Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [25]
He pressed his face to the mesh of the fence and peered through. The aerodrome was shrouded in shadow yet he was sure he could detect movement. Figures seemed to be moving about, working noiselessly, silhouetted against the deeper black of the buildings.
Whistler’s ears pricked up as he heard what he was sure was a police whistle, sounding feebly from somewhere inside.
‘Evening.’
Whistler jumped as Noah’s whispered harshly in his ear.
‘Oh God!’ hissed the old man. ‘Don’t do that! I’m not as young as I was.’
Even in the darkness he could see Noah grin. ‘Sorry.’
Whistler nodded to himself. ‘I’d hate to see this campaign founder because I keel over with a dicky ticker. Now, let’s press on. Did you bring the cutters?’
Noah bent down to a large canvas rucksack which he’d brought with him. There was a loose rattling sound and he pressed a pair of bulky wire-cutters into the Wing Commander’s outstretched hands. Swiftly and efficiently, Whistler snipped a large hole in the mesh and kicked it back until it was large enough to crawl through.
‘You’ve done this before,’ said Noah admiringly.
‘Naturally.’ Noah replaced the cutters in the rucksack and hauled the bag on to his shoulders. ‘Aren’t we supposed to blacken our faces with burnt cork or something?’
Whistler tutted. ‘If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were taking the mickey, young man. Now, shut up and follow me.’
With surprising alacrity, the old man slipped through the hole, his clothes catching briefly on the ragged wire. Noah followed, crouching so low that his face almost brushed the dry grass.
When both were safely through, they kept low and sprinted to the nearest cover, a stack of cylinders partially covered by a thick grey tarpaulin. Closer now, they could see about two dozen Legion personnel unloading equipment from a line of lorries.
‘More of those cylinders,’ cried Noah excitedly.
Whistler strained to see through the darkness. ‘Where are they taking them, I wonder? The control tower?’
Noah shook his head. ‘Doesn’t look like it. I think they’re heading for the far side of the place.’
Whistler tutted to himself.
‘What is it?’ asked Noah, looking round.
‘Extraordinary thing, don’t you think?’ said the old man.
clucking his tongue.
‘What?’
Whistler’s gaze swivelled round to Noah. ‘No lights.’
Noah shrugged. ‘Well, they’re obviously up to something.
Maybe something illegal. They don’t want to advertise it.’
Whistler waved a hand. ‘No, no, no. I mean there’s not a light anywhere. Not in the control tower. The old barracks.
Not even a torch to help them unload. Not one.’
Noah nodded slowly. ‘I see what you mean.’ He sucked on his lip. ‘That is strange.’
‘So, said Whistler, moving around the cylinder in front of him, ‘our mission is to find out what they’ve got in those containers and why they think they can go around like they own the village.’
‘Maybe they do,’ murmured Noah.
‘Hmmph. Not a pleasant thought, lad. A lot of my pals gave their lives to defeat this kind of behaviour. I’m not about to let another lot of blackshirts take up where the old ones left off.’
Without another word, Whistler moved off into the night.
Noah followed and they raced through the darkness towards the airstrip, then peeled off to one side, sliding down against the wall of one of the parabola-shaped buildings which made up the old barracks. Whistler caught his breath and bobbed his head around the corner. His eyes moved swiftly from side to side as though photographing what he saw, then he ducked back.
See anything?’ asked Noah.
Whistler nodded. ‘They’re carrying those cylinders across the airstrip.’
Noah frowned. ‘Where to?’
Whistler tucked his knees up and rested his elbows on them. ‘There isn’t anything beyond that section of fence is there?’
Noah shook his head. ‘Just marshland.’