Hooded Man (28 page)

On that first day after the plan had been outlined – and after the attempt on Robert’s life – two people came to him for a talk. The first was Bill.

He began in his usual gruff way. “Judas Priest. Sure ye know what you’re doin’?”

Robert shook his head and regretted it immediately. He coughed loudly.

“Aye, I heard about the Mills thing. Shoulda been more grateful for what we were tryin’ to do. For what you’ve done for all of ’em... All of us.” He looked at Robert then, seeing whether his roundabout way of apologising had worked. Robert nodded to tell him it had, and that he was grateful. Men like Bill very rarely said they were sorry, if ever. This was the closest he was ever going to get.

“He thinks the world of ye,” added the farmer, “Mark.”

Robert closed his eyes, picturing the boy’s face – trying not to imagine what he must be going through at the castle. Hoping he could hold on until they mounted their rescue attempt.

“We’re goin’ to bring him back,” continued Bill, as if reading his thoughts. “Bring ’em all back.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Robert.

“Aye. Listen, I’ve bin thinkin’ – you’ll need a way of knockin’ out that pillock on the castle roof an’ his pop-gun.” Robert would hardly have described the high-powered sniper rifle De Falaise’s man had as a ‘pop-gun,’ but then compared to the cannon Bill carried around with him...

“Have any ideas?”

Bill smiled. “As a matter o’ fact, I do. Care to go for a little drive?”

Robert was reluctant to leave the forest at such a crucial point, but Bill promised him it would be worthwhile. So they’d taken one of the jeeps out, travelling east. Bill had refused to tell him where they were going, leaving it as a complete mystery. “Just hope no one’s got to ’em first or wrecked the place,” was all he would say.

“Look, are you going to tell me where we’re heading?”

“Towards Newark – that give ye any clues?”

Robert didn’t need any, especially when they turned off, following the brown and white signs which eventually led them to a large car park and concrete runways. He stuck his head out to get a better glimpse of the corrugated metal hangars, camouflaged grey and khaki aircraft left abandoned outside to rust. The air museum, once a thriving tourist attraction built on a former World War Two airfield, was now empty and neglected. It was somewhere Robert had always intended to take Stevie but just never got around to it, never found the time. How he would have marvelled at the planes. Robert felt a twinge of guilt as they drove in, because it was way too late and the only reason he was coming here now was because he needed to save another boy.

Bill parked the jeep in the virtually empty car park. Anyone with any sense working here would have returned home to be with loved ones when the plague hit; the owners of the few cars that remained probably left it too late. Whether they’d see any bodies here today depended on if the clean up crews had bothered with this place. Robert just hoped it hadn’t appeared on De Falaise’s radar.

Thinking along the same lines, Bill took out his shotgun as he climbed from the jeep. “Can never be too careful,” he said, as if Robert needed telling. He already had his bow raised.

As they walked over towards one of the hangars, Bill pointed to various aircraft.

“See that, it’s a BAC Canberra bomber. In service up until the ’70s. There you have a BA Sea Harrier. A Vertical Take Off and Landing aircraft, it was still in service with the UK and US Marines up until... well, y’know. Best all round fighter-bomber in the world. Oh, that there’s an Avro Vulcan bomber. Superb British heavy bomber in service until the 1980s, last used against Argentineans in the Falklands Campaign, the nuclear bomber of the UK. An’ over there’s an Avro Shackleton. Old turbo-prop bomber...”

Robert gaped at him, astonished.

“What?”

“Aeroplanes? I just never...”

“Wouldn’t have pegged me as an enthusiast?” Bill tutted. “Have to say, I’m not really. Me uncle was ex-RAF, nuts about these things. Taught me all I’ll ever need to know, even took me up on a few flights in his civilian life. This place was like a second home to him, God rest his soul.”

“And you know how to fly these things?”

“Aye.” He closed his eyes, imagining the cockpit. “Airspeed indicator, heading, altimeter, fuel gauge, landing gear, throttle.” With his finger he traced the position of each instrument. He finished with a tap in the air in front of him. “Yoke. Simple.”

“So, your plan is to take one of them up... and what? Strafe the castle? Use a few of those relics of missiles they have here?”

“Naw,” Bill replied, as if he’d even considered it as a serious suggestion. “This is a museum, lad, not a military installation – leastways it hasn’t bin for a good many years.”

“Then what? He’d see us coming a mile away in one of those things!”

“Who said I was thinkin’ about a plane?” Bill winked.

He directed Robert across to one of the hangers and smashed open the locks. They stepped inside – the light from windows above illuminating the scene. Robert saw more aircraft: one grey, one red and blue, another silver and yellow, all remarkably untouched. He guessed the survivors of the virus had other things on their minds than visiting air museums.

“I did think about an early Gazelle. The Sud Aviation SA 341 Gazelle prototype they have here. But this is more manoeuvrable.” He strode over to a helicopter, which had a huge see-through bubble on the front. It was a bit like those Robert had seen in old reruns of
M*A*S*H.
“Westland Sioux Scout/Trainer. Very quick, very small. Somethin’ to draw his fire, but hopefully avoid it.”

The doors opened wide and Bill undid one, swinging it outwards. He climbed inside it and stuck a thumb up to Robert, who followed him.

“She’s not fuelled,” Bill called to him, “but I daresay I can scrounge up some aviation fuel from around here somewhere. They used to have demonstrations all the time.”

“And how do you intend on getting it out of here?” said Robert, asking the obvious.

“Same way they got her in.” Bill pointed down. “She’s on wheels, look. Once we clear some space, we can tow her through the hangar doors. Bit of an effort, which is probably why no bugger else’s bothered, but it can be done.”

“This is insane,” said Robert.

“More insane than what you’re plannin’?” Bill asked, not expecting a reply. “Look, we’ve got the element of surprise – that bloody Frenchman ’asn’t got anything that flies.”

“As far as we know,” Robert pointed out. “That doesn’t matter – the sniper will shoot you out of the sky before you can get close.”

“I may look as rough as a badger’s arse, but I’m pretty nifty once I get up there. Besides, while the bastard’s shootin’ at me, he’s not shootin’ at anyone else.”

Robert had to concede that. At the same time he also had to wonder just why Bill was so eager to launch himself – literally – into this suicide mission... not that he could talk. Was it because he felt bad about what had happened to Mark? Or did he really think he could pull it off? Robert didn’t question him, just helped Bill to get the chopper out into the open, using the jeep to tow it from the hangar. It caught on the nose of a plane that was a little too close for comfort, but in the end they managed it.

“We should have brought more men,” Robert complained to Bill.

“An’ take ’em away from their trainin’? They need all the help they can get. Anyway, it’s like I said: a surprise.”

After that Bill filled the chopper with fuel they managed to scavenge: enough to get the thing home – and both of them – and stocks for the Nottingham run. Robert stared at the flying machine in front of him. He’d never flown before, apart from three or four holidays abroad with the family. He definitely hadn’t been suspended above the ground in a bubble, and didn’t relish the prospect now.

“It’ll be fine,” Bill assured him. “A doddle. Tell ye what, I’ll show ye.”

And he did, beginning with the main differences between how a plane and helicopter fly: one creating lift by angling the wings, the other by manipulating the rotor blades to change the angle at which they meet the air. He took Robert through the pre-flight checks, explaining briefly what the main controls did – from the collective control stick through to the cyclic control joystick and, finally, the tail rotor pedals on the floor. “So, no accelerator?” enquired Robert, only to get a groan from Bill.

Next he walked Robert through the instruments, stopping when he noted the man stifling a yawn. It was as if Bill needed an outlet for all this information, like he’d been bottling it up inside for years, and it was all coming out now he had a captive audience. “Anyway, ye get the general idea. Time to go.”

He made Robert strap himself him in, warning him that it had been a while since he’d done this.

“How much of a while?”

Bill didn’t answer, instead he put on the earphones and instructed Robert to do the same. With nothing else to occupy him, and more to take his mind off what was about to happen than anything, Robert watched Bill as he started up the chopper. Bill patted the instrument panel that lay between them. “At-a-girl.” When he noticed Robert looking at him, he explained: “They can be very sensitive, needs a light touch. The biggest mistake new pilots make is to ‘over control.’”

Robert had to admit, the take-off was incredibly smooth. Even so, he gripped the end of his bow, squeezing tightly until they were up in the air.

It was an odd sensation and Robert wasn’t sure whether he loved or hated it. He thought that it would be interesting to fly the length of this land, see what had become of it. See who had survived where – and what had been destroyed.

It was a land worth fighting for, Robert finally realised as he saw it stretching out in front of him in all its beautiful patchwork glory. It was a land worth keeping free. If ever the human race was to get back on it shaky legs again, then men like De Falaise had to be defeated.

“All right?” asked Bill beside him.

“Just drifting.”

“Aye,” said the ruddy-cheeked man, coaxing more speed from the chopper as they headed back to familiar forest terrain.

O
NCE THEY’D LANDED
on the outskirts, Robert and Bill made their way back to the camp to find new faces waiting for them. Strangers in their den. Robert’s first instinct was to bring up his bow, but Jack raised a hand, jogging over to explain.

The men and women were from communities the Sheriff had terrorised, communities Robert had been trying to help. Though these were new, and small, they represented the first seeds of rebuilding this part of England. The people that made up their number had found each other, in spite of all the odds, and built new friendships, relationships and homes. Now those they cared about were in danger and they wanted to do something about it.

“We found them gathering at the forest’s edge,” Jack explained. “They’re volunteering, Robbie.”

“For what? To kill me in my sleep?” Robert said, slowly lowering his bow.

“Mills were just one man,” Bill threw in. “Look at ’em, they’ve had enough of bein’ scared. They want to fight.”

Jack nodded. “They want to help.”

Perhaps they do at that, thought Robert. “Okay, then, start training them up. But first, see if any of them have combat experience. You never know, we might drop lucky again and find another member of the TA or something. Or, who knows, maybe even a Kung Fu clergyman or ex-professional wrestler?”

Jack laughed, clapping Robert on the shoulder. “We might at that.” He began to walk back to the crowd, then remembered something. “Oh, I think Mary’s been waiting for you to get back. She wants a word.”

“What about?”

Jack shrugged. “None of my beeswax, Robbie. None of my beeswax.”

“Best not keep the lady waitin’, then,” Bill told him.

R
OBERT DIDN’T HAVE
to look far to find Mary – she was just outside of camp, practising with her own bow and arrow, aiming for a target notched on a tree trunk. She was holding the weapon awkwardly, her aim off. Robert came up behind her quietly, so quietly that she started when he reached around and took hold of her arms.

“Robert!” she cried, turning round. “I wish you’d stop doing that, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

He could feel Mary shaking and regretted not announcing himself. He still wasn’t quite used to how stealthy he’d become. “Sorry, but the way you’re holding the bow... May I?” He could feel her arms relax slightly, the muscles still bunched but more flexible, allowing him to guide her aim. “Don’t think about the shot too much, just let yourself
feel
it. Feel the arrow against your fingers, that’s how you’re going to guide it to the target.” Robert brought up her bow arm a touch, bending down to look along her line of sight, squeezing one eye shut to get a better view. “Nice... Nice...” he murmured. “All right, now just pull the string back, feel the tension building. Can you feel it?”

“Y-yes.”

“Now just let go.” She did. The arrow didn’t hit the carved circle dead on, but it was pretty close. “There, you did it.”

“Yay me.”

Robert let out a small laugh. “Yay you.” He realised that even though the arrow was embedded in the tree, he was still holding Mary’s arms, his chest pressed up against her back. He moved to step away, but she moved with him. She was quivering again, but this time it wasn’t because of the fright.

Robert was trembling too.

“You took off before I could talk to you this morning. About Mills, about what happened,” she said. “Tate told me about it.”

“What’s to talk about? People try to kill me all the time these days. Since I decided to become a recluse, I’ve never been so popular.”

Mary turned. “Don’t joke about it, Robert. You could have died last night, and I might never have...”

“Might never have what?”

Mary looked right at him. “Had a chance to tell you how I feel.”

“Mary, listen. I think you –”

She dropped the bow and put a finger to his lips.

“You can feel the tension too, can’t you?” She placed her hand on his arm. “Now just let go...” Mary kissed him then. Gently and briefly. “There. We did it. Yay us.”