees as far as he could see. ‘Out here?’ he asked. Weismuller started the engine.
Half an hour later the Morris appeared over the crest of a hill. There, below them at the side of the road was a police phonebox. Weismuller cut the engine and coasted to a halt beside it. He produced a small codebook from the cubby hole and clutching it furtively to his chest, he got out of the car and crossed to the callbox. At the same time Hawk reached under his seat for a small brass telescope.
Winding the car window down he scanned the horizon.
Since his side faced only the callbox and a high privet hedge there was very little to see. The main sweep of the valley fell away in the opposite direction, a fact missed by Hawk since he was far too comfortable to leave the car.
Weismuller lifted the handset and dialled the local constabulary. Moments later he was connected. ‘Hello, this is a Code Eleven call, please put me through to the White House... Washington, D.C. USA.’
The line cackled and hummed. Finally the phone came alive. Weismuller stood to attention. ‘Hello? Yes sir, Special