Doctor Who_ The Dying Days - Lance Parkin [123]
With a great, rol ing clank, a panel on the underside of the warship was grinding open.
The crowd were pushing against the crash barriers, right in front of Trap One. The metal fence was buckling, scraping against the tarmac.
The crash barriers toppled, the front row of the crowd falling with them. Like a dam had burst, a seething mass of humanity surged through the gaps in the barrier. Men were clawing their way over children, women were punching and kicking their way to the front. The noise. Ten thousand shouts and screams and cries, al merging into a monster voice.
'They're going to kill us!'
'Run!'
'Got to get out of here.'
Lethbridge-Stewart turned to his men. 'Let them through. Try to help the injured,' he bellowed.
But it was the best that his men could do to stand their ground. They were trained in crowd control techniques, the subtle and not so subtle ways that a man in a uniform could manipulate a mass of people. None of the crowd were thinking, they only wanted to get away. So the UNIT men did the thinking for them, channel ing them off into three or four columns, slowing them down, spreading them out. Other troops were clearing the bottlenecks, pulling the injured clear or making room for them.
The Brigadier was trying to keep track of the whole scene, from the activity of the warship to the dynamics of the crowd. It was an impossible task.
'Something moving up there.'
As he looked up, a young woman collided with Lethbridge-Stewart, almost bringing them both down. She was already on her way. He peered up, trying to catch his breath.
'It's the platform,' he called out. 'That lift thing. It'll be heading for Xznaal.'
The disc was dropping slowly but inexorably.
Bambera appeared at his side, the shoulder of her uniform jacket ripped. 'This could be our last chance to take him out.'
The Brigadier shook his head. 'The Martians would retaliate,' he called.
The platform had dropped below head-height. Xznaal was still visible, towering over the crowd. The Martian mounted the platform, a laborious movement.
The radio squawked. 'Trap Two to Greyhound. There's a mob of people heading for the Tower, sir. They're throwing bottles and stones at the Government troops. They'll... sir, there's gunfire. Both sides.'
The two Brigadiers looked over at each other. The sound of the shots was drifting across London.
Behind them, the magnetic platform was rising again.
'Prepare to move out,' Bambera shouted to her men. They began pulling back to the Land Rovers. A pretty young lieutenant opened a car door for Lethbridge-Stewart.
'Sir,' one of the radio operators called back before he could get in. 'The spotters at Brentford report an aircraft.
Unknown design, travelling at supersonic speeds. It looks Martian.'
They could hear it, cutting a swathe through the air. Lethbridge-Stewart swung his binoculars around. A large V-wing craft was approaching from the West. 'The Martian shuttlecraft.'
'The mountain has come to Mohammed, Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart.'
The Brigadier turned. There was a young man, wearing a duffle coat and long scarf, and behind him was an overweight chap about the same age. The old soldier narrowed his eyes. 'Who the devil are you?'
'My name's Oswald. I've been working in London during the Occupation. Sending information out over the Net. I know what's going on.'
'Thank God someone does,' Bambera muttered.
Oswald ignored her. 'The Martians have transported the gas from Reading in the shuttle.'
The Brigadier paled. 'We've been assuming that the only way to get the gas to London was using the warship. We didn't count on them transporting it in the shuttle. It's heading for the Tower.'
Bambera was wide-eyed. 'So Ford's team failed? Now the Martians have the