Macragge1
Banned
The Blues No.2
And all the peacekeeper turn war officer/ Hear what I say
If no-one asks any questions as to how the Deputy got his hands on a helicopter, then no-one will get told any lies. One might note, if interested, that the sardines, the peaches and more have changed hands once again.
"So where on Earth are we going?" shouts the Detective over the choppers' whining engine.
"Some ferry out in the Channel...the-" the Deputy searches through his notebook - "some Townsend Thorensen ship...err.. it got damaged by a bomb taking troops to Europe but limped back here. It's a dead loss except that it floats.... technical shit...technical shit... ah! For the last two weeks it's been a prison ship; probably overflow from all the nonsense we had with the ration riots"
"Fair enough - so why's our man on it?"
"Well from what I can get hold of, it looks like he got moved from Redenham after claiming shellshock after he found the first victim. HQ - no, someone else - had him transfered to HMP Free Enterprise; punishment for being too squeamish or something"
"Is that our ship?" - the Detective points at a shape that's breaking the horizon"
"Nah, thats the..." - more notes, more searching - "that's the Liverpool, searching for subs apparently - word is that CHANTICLEER are shitting themselves since the Whitby one turned up. In fact, I was doing a little detecting, and they reckon that bomb off Scotland - the one they're not telling anyone about?"
"Blinded all those farmers?"
"Bingo - anyway, they reckon it was a Russian sub - fucked if they know where they were trying to hit, or where it is now"
"Well thank god; for a minute there I thought you'd say something upsetting"
*
"Ah. This could get interesting."
The Detective is not wrong. As the little Wasp makes a pass around the orange hull of the ferry, it's impossible to miss the black smoke that's rising and mixing with the mist. A closer buzz and the Detective can see the anger in the eyes of the prisoners as the rip the lower decks apart.
"We locked them in the cargo hold" - the first words from the cockpit since the flight began - " a couple of hours ago, we tried to take their fags off them, or some stupid fucking thing like that - bad mistake" - he veers to avoid the missiles bouncing off the craft.
Two minutes later, the Detective and his Deputy are jumping down out of the wheezing bird.
"So, you wait here, and we'll be back when we've got out man!'
"Not for all the fucking peaches in the world! I'll be back in ten minutes - once - miss that and you'll be getting your swimming badges" - the helicopter is up and away.
"Fuck him and fuck his fucking rotors!" - the Detective is rubbing his hands over his head - "ruining my fucking hair"
"He is coming back, isn't he?"
The Detective is about to answer when a couple of ragged figures burst out of the restaurant and onto the deck. One's got a spanner, the other's holding the deadly end of a pool cue.
"Police! Drop your fucking...weapons!" - the Detective and the Deputy have their pistols up and aiming.
"None of us are getting of this boat, pig - not us, not you!"
"Weapons - down - now!"
"No-one's getting - "
Blam blam blam blam blam blam blam
"Fuck's sake!"
"Why don't they ever..." - the Detective hastily puts his gun away and starts rubbing his face - "just put it down?"
They slip and slide over the two figures - their blood is going pale as it mixes with rain and seawater. The Detective is pale too as they kick their way into the erstwhile 'restaurant'
"So where would you be, if you were our guy?"
"Cockpit"
The Detective stops dead.
"Cockpit?"
"Yeah"
"You know what? Never mind. Yes, let's go to the boat's cockpit"
*
The ferry is wrecked but it's mostly empty as they climb up the decks - any rioters they do see are sensible enough to make themselves scarce once they see the guns and the blood on them. There's a strange bounce in their steps as they go from level to level - the carpets had been replaced by wooden boards when the vessel became a troopship.
The bridge door is locked; the round window has been boarded up.
"You ready?"
The door is kicked into splinters.
"Police! Don't move!"
And a reply -
"Police! Don't move!"
A plump, moustachioed figure, sweating in a black jumper. He holds a shotgun in shaking hands.
"You the Sergeant from Redenham?!"
"Yes...yeah!"
"We've come for a little chat! You wanna put that down, you'll have someone's eye out!"
"Oh! Yeah, yeah." - the Sergeant puts the shotgun down on the desk - "there's no fucking bullets in it anyway" - he waves his hand.
"Fantastic."
"Anyway, I'm sure you know why we're here"
"'Course. Look... can we...can we have this chat somewhere else?"
"We've only got a few questions, Sergeant - the sooner we start, the sooner we can finish"
"No, no - we can't - can we - we have to do it somewhere else"
"Now Sergeant, it's not going to help at all if you're going to be this fucking evasive"
"Just fucking LISTEN!"
"Hello Camelot, this is Broadsword. We see Pendragon. Say again, we are in range"
The Sergeant runs over to a side window and starts slamming on it - "there!"
Looming out of the horizon, the jagged lines of the Liverpool.
"So they're coming to pick us all up, right?" - the Detective asks.
"Hello Broadsword, this is Camelot. Open fire, over"
"No, but, haha, they're coming to pick us up, aren't they?" - the Detective laughs.
"Tubes one and tubes two gone. Impact in forty-five seconds"
"We're going to go."
The three men vault out of the bridge and slide down the metal stairs, taking the banisters in both hands. A couple of rioters step into the corridor in front of them - panic and momentum knocks them down.
They are running back through the restaurant when the first shockwave knocks them to their knees. They run on their hands and then their knees and then they are back up. There's broken glass on the floor and in their clothes and hair; they barge through onto the deck as the second torpedo tears another hole in the ship.
The Detective slips on the wet surface and falls sideways, fast - when he blinks again, he's holding on with one hand to a railing. Below him, a snarling, freezing sea; above him, the Deputy and the Sergeant, scrambling to grab him.
"Hold on!"
More noise now; to his credit, the helicopter has returned - unfortunately, the rotor-wash makes gripping even harder.
"Ohjesuschriiiiiiiist"
They pull, and they pull, and, agonisingly, his hands and his feet struggle for purchase until he's lying on his back, panting and crying on the bleeding deck.
The Deputy and the Sergeant grab him and carry him into the helicopter as it lifts off. Wordlessly, they watch as the hulk rolls over, moans and dissapears forever. The Wasp then darts past the Liverpool; the men are too tired to curse it.
It takes a while for the Detective to get his breath back enough to shout over the rotors.
"Anyway, Sergeant - these questions..."
And all the peacekeeper turn war officer/ Hear what I say
If no-one asks any questions as to how the Deputy got his hands on a helicopter, then no-one will get told any lies. One might note, if interested, that the sardines, the peaches and more have changed hands once again.
"So where on Earth are we going?" shouts the Detective over the choppers' whining engine.
"Some ferry out in the Channel...the-" the Deputy searches through his notebook - "some Townsend Thorensen ship...err.. it got damaged by a bomb taking troops to Europe but limped back here. It's a dead loss except that it floats.... technical shit...technical shit... ah! For the last two weeks it's been a prison ship; probably overflow from all the nonsense we had with the ration riots"
"Fair enough - so why's our man on it?"
"Well from what I can get hold of, it looks like he got moved from Redenham after claiming shellshock after he found the first victim. HQ - no, someone else - had him transfered to HMP Free Enterprise; punishment for being too squeamish or something"
"Is that our ship?" - the Detective points at a shape that's breaking the horizon"
"Nah, thats the..." - more notes, more searching - "that's the Liverpool, searching for subs apparently - word is that CHANTICLEER are shitting themselves since the Whitby one turned up. In fact, I was doing a little detecting, and they reckon that bomb off Scotland - the one they're not telling anyone about?"
"Blinded all those farmers?"
"Bingo - anyway, they reckon it was a Russian sub - fucked if they know where they were trying to hit, or where it is now"
"Well thank god; for a minute there I thought you'd say something upsetting"
*
"Ah. This could get interesting."
The Detective is not wrong. As the little Wasp makes a pass around the orange hull of the ferry, it's impossible to miss the black smoke that's rising and mixing with the mist. A closer buzz and the Detective can see the anger in the eyes of the prisoners as the rip the lower decks apart.
"We locked them in the cargo hold" - the first words from the cockpit since the flight began - " a couple of hours ago, we tried to take their fags off them, or some stupid fucking thing like that - bad mistake" - he veers to avoid the missiles bouncing off the craft.
Two minutes later, the Detective and his Deputy are jumping down out of the wheezing bird.
"So, you wait here, and we'll be back when we've got out man!'
"Not for all the fucking peaches in the world! I'll be back in ten minutes - once - miss that and you'll be getting your swimming badges" - the helicopter is up and away.
"Fuck him and fuck his fucking rotors!" - the Detective is rubbing his hands over his head - "ruining my fucking hair"
"He is coming back, isn't he?"
The Detective is about to answer when a couple of ragged figures burst out of the restaurant and onto the deck. One's got a spanner, the other's holding the deadly end of a pool cue.
"Police! Drop your fucking...weapons!" - the Detective and the Deputy have their pistols up and aiming.
"None of us are getting of this boat, pig - not us, not you!"
"Weapons - down - now!"
"No-one's getting - "
Blam blam blam blam blam blam blam
"Fuck's sake!"
"Why don't they ever..." - the Detective hastily puts his gun away and starts rubbing his face - "just put it down?"
They slip and slide over the two figures - their blood is going pale as it mixes with rain and seawater. The Detective is pale too as they kick their way into the erstwhile 'restaurant'
"So where would you be, if you were our guy?"
"Cockpit"
The Detective stops dead.
"Cockpit?"
"Yeah"
"You know what? Never mind. Yes, let's go to the boat's cockpit"
*
The ferry is wrecked but it's mostly empty as they climb up the decks - any rioters they do see are sensible enough to make themselves scarce once they see the guns and the blood on them. There's a strange bounce in their steps as they go from level to level - the carpets had been replaced by wooden boards when the vessel became a troopship.
The bridge door is locked; the round window has been boarded up.
"You ready?"
The door is kicked into splinters.
"Police! Don't move!"
And a reply -
"Police! Don't move!"
A plump, moustachioed figure, sweating in a black jumper. He holds a shotgun in shaking hands.
"You the Sergeant from Redenham?!"
"Yes...yeah!"
"We've come for a little chat! You wanna put that down, you'll have someone's eye out!"
"Oh! Yeah, yeah." - the Sergeant puts the shotgun down on the desk - "there's no fucking bullets in it anyway" - he waves his hand.
"Fantastic."
"Anyway, I'm sure you know why we're here"
"'Course. Look... can we...can we have this chat somewhere else?"
"We've only got a few questions, Sergeant - the sooner we start, the sooner we can finish"
"No, no - we can't - can we - we have to do it somewhere else"
"Now Sergeant, it's not going to help at all if you're going to be this fucking evasive"
"Just fucking LISTEN!"
"Hello Camelot, this is Broadsword. We see Pendragon. Say again, we are in range"
The Sergeant runs over to a side window and starts slamming on it - "there!"
Looming out of the horizon, the jagged lines of the Liverpool.
"So they're coming to pick us all up, right?" - the Detective asks.
"Hello Broadsword, this is Camelot. Open fire, over"
"No, but, haha, they're coming to pick us up, aren't they?" - the Detective laughs.
"Tubes one and tubes two gone. Impact in forty-five seconds"
"We're going to go."
The three men vault out of the bridge and slide down the metal stairs, taking the banisters in both hands. A couple of rioters step into the corridor in front of them - panic and momentum knocks them down.
They are running back through the restaurant when the first shockwave knocks them to their knees. They run on their hands and then their knees and then they are back up. There's broken glass on the floor and in their clothes and hair; they barge through onto the deck as the second torpedo tears another hole in the ship.
The Detective slips on the wet surface and falls sideways, fast - when he blinks again, he's holding on with one hand to a railing. Below him, a snarling, freezing sea; above him, the Deputy and the Sergeant, scrambling to grab him.
"Hold on!"
More noise now; to his credit, the helicopter has returned - unfortunately, the rotor-wash makes gripping even harder.
"Ohjesuschriiiiiiiist"
They pull, and they pull, and, agonisingly, his hands and his feet struggle for purchase until he's lying on his back, panting and crying on the bleeding deck.
The Deputy and the Sergeant grab him and carry him into the helicopter as it lifts off. Wordlessly, they watch as the hulk rolls over, moans and dissapears forever. The Wasp then darts past the Liverpool; the men are too tired to curse it.
It takes a while for the Detective to get his breath back enough to shout over the rotors.
"Anyway, Sergeant - these questions..."
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