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Pakilev eased the gunship backward, striving to maintain the distance between him and the creatures. All the while he kept firing. An increasing number of doll-like figures writhed under the hail of bullets and then tumbled down, but the onrushing group never seemed to dwindle in number. Pakilev could have sworn he heard them giggling like children.

A handful of the imp-like things broke off from the main mass and darted towards him, wings a blur of motion. Pakilev twisted the machine gun towards them, then released a clutch of rockets towards the others. Most missed, but some of the rockets clipped the small targets, exploding and sending limbs and wings flying in all directions.

A pair of Mi-8s had silently assumed a position behind the group that was menacing Pakilev's gunship, and moments later they opened fire with cannons and rockets.

Pakilev hoped that the missiles wouldn't see him as a much larger and therefore more inviting target than the diminutive creatures. No wonder the MiGs had found it difficult.' heat-seeking missiles are designed to lock on to the warmth of a jet engine, not the minute patterns of living things.

One of the monsters clattered against the gunship's cockpit, its claws scrabbling against the transparent shield as Pakilev instinctively pushed the helicopter into a downward spiral in an attempt to shake off the creature. Only then did the young pilot realise that he'd now moved away from the covering fire of the Mi-8s and into a ravine where a group of dark flapping figures seemed to be waiting for him, just above the trees. It was a trap - they barely registered on the radar.

Pakilev could just perceive the arms of the creatures moving in his direction, firing something -

The world exploded: blood-red, then black.

'He's lucky to be alive,' said Dr French as he stood and brushed the dust from his trousers. 'Must be all that square-bashing, it's given him a thick skull!'

Captain Yates ignored the sarcasm and watched mutely as the stretcher on which Benton had been secured was picked up by two paramedics and carried along the rubble-strewn corridor. 'My fault,' he muttered angrily, and then turned back to the young doctor, who was absorbed in clearing away the emergency medical kit.

'I'm sorry?' inquired French.

'Nothing.' Yates walked into the laboratory. 'Hell,' he said to no one in particular. 'The Doctor's going to go ballistic when he sees this.'

Dr French nodded sympathetically. 'Who do you think is responsible?' he asked. 'Black Panthers? Red Mole? The Weathermen? Baader-Meinhof ? The PLO?'

'Couldn't give a toss,' snarled Yates, sweeping concrete rubble from the bench top. 'Anyway, that's classified.'

'Of course,' whispered French conspiratorially. 'Mum's the word'

Yates peered through the huge hole blown in the work surface. The bomb had been meant for the Doctor, that much seemed clear. It was just blind luck that poor old Benton had been sent to fetch the file. 'Must have had a heat sensor on it,' he noted out loud. Then again, Benton's distance from the bomb implied that the thing hadn't gone off immediately.

Perhaps it was just a warning, or a threat. But a potentially lethal one, all the same.

Yates turned to the door. 'If you'll excuse me, Doctor, I have to find the scum responsible for this and crucify them.'

The summer sun was just fading down towards the horizon when Mike Yates reached the Brigadier's office. He slammed the door behind him, and sat down wearily.

French's speculation on which terrorist organisation had been responsible had set off a chain reaction in Yates's mind. The choices were mind-boggling - any one of those mentioned would have had good reason to strike at the heart of UNIT, but none seemed to have had any opportunity. The inescapable conclusion was that this had been an inside job.

And the consequences of that eventuality were simply too horrible to contemplate.

A knock on the door snapped Yates from his solitary gloom. 'Come,' he said in a voice that betrayed much of the anxiety