I apologize to my readers for not having uploaded the weekly chapter here. I've had a cold for the last week. First three days it was just a sore throat, and I thought it would pass on to the next phase - runny nose and sniffles - in due course. But it hasn't. Now I've just got a dry hacking cough that won't go away. Tolerable during the day, but prevents me from sleeping at night - even after a dose of Nyquil which is totally useless.
Long story short, I'm always tired, and when I'm tired I can't write - or at least, not fiction.
I appreciate my loyal readers hanging in with me, and I'll be buying a wide selection of cough medicines later on today in the hopes that one of them will work, so eventually if I can get this cough under control, I can get back to Erotica By Bravo.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Michelle Bravo, Playing With Fire, Chapter 42
There's no denying it. Flights from Sydney, Australia to Los Angeles, California are very long...14 hours in the air.
Of course it helps if you are in first class, which both Michelle Bravo and Gus Keller were.
She'd booked a suite in Los Angeles for the night, then they'd take a 7 hour flight to New York the next day.
Michelle had done her research, and the best doctors who specialized in amnesia cases were to be found in New York.
Gus Keller was seated in the extremely comfy first class seat beside her, sleeping. She took the opportunity to gaze her fill at his profile...
Funny how things worked out, she thought, turning her attention back to her laptop. Although the airline offered a variety of movies, she preferred to bring her own entertainment.
What to watch, she thought, skimming through the list of DVDs she'd brought with her. Finally she selected Mel Brooks' Dracula: Dead and Loving It.
She disliked modern vampire films in general.. especially the Tweeners Twilight series...what wimpy vampires! There hadn't been a good vampire film since the original Fright Night.
Well, a good serious vampire film. She loved Dracula: Dead and Loving It.
What was the fascination with vampires, Michelle mused. Well, it was simple. With real people, you could never be sure if someone was cheating on you. Newspapers were full of husbands cheating on their beautiful wives, and to a lesser extent women cheating on their handsome husbands.
They were good liars all, gazing soulfully into your eyes and declaring their undying love, yet the next hour going out and seeking a one-night stand...
But with the power of a vampire...you knew your loved one was faithful because you had that power over them to compel their love, to make them bow down and worship you. You need fear no infidelity...
You need fear no deception.
Michelle looked over at Keller again.
She believed his amnesia story.
Well...99% of it.
But, what happened if he regained his memory?
She'd done some research. Apparently the longer the amnesia remained, the less chance there was that it would ever come back. Could she take that chance? Especially since she was going to hand him over to the best doctors in the country in curing amnesia cases?
And of course their relationship wasn't one of love, even though it could have perhaps burgeoned in that direction if things had worked out differently. He was an honest and moral man, even with amnesia. He thought her to be an assassin...even without his memory he might try to turn her over to the police - not that she'd be sticking around once she'd dropped him off at the hospital of course.
Michelle sighed. Real life was so complicated. The more so when she knew she'd brought all this mess on herself. If she'd just disappeared when she'd first learned of Keller's interest in her, as she'd intended....none of this would have ever happened.
Now...now she couldn't decide what to do. Unlike the movies, there'd be no second chances. Any further mistakes she might make would resonate forever.
Michelle waved a hand at a passing waitress and requested a brandy.
Glass in hand, she restarted Dead and Loving It. While the very familiar story played out on the screen, she sipped her brandy and thought about the future.
Of course it helps if you are in first class, which both Michelle Bravo and Gus Keller were.
She'd booked a suite in Los Angeles for the night, then they'd take a 7 hour flight to New York the next day.
Michelle had done her research, and the best doctors who specialized in amnesia cases were to be found in New York.
Gus Keller was seated in the extremely comfy first class seat beside her, sleeping. She took the opportunity to gaze her fill at his profile...
Funny how things worked out, she thought, turning her attention back to her laptop. Although the airline offered a variety of movies, she preferred to bring her own entertainment.
What to watch, she thought, skimming through the list of DVDs she'd brought with her. Finally she selected Mel Brooks' Dracula: Dead and Loving It.
She disliked modern vampire films in general.. especially the Tweeners Twilight series...what wimpy vampires! There hadn't been a good vampire film since the original Fright Night.
Well, a good serious vampire film. She loved Dracula: Dead and Loving It.
What was the fascination with vampires, Michelle mused. Well, it was simple. With real people, you could never be sure if someone was cheating on you. Newspapers were full of husbands cheating on their beautiful wives, and to a lesser extent women cheating on their handsome husbands.
They were good liars all, gazing soulfully into your eyes and declaring their undying love, yet the next hour going out and seeking a one-night stand...
But with the power of a vampire...you knew your loved one was faithful because you had that power over them to compel their love, to make them bow down and worship you. You need fear no infidelity...
You need fear no deception.
Michelle looked over at Keller again.
She believed his amnesia story.
Well...99% of it.
But, what happened if he regained his memory?
She'd done some research. Apparently the longer the amnesia remained, the less chance there was that it would ever come back. Could she take that chance? Especially since she was going to hand him over to the best doctors in the country in curing amnesia cases?
And of course their relationship wasn't one of love, even though it could have perhaps burgeoned in that direction if things had worked out differently. He was an honest and moral man, even with amnesia. He thought her to be an assassin...even without his memory he might try to turn her over to the police - not that she'd be sticking around once she'd dropped him off at the hospital of course.
Michelle sighed. Real life was so complicated. The more so when she knew she'd brought all this mess on herself. If she'd just disappeared when she'd first learned of Keller's interest in her, as she'd intended....none of this would have ever happened.
Now...now she couldn't decide what to do. Unlike the movies, there'd be no second chances. Any further mistakes she might make would resonate forever.
Michelle waved a hand at a passing waitress and requested a brandy.
Glass in hand, she restarted Dead and Loving It. While the very familiar story played out on the screen, she sipped her brandy and thought about the future.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Michelle Bravo: Playing With Fire, Chapter 41
Since it's been so long since Chapter 40, let me repeat that first:
I.
Michelle returned to the room, not only with a glass full of amber liquid but with the decanter as well.
Keller was lying propped up on the bed, using the remote to surf through the TV channels. He looked up and his eyes lit up as he saw her offerings.
He took the glass gratefully, said thanks, and downed it in one gulp.
He held out the glass for more, and Michelle filled it half full from the decanter.
She put the decanter down, lifted her dress a bit and climbed on her knees onto the bed. She heard Keller catch his breath as she leaned against him from behind, placing her hands on his shoulders, and began to massage the tense knots of muscles there.
She couldn’t see his face, but he dropped the remote onto the bed and rested his hand on his thigh.
“Feels good,” he said, with a catch in his voice.
“You’ve had a rough time,” Michelle murmured.
Keller sipped a bit of his drink. “In more ways than you know,” he murmured, almost too low for Michelle to hear.
“Unbutton your shirt,” she murmured.
Keller finished off his drink and let the glass drop to the bed as well. He unbuttoned his shirt with fingers that trembled a little, and shrugged out of it. Michelle’s hands were cool on his skin and she rested her belly against his back as she continued to massage his shoulders.
Keller reached down and unzipped his trousers…he must be getting aroused and needed a bit more room down there. But he made no other mood, just sat there, letting her massage his shoulders, his hands resting helplessly on his thighs.
Michelle shifted to one side and pressed him down gently onto the bed. He laid back wordlessly, gazing at her silently. She laid down beside him, propping herself up on one elbow, and began to kiss him gently on the mouth. He responded tentatively, reaching up to rest his hand on her other arm.
Gradually he let his hand slide down to her wrist, and pulled it gently so that she would rest her hand on her chest. He then reached out for her waist, and tugged at that gently. She responded as she hoped, and straddled his chest with her knees, while she kissed him. He rested his hands on her hips.
Then, suddenly, he gently pressured her to get off him. Puzzled, Michelle did as he bid, and he rolled over onto his side, his back to her, his hands over his face. Was he crying?
Tentatively, Michelle leaned up against him, just to offer him the comfort of her body. He reached out with one hand and took her hand, but did not turn.
After a few minutes, she deduced that he had fallen asleep.
Son of a bitch, she thought. I knew there was a reason why I hated liquor. Two glasses of brandy, or whatever the hell it was, and he’s out like a light.
But she knew that he had fallen asleep from nervous exhaustion. He must have been in hell the last week. Of course, she’d meant to put him through hell, when she’d thought he was an amateur who was trying to put his skills against hers, as a professional. But to have lost his memory, and to be told he was a cold-blooded killer, and yet not to feel like a cold blooded killer…interesting how one’s morals and ethics held true even if one couldn’t remember one’s own name.
Michelle rested her body against Keller’s warm form and sighed. Her work was so uncomplicated – black and white. Her personal life….way too complicated.
What was she going to do?
II.
The next morning, Michelle got up early and went down to the kitchen, where her Australian friends were busy with breakfast.
"Plans have changed," she told them. "I'm afraid Mr. Largo and I have to return to the US immediately."
Various disappointed faces looked at her.
She held up her hands. "Yes, I know, I know. We've come so far, it's a pity not to take this to the end. But, circumstances have changed. Never fear, I'll pay you the remainder of your payment...indeed, last night I made the bank transfer. So what I'd like you guys to do today is just...fade away. Largo and I are going to pack and leave, and take the first plane out of Dodge."
"Well, if you must, you must," said Alain Pretorius. "I must admit I'm heart-broken. I was looking forward to being killed by you."
Michelle smiled at him. "And I was looking forward to killing you," she said. "But, it can't be helped."
She plucked up a piece of toast, sketched a wave of farewell, and headed back upstairs.
The Australians stared at each other, then shrugged. "She wants us to fade, let's fade," said Pretorius.
III.
Michelle returned to the bedroom, and looked at Keller's sleeping form. She'd made one of the two decisions she had to make. She was going to take Keller back to the States.
But once she got him there, what was she going to do with him?
I.
Michelle returned to the room, not only with a glass full of amber liquid but with the decanter as well.
Keller was lying propped up on the bed, using the remote to surf through the TV channels. He looked up and his eyes lit up as he saw her offerings.
He took the glass gratefully, said thanks, and downed it in one gulp.
He held out the glass for more, and Michelle filled it half full from the decanter.
She put the decanter down, lifted her dress a bit and climbed on her knees onto the bed. She heard Keller catch his breath as she leaned against him from behind, placing her hands on his shoulders, and began to massage the tense knots of muscles there.
She couldn’t see his face, but he dropped the remote onto the bed and rested his hand on his thigh.
“Feels good,” he said, with a catch in his voice.
“You’ve had a rough time,” Michelle murmured.
Keller sipped a bit of his drink. “In more ways than you know,” he murmured, almost too low for Michelle to hear.
“Unbutton your shirt,” she murmured.
Keller finished off his drink and let the glass drop to the bed as well. He unbuttoned his shirt with fingers that trembled a little, and shrugged out of it. Michelle’s hands were cool on his skin and she rested her belly against his back as she continued to massage his shoulders.
Keller reached down and unzipped his trousers…he must be getting aroused and needed a bit more room down there. But he made no other mood, just sat there, letting her massage his shoulders, his hands resting helplessly on his thighs.
Michelle shifted to one side and pressed him down gently onto the bed. He laid back wordlessly, gazing at her silently. She laid down beside him, propping herself up on one elbow, and began to kiss him gently on the mouth. He responded tentatively, reaching up to rest his hand on her other arm.
Gradually he let his hand slide down to her wrist, and pulled it gently so that she would rest her hand on her chest. He then reached out for her waist, and tugged at that gently. She responded as she hoped, and straddled his chest with her knees, while she kissed him. He rested his hands on her hips.
Then, suddenly, he gently pressured her to get off him. Puzzled, Michelle did as he bid, and he rolled over onto his side, his back to her, his hands over his face. Was he crying?
Tentatively, Michelle leaned up against him, just to offer him the comfort of her body. He reached out with one hand and took her hand, but did not turn.
After a few minutes, she deduced that he had fallen asleep.
Son of a bitch, she thought. I knew there was a reason why I hated liquor. Two glasses of brandy, or whatever the hell it was, and he’s out like a light.
But she knew that he had fallen asleep from nervous exhaustion. He must have been in hell the last week. Of course, she’d meant to put him through hell, when she’d thought he was an amateur who was trying to put his skills against hers, as a professional. But to have lost his memory, and to be told he was a cold-blooded killer, and yet not to feel like a cold blooded killer…interesting how one’s morals and ethics held true even if one couldn’t remember one’s own name.
Michelle rested her body against Keller’s warm form and sighed. Her work was so uncomplicated – black and white. Her personal life….way too complicated.
What was she going to do?
II.
The next morning, Michelle got up early and went down to the kitchen, where her Australian friends were busy with breakfast.
"Plans have changed," she told them. "I'm afraid Mr. Largo and I have to return to the US immediately."
Various disappointed faces looked at her.
She held up her hands. "Yes, I know, I know. We've come so far, it's a pity not to take this to the end. But, circumstances have changed. Never fear, I'll pay you the remainder of your payment...indeed, last night I made the bank transfer. So what I'd like you guys to do today is just...fade away. Largo and I are going to pack and leave, and take the first plane out of Dodge."
"Well, if you must, you must," said Alain Pretorius. "I must admit I'm heart-broken. I was looking forward to being killed by you."
Michelle smiled at him. "And I was looking forward to killing you," she said. "But, it can't be helped."
She plucked up a piece of toast, sketched a wave of farewell, and headed back upstairs.
The Australians stared at each other, then shrugged. "She wants us to fade, let's fade," said Pretorius.
III.
Michelle returned to the bedroom, and looked at Keller's sleeping form. She'd made one of the two decisions she had to make. She was going to take Keller back to the States.
But once she got him there, what was she going to do with him?
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 16 (Final chapter)
Chapter 16: End Game
PRESENT DAY
TRITON, SOMEWHERE AT SEA
I.
Mr. Honeywell looked at his watch. Two hours to rendezvous point. In a mere 120 minutes, the HMS Triton, and all who sailed in herwould disappear.
"We're right on schedule, Mr. Strange," he observed complacently.
"Indeed we are, Mr Honeywell. Everything has gone like clockwork."
"Indeed. Nothing can stop us now."
II.
John Steed and Emma Peel sat in the wardroom of the HMS Triton. Thirty pairs of eyes looked at them expectantly.
"Vell, vy are we just sitting here?" demanded Professor Stephenson. "Ve can't let dese bastards get away vit it! Vat are we goink to do?" "
Steed glanced over at Emma and snapped his fingers. "I've got it! I know what we have to do!"
"Vat?" demanded Stephenson.
"Ve...I mean, we, have to come up with a cunning plan!"
Emma hid a smile.
Stephenson eyed Steed and harrumphed his fluffy mustache.
"All right, let's examine what we've got," Emma said. "Admiral Verinder tells us there are six men on the control deck. Each one armed. Each one very likely prepared to shoot to kill. There may be other men aboard - we don't know."
"Do you mean to say that this entire ship is being controlled from a single room? That there are no engineers manning their little dials in the engine room? Making sure the nuclear engines don't go up in a poof of smoke?"
"If there are any other men aboard," said Verinder, "that's probably where they'll be. But this ship was designed to be controlled from the control deck, yes. By computer. And so far it seems to be working perfectly."
Steed reached over and tapped Emma's laptop computer. "You said you gave the over-ride codes to our friends. Is there any way we could access the ship's computer from here...over-ride those codes again?"
Verinder shook his head. "No. I gave them the top codes. Only the prime minister knows the ultimate 'fail safe' code, if you'd like to call it that, that could bring this ship to a dead stop."
"It could be done," Emma mused, "by a brilliant hacker. Someone who had a few weeks to work on the problem."
"Ye-es..." said Steed. "Unfortunately I doubt if we'll have a few weeks, Mrs. Peel."
"Yes...brute force would be quicker. Sabotage the physical engines themselves, perhaps. Stop us dead in the water."
"I'd be very nervous about trying to sabotage the engines on a nuclear vessel, Mrs. Peel. Somehow the thought of playing around with that much power makes me...uneasy."
Emma smiled. "Yes...unless you know exactly what you're doing things could get out of hand. Admiral, how's your knowledge of the nuclear engines?"
Verinder shook his head. "Not good enough, I'm afraid."
"So the only solution is to take out the men in the control deck." mused Steed.
"Yes. But how? They've all got guns. They won't hesitate to use them." growled Verinder. "And as long as they stay in that control room, we can't get at them."
"Then we'll jut have to give them a reason to leave," said Steed.
"How? Knock on the door and say, 'Will you come out, please?'"
"Something like that," said Steed.
"We just need to be prepared for them when they do come out," Emma commented.
Steed nodded. "This is a big ship. Lots of stuff left laying around, I have no doubt. Let's go find it."
III.
A loud clanging noise reverberated throughout the control deck. Again. And again. And again.
"What is that?" demanded Mr. Honeywell.
"Sounds as if someone is pounding on a bulkhead or something," commented Mr. Strange.
"One of those oldsters in the wardroom, no doubt," said Mr. Francis. "Getting a bit fractious."
"Well, I don't propose to put up with it. Mr. Francis, go deal with, please."
Francis smiled an ugly smile. "With pleasure."
The big man left the control deck and made his way down the corridors to the wardroom. The wrench that had been placed under the handle was still there - preventing anyone inside from getting out. Francis removed the wrench, jerked open the door and stepped inside.
"What's all this then?"
He stood, frozen. There was no one in the room. He whirled, but too late. The door slammed shut, and there was the sound of the wrench being slotted back in place. Francis swore and yanked at the door, to no avail. He pulled out his gun and aimed it at the door...then hesitated. Bullets ricocheting off a metal door around a metal room...not healthy for the occupants of that room.
Francis swore some more.
IV.
Mr. Honeywell looked at his watch.
"It's been ten minutes. What's taking Mr. Francis so long?" he demanded.
For answer, the clanging noise came again. And again. And again.
As one, the men removed their guns from their shoulder holsters.
"I say we do nothing," said Mr. Quarl. "We stay in the control deck another hour...get to the rendezvous point, and then start searching with the rest of our men."
"Something's going on." Honeywell retorted. "I don't fancy sitting here while a bunch of geriatric roam around the ship trying to cause trouble. What if they're pounding on the engines?"
"They wouldn't be that stupid."
"They might be. Charon. You go with Mr. Strange. Check out the engine room."
"Shouldn't we go to the wardroom? Find out what happened to Francis?"
"Go to the engine room first. On your way back, stop at the wardroom and see what's going on there."
"Right."
Charon and Strange left the room. Honeywell and Quarl looked at each other. "Under Siege," said Honeywell.
"Not possible," replied Quarl. "No one who wasn't exposed to the Sleep Antidote could be awake...whether they'd locked themselves in a freezer or whatever. Whoever is on this ship is one of our geriatrics."
Honeywell nodded. "Verinder must be doing something. Perhaps he thinks while we're at sea we can't contact our man at his house. If so he's a fool."
Quarl nodded at the communication control. "Why don't you send a message throughout the ship? Informing him of that little fat?"
Honeywell nodded. "I'll wait to see what Charon and Strange turn up. But if worst comes to worst, that's exactly what I'll do."
Quarl stretched his neck, rather like a boxer getting ready to go into the ring. He shrugged his shoulders, and his huge trapesius muscles bunched and bulged.
"Control yourself, Mr. Quarl," said Honeywell. "I don't want you to go about knocking heads together. We're too close to our rendezvous to handle them with kid gloves anymore, I'm afraid. If we see any white-headed figures anymore, shoot to kill."
"As you wish, Mr. Honeywell."
V.
Mr. Charon and Mr. Strange padded down the aisle way toward the engine room. Charon held his gun in his hand, Strange had replaced his in his shoulder-holster.
The clanging had stopped.
"I don't like this, Mr. Strange," Charon said quietly. "Thirty people running around this ship..."
"Hardly running, old chap," said Strange. "If the Mulberry people managed to get out of the wardroom somehow, that's one thing. But they can't do anything to us. I mean...please! We're 40 years younger than the youngest of them!"
"But how did they get out of the wardroom? And where is Mr. Francis? Why has he disappeared?"
Strange shrugged. "We'll find out. There's the door to the engine room."
He opened the door, turned, and began climbing down the ladder to the lower deck, holding on to the railing. After two steps, his hands slipped on the railing, he overbalanced, and fell backward off the ladder onto the metal deck below.
"Mr. Strange!" Charon yelled. He started to move down the ladder himself, then stopped. Strange must have hit his head on the deck, for he was unconscious. Charon took a closer look at the ladder leading down to the next deck...the first few treads were fine...the rest glistened as if they'd been covered in grease or oil of some kind...as had the railing.
Someone had set a trap, and Mr. Strange had sprung it. Charon regretted now that he had let out a yell. If he'd remained silent, some of those geriatrics might have come out of hiding to drag Strange away...but since they had heard his voice they knew he was up here and they might be laying in wait for him.
Charon's hand clenched on his gun. He had a bad feeling about this.
Should he try that old chestnut?
"I"m going for help, Strange," he called down into the hold. "You hold tight."
And then he ran swiftly down the corridor...stopped...and crept quietly back.
Strange's body remained where it had fallen. Nothing stirred.
Charon turned and headed back toward the control deck.
When he and Strange had come down this way, the ladder leading from the top deck to the second deck had been clean as a whistle. Charon did not give it a close look but started up. Half way up he felt his feet slipping out from under him and his hands unable to gain purchase. He fell backward with a yell of rage.
He hit the deck hard, but retained consciousness, enough to see a door open and a lithe woman dressed in sailor's fatigues come out and kick the gun out of his hand.
"Honeywell!" he yelled.
Another elderly figure came out through the doorway, Admiral Verinder. This individual shoved a sock into Charon's mouth - more viciously than necessary, Charon thought - and then he felt himself being dragged backward into the anteroom.
VI.
Emma hefted Charon's gun. John Steed held the one that Professor Stephenson had retrieved from Mr. Strange, who was now tied up and resting comfortably beside his colleague in crime.
"Now comes the hard part," said Steed. "If our two remaining villains have any sense, they won't come out of the control room, no matter how much noise we make out here."
Mrs. Peel nodded. "Noise won't do it. But if Professor Stephenson has been working wonders with those household chemicals we removed the wardroom..."
Steed nodded.
"I'll just go see if he's ready." Mrs Peel squeezed Steed's shoulder as she passed him, and went out of the 'operations room' where Steed and the rest of the Mulberry residents were headquartered. Stephenson was working in an adjacent room.
"Are we ready, Herr Professor?" said Emma.
"Yes, yes." said Stephenson absently, adding a dollop of liquid from one container into another. The second container began to smoke. "It is all prepared. Pour this onto the door to the control deck...and then stand back."
"Right."
VII.
Emma Peel bounced on her feet as the adrenalin flowed through her. This was living! It had been a long time, but now here they were again. The villains were at the gate, and it was she and Steed against them all.
Well, she and Steed and 28 other individuals of more and less usefulness...depending on how things panned out in the next five minutes...
She was ten yards in front of the door to the control deck. Steed, and half of the oldsters from Mulberry, were just behind the door. The half who were the most mobile, and the ones who could lift the heaviest wrenches.
Emma raised a hand signifying she was ready, and Steed nodded. He picked up the smoking bucket of material Stephenson had prepared and poured it thoroughly over the door.
The door began to smoke. Not only on the outside, but on the inside as well.
Within a minute, the two men in the control deck began yelling. Hatch door was unlocked and Honeywell stumbled out with streaming eyes. John Steed grabbed him with two strong hands and whirled him around into the blank space between two rows of hands holding upraised wrenches. He never stood a chance.
With a roar like a bull, Mr. Quarl burst out of the control deck in a cloud of smoke and headed right towards Emma Peel. He had a gun in his hand but didn't seem inclined to use it.
Emma did the only thing she could do. She timed her drop perfectly, and Quarl went hurtling over her body, helped as he was because she grabbed his foot and twisted as he went by. He roared again and clambered to his feet.
Emma leveled her gun at him, holding it in both hands.
"Take one more step, and you are a dead man." she said quietly.
Quarl stood there, chest heaving. But he believed her. He raised his hands.
VIII.
"What a disappointment," said John Steed. "What a ... wuss!"
Emma laughed. "I"d say he was a smart man. It may have been anticlimactic for him to have given up without a fight, but it's too bad more villains don't do that. Give up when they know their beaten. Save a lot of lives."
"It's a bit unsatisfactory, though," Steed said sulkily. "I wanted to see you give him a few high kicks and then a whirl to send him in our direction so we could give him the coup de grace."
"Well, maybe next year."
Steed grinned. "This certainly was a birthday to remember."
"Oh, yes," said Emma. "And I almost forgot to give you your present." She leaned forward and kissed Steed on the lips.
"Best present in the world," said Steed huskily. "For now, anyway."
IX.
"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Steee-eeed, happy birthday to you."
"And many more," chimed in Mike Gambit in the lowest baritone he could manage.
John Steed and the rest of the residents of the Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center were back home. Steed was surrounded by Cathy Gale, Tara Truffaut, Purdey, Mike Gambit, and Emma Peel.
They each raised their glass of champagne.
"To honor, trust, and commitment," said Steed. "To friendship, and the best people a man could ever know or hope to know. To the Avengers, forever."
They all touched glasses. And then they drank. And then they picked up their golf clubs and headed out to the Quite Quite Fantastic Golf Course to try their skill in cut-throat competition against each other, and all was right with the world.
PRESENT DAY
TRITON, SOMEWHERE AT SEA
I.
Mr. Honeywell looked at his watch. Two hours to rendezvous point. In a mere 120 minutes, the HMS Triton, and all who sailed in herwould disappear.
"We're right on schedule, Mr. Strange," he observed complacently.
"Indeed we are, Mr Honeywell. Everything has gone like clockwork."
"Indeed. Nothing can stop us now."
II.
John Steed and Emma Peel sat in the wardroom of the HMS Triton. Thirty pairs of eyes looked at them expectantly.
"Vell, vy are we just sitting here?" demanded Professor Stephenson. "Ve can't let dese bastards get away vit it! Vat are we goink to do?" "
Steed glanced over at Emma and snapped his fingers. "I've got it! I know what we have to do!"
"Vat?" demanded Stephenson.
"Ve...I mean, we, have to come up with a cunning plan!"
Emma hid a smile.
Stephenson eyed Steed and harrumphed his fluffy mustache.
"All right, let's examine what we've got," Emma said. "Admiral Verinder tells us there are six men on the control deck. Each one armed. Each one very likely prepared to shoot to kill. There may be other men aboard - we don't know."
"Do you mean to say that this entire ship is being controlled from a single room? That there are no engineers manning their little dials in the engine room? Making sure the nuclear engines don't go up in a poof of smoke?"
"If there are any other men aboard," said Verinder, "that's probably where they'll be. But this ship was designed to be controlled from the control deck, yes. By computer. And so far it seems to be working perfectly."
Steed reached over and tapped Emma's laptop computer. "You said you gave the over-ride codes to our friends. Is there any way we could access the ship's computer from here...over-ride those codes again?"
Verinder shook his head. "No. I gave them the top codes. Only the prime minister knows the ultimate 'fail safe' code, if you'd like to call it that, that could bring this ship to a dead stop."
"It could be done," Emma mused, "by a brilliant hacker. Someone who had a few weeks to work on the problem."
"Ye-es..." said Steed. "Unfortunately I doubt if we'll have a few weeks, Mrs. Peel."
"Yes...brute force would be quicker. Sabotage the physical engines themselves, perhaps. Stop us dead in the water."
"I'd be very nervous about trying to sabotage the engines on a nuclear vessel, Mrs. Peel. Somehow the thought of playing around with that much power makes me...uneasy."
Emma smiled. "Yes...unless you know exactly what you're doing things could get out of hand. Admiral, how's your knowledge of the nuclear engines?"
Verinder shook his head. "Not good enough, I'm afraid."
"So the only solution is to take out the men in the control deck." mused Steed.
"Yes. But how? They've all got guns. They won't hesitate to use them." growled Verinder. "And as long as they stay in that control room, we can't get at them."
"Then we'll jut have to give them a reason to leave," said Steed.
"How? Knock on the door and say, 'Will you come out, please?'"
"Something like that," said Steed.
"We just need to be prepared for them when they do come out," Emma commented.
Steed nodded. "This is a big ship. Lots of stuff left laying around, I have no doubt. Let's go find it."
III.
A loud clanging noise reverberated throughout the control deck. Again. And again. And again.
"What is that?" demanded Mr. Honeywell.
"Sounds as if someone is pounding on a bulkhead or something," commented Mr. Strange.
"One of those oldsters in the wardroom, no doubt," said Mr. Francis. "Getting a bit fractious."
"Well, I don't propose to put up with it. Mr. Francis, go deal with, please."
Francis smiled an ugly smile. "With pleasure."
The big man left the control deck and made his way down the corridors to the wardroom. The wrench that had been placed under the handle was still there - preventing anyone inside from getting out. Francis removed the wrench, jerked open the door and stepped inside.
"What's all this then?"
He stood, frozen. There was no one in the room. He whirled, but too late. The door slammed shut, and there was the sound of the wrench being slotted back in place. Francis swore and yanked at the door, to no avail. He pulled out his gun and aimed it at the door...then hesitated. Bullets ricocheting off a metal door around a metal room...not healthy for the occupants of that room.
Francis swore some more.
IV.
Mr. Honeywell looked at his watch.
"It's been ten minutes. What's taking Mr. Francis so long?" he demanded.
For answer, the clanging noise came again. And again. And again.
As one, the men removed their guns from their shoulder holsters.
"I say we do nothing," said Mr. Quarl. "We stay in the control deck another hour...get to the rendezvous point, and then start searching with the rest of our men."
"Something's going on." Honeywell retorted. "I don't fancy sitting here while a bunch of geriatric roam around the ship trying to cause trouble. What if they're pounding on the engines?"
"They wouldn't be that stupid."
"They might be. Charon. You go with Mr. Strange. Check out the engine room."
"Shouldn't we go to the wardroom? Find out what happened to Francis?"
"Go to the engine room first. On your way back, stop at the wardroom and see what's going on there."
"Right."
Charon and Strange left the room. Honeywell and Quarl looked at each other. "Under Siege," said Honeywell.
"Not possible," replied Quarl. "No one who wasn't exposed to the Sleep Antidote could be awake...whether they'd locked themselves in a freezer or whatever. Whoever is on this ship is one of our geriatrics."
Honeywell nodded. "Verinder must be doing something. Perhaps he thinks while we're at sea we can't contact our man at his house. If so he's a fool."
Quarl nodded at the communication control. "Why don't you send a message throughout the ship? Informing him of that little fat?"
Honeywell nodded. "I'll wait to see what Charon and Strange turn up. But if worst comes to worst, that's exactly what I'll do."
Quarl stretched his neck, rather like a boxer getting ready to go into the ring. He shrugged his shoulders, and his huge trapesius muscles bunched and bulged.
"Control yourself, Mr. Quarl," said Honeywell. "I don't want you to go about knocking heads together. We're too close to our rendezvous to handle them with kid gloves anymore, I'm afraid. If we see any white-headed figures anymore, shoot to kill."
"As you wish, Mr. Honeywell."
V.
Mr. Charon and Mr. Strange padded down the aisle way toward the engine room. Charon held his gun in his hand, Strange had replaced his in his shoulder-holster.
The clanging had stopped.
"I don't like this, Mr. Strange," Charon said quietly. "Thirty people running around this ship..."
"Hardly running, old chap," said Strange. "If the Mulberry people managed to get out of the wardroom somehow, that's one thing. But they can't do anything to us. I mean...please! We're 40 years younger than the youngest of them!"
"But how did they get out of the wardroom? And where is Mr. Francis? Why has he disappeared?"
Strange shrugged. "We'll find out. There's the door to the engine room."
He opened the door, turned, and began climbing down the ladder to the lower deck, holding on to the railing. After two steps, his hands slipped on the railing, he overbalanced, and fell backward off the ladder onto the metal deck below.
"Mr. Strange!" Charon yelled. He started to move down the ladder himself, then stopped. Strange must have hit his head on the deck, for he was unconscious. Charon took a closer look at the ladder leading down to the next deck...the first few treads were fine...the rest glistened as if they'd been covered in grease or oil of some kind...as had the railing.
Someone had set a trap, and Mr. Strange had sprung it. Charon regretted now that he had let out a yell. If he'd remained silent, some of those geriatrics might have come out of hiding to drag Strange away...but since they had heard his voice they knew he was up here and they might be laying in wait for him.
Charon's hand clenched on his gun. He had a bad feeling about this.
Should he try that old chestnut?
"I"m going for help, Strange," he called down into the hold. "You hold tight."
And then he ran swiftly down the corridor...stopped...and crept quietly back.
Strange's body remained where it had fallen. Nothing stirred.
Charon turned and headed back toward the control deck.
When he and Strange had come down this way, the ladder leading from the top deck to the second deck had been clean as a whistle. Charon did not give it a close look but started up. Half way up he felt his feet slipping out from under him and his hands unable to gain purchase. He fell backward with a yell of rage.
He hit the deck hard, but retained consciousness, enough to see a door open and a lithe woman dressed in sailor's fatigues come out and kick the gun out of his hand.
"Honeywell!" he yelled.
Another elderly figure came out through the doorway, Admiral Verinder. This individual shoved a sock into Charon's mouth - more viciously than necessary, Charon thought - and then he felt himself being dragged backward into the anteroom.
VI.
Emma hefted Charon's gun. John Steed held the one that Professor Stephenson had retrieved from Mr. Strange, who was now tied up and resting comfortably beside his colleague in crime.
"Now comes the hard part," said Steed. "If our two remaining villains have any sense, they won't come out of the control room, no matter how much noise we make out here."
Mrs. Peel nodded. "Noise won't do it. But if Professor Stephenson has been working wonders with those household chemicals we removed the wardroom..."
Steed nodded.
"I'll just go see if he's ready." Mrs Peel squeezed Steed's shoulder as she passed him, and went out of the 'operations room' where Steed and the rest of the Mulberry residents were headquartered. Stephenson was working in an adjacent room.
"Are we ready, Herr Professor?" said Emma.
"Yes, yes." said Stephenson absently, adding a dollop of liquid from one container into another. The second container began to smoke. "It is all prepared. Pour this onto the door to the control deck...and then stand back."
"Right."
VII.
Emma Peel bounced on her feet as the adrenalin flowed through her. This was living! It had been a long time, but now here they were again. The villains were at the gate, and it was she and Steed against them all.
Well, she and Steed and 28 other individuals of more and less usefulness...depending on how things panned out in the next five minutes...
She was ten yards in front of the door to the control deck. Steed, and half of the oldsters from Mulberry, were just behind the door. The half who were the most mobile, and the ones who could lift the heaviest wrenches.
Emma raised a hand signifying she was ready, and Steed nodded. He picked up the smoking bucket of material Stephenson had prepared and poured it thoroughly over the door.
The door began to smoke. Not only on the outside, but on the inside as well.
Within a minute, the two men in the control deck began yelling. Hatch door was unlocked and Honeywell stumbled out with streaming eyes. John Steed grabbed him with two strong hands and whirled him around into the blank space between two rows of hands holding upraised wrenches. He never stood a chance.
With a roar like a bull, Mr. Quarl burst out of the control deck in a cloud of smoke and headed right towards Emma Peel. He had a gun in his hand but didn't seem inclined to use it.
Emma did the only thing she could do. She timed her drop perfectly, and Quarl went hurtling over her body, helped as he was because she grabbed his foot and twisted as he went by. He roared again and clambered to his feet.
Emma leveled her gun at him, holding it in both hands.
"Take one more step, and you are a dead man." she said quietly.
Quarl stood there, chest heaving. But he believed her. He raised his hands.
VIII.
"What a disappointment," said John Steed. "What a ... wuss!"
Emma laughed. "I"d say he was a smart man. It may have been anticlimactic for him to have given up without a fight, but it's too bad more villains don't do that. Give up when they know their beaten. Save a lot of lives."
"It's a bit unsatisfactory, though," Steed said sulkily. "I wanted to see you give him a few high kicks and then a whirl to send him in our direction so we could give him the coup de grace."
"Well, maybe next year."
Steed grinned. "This certainly was a birthday to remember."
"Oh, yes," said Emma. "And I almost forgot to give you your present." She leaned forward and kissed Steed on the lips.
"Best present in the world," said Steed huskily. "For now, anyway."
IX.
"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Steee-eeed, happy birthday to you."
"And many more," chimed in Mike Gambit in the lowest baritone he could manage.
John Steed and the rest of the residents of the Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center were back home. Steed was surrounded by Cathy Gale, Tara Truffaut, Purdey, Mike Gambit, and Emma Peel.
They each raised their glass of champagne.
"To honor, trust, and commitment," said Steed. "To friendship, and the best people a man could ever know or hope to know. To the Avengers, forever."
They all touched glasses. And then they drank. And then they picked up their golf clubs and headed out to the Quite Quite Fantastic Golf Course to try their skill in cut-throat competition against each other, and all was right with the world.
Monday, May 2, 2011
The Last Avengers Story Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen: The Rescue
PRESENT DAY
LONDON
I.
"How did we get along without the internet," Purdey murmured to himself as he brought a tray piled high with cheese and crackers into the living room of Emma Peel's home. (Each of Steed's friends had keys to everyone else's homes - they were a peripatetic bunch and it was always "mi casa es su casa" amongst them.
Tara King, Purdey and Cathy Gale were holding a council of war. Their mission was to rescue a family of nine people, each one most likely tied up and unable to move in various rooms of a house located at 45 Rupert Lane. Mike Gambit was out on a recce even as they munched.
Cathy sipped her wine. "Just because the people were tied up in that house when they were photographed does not necessarily mean that they are still there," she commented.
"But the odds are very good," Tara objected. "Why go to all that trouble to tie them up, then untie them and move them somewhere else? And by moving them out of the house they'd increase the chances of someone noticing something...odd. Much easier just to leave them where they are, surely."
"Well, I would have separated them," Cathy said. "But then I always like to assume that anything that can go wrong will, and have a contingency plan. If these people are super confident that their plan can't fail, perhaps they didn't see the need to split up their hostages."
"I'm sure they don't think their plan can fail," Purdey laughed. "They never would have expected two such people as John Steed and Emma Peel to be among their guests from the Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center."
"Yes. Sucks for them, as my grandson would say." Tara murmured.
At that moment, Mike Gambit entered the room. He shrugged out of a leather jacket to reveal a torn, dirty white T-shirt - a shirt without sleeves to reveal his missing right arm, but loose enough to not reveal that the rest of his musculature was that of a powerful athlete. His jeans were in a similarly tatty state. On his chest was a rather large, baroque, tasteless medallion - which was also a digital camera.
"They're there, all right," he reported, taking the medallion from his neck and handing it to Purdey, who immediately plugged it into a computer to download the photographs. "I hit every house on the street, asking for some cash for a hard up bloke, and everyone was quite generous." He extended a wad of pound notes. "After I'd refused to move off til they paid me. Made quite a noise at number 53, I can tell you.
"Then I got to #54 and the old lady answered the door. Verinder's wife. Terrified as could be, but putting on a brave front. They must keep her free to deal with any visitors, put off friends unexpectedly dropping over for tea, that sort of thing.
I talked loudly, demanding the cash, and said I wouldn't go away until I got some. She got all flustered, looked behind her...a man came to the door - not anyone in the photographs. A tough if ever I saw one. Handed me a wad of bills and told me to push off.
"You got any more people in there?" I demanded. "Hey, lady, any more in there? I can use as much help as I can get, ya know." And I waggled my stump at the tough. She looked at me...and she said, "It's just my family in here. But they can't have anything to do with the likes of you. We've given as much as we can. Please go away."
So I touched my forelock and shambled off to the next house."
Cathy nodded. "Confirmation then, I think. That the family's there, but only one guard?"
Gambit shrugged. "Probably don't need more than one, to watch over one little old lady and a lot more tied up."
"Depends on who the little old lady is, I'd say." Cathy Gale commented, and winked at Gambit.
Gambit grinned back. Then, "So, how are we going to get them out?"
II.
Mike Gambit lifted up the screen on the case that looked like a portable DVD player, and turned it on. The front lawn of 54 Rupert Lane appeared on the screen, as taken from a camera in a car parked on the opposite side of the road from the house.
He placed an earbud in his ear, then spoke into the voice-operated microphone that extended only as far as his earlobe, but nevertheless caught his every word.
"Testing, testing."
"Receiving you loud and clear," came Purdey's voice.
"I'm in position. The front camera is on. Turn on your cameras."
After a few seconds three small squares appeared in the lower right portion of the screen, with the faces of Cathy Gale, Tara Truffaut and Purdey in them, depending on who they were looking at any particular time. The three women were wearing glasses, each with a miniature camera embedded in the frame.
"All three cameras working," Gambit reported.
"Jolly good."
Gambit hefted the door battering ram - which he could manipulate quite easily even with his artificial hand. He didn't want to have to break in the back door - a security system might be activated and he didn't want to set it off, because it would cause the police to answer the alarm, and the news reporters would be on the scene before the alarm had died away.
On the other hand, if things went wrong inside, he'd have to go in.
"Gambit, we're going in."
"Right. Break a leg."
Purdey had parked the reconnaissance car at the front of the house an hour ago, and then strolled off casually down the street and out of sight, where she'd foregathered with Cathy and Tara. Gambit's van, with the door open, was parked behind the house, so that all he'd have to do was jump out and run up the path to the back door if the worst came to the worst.
It took training, and a bit of skill, to be able to concentrate on four screens at one time, but Gambit was a past master at it. He cradled the battering ram in his arm and waited.
Cathy Gale, Tara Truffaut and Purdey walked casually down the street towards their target. Tara carried a plate on which rested what looked like a German Chocolate Cake. They were each dressed to the nines.
They entered the yard at 54 Rupert Lane and walked up the path, chattering cheerfully to each other. Cathy knocked on the door. "Yoo hoo, Audrey," she called, knocking again. "The Cake Ladies are here."
The door opened just a smidgen, and Audrey Verinder looked out at them. "I'm afraid you..."
"Don't keep us waiting on the mat, there's a good girl," Cathy said loudly. "Tara's going to drop that cake any moment. Let us in," and then she pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway, followed quickly by Tara. Tara quickly took the lead and took two long steps into the living room, where a man with a gun was just beginning to extend his arm.
Tara threw the cake with the expertness born of long practice of 'turning anything handy into a weapon,' and the squidgy mass caught him full in the face. He didn't even have time to lift a hand to wipe his eyes before she'd taken another long stride and kicked him where it would do the most good.
Purdey had held back Mrs. Verinder. "Are there any more men in the house?" she asked.
"No, no, just him! My god, how did you know...how did you know...never mind that...please...my family..."
"I think they'll all need a cup of tea, Mrs. Verinder." Purdey said soothingly. "Let's go make some while my colleagues release your family, and I'll explain what's going on."
Seconds later Gambit entered the house and the hard work of restoring a family's shattered sense of safety and dignity began.
PRESENT DAY
LONDON
I.
"How did we get along without the internet," Purdey murmured to himself as he brought a tray piled high with cheese and crackers into the living room of Emma Peel's home. (Each of Steed's friends had keys to everyone else's homes - they were a peripatetic bunch and it was always "mi casa es su casa" amongst them.
Tara King, Purdey and Cathy Gale were holding a council of war. Their mission was to rescue a family of nine people, each one most likely tied up and unable to move in various rooms of a house located at 45 Rupert Lane. Mike Gambit was out on a recce even as they munched.
Cathy sipped her wine. "Just because the people were tied up in that house when they were photographed does not necessarily mean that they are still there," she commented.
"But the odds are very good," Tara objected. "Why go to all that trouble to tie them up, then untie them and move them somewhere else? And by moving them out of the house they'd increase the chances of someone noticing something...odd. Much easier just to leave them where they are, surely."
"Well, I would have separated them," Cathy said. "But then I always like to assume that anything that can go wrong will, and have a contingency plan. If these people are super confident that their plan can't fail, perhaps they didn't see the need to split up their hostages."
"I'm sure they don't think their plan can fail," Purdey laughed. "They never would have expected two such people as John Steed and Emma Peel to be among their guests from the Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center."
"Yes. Sucks for them, as my grandson would say." Tara murmured.
At that moment, Mike Gambit entered the room. He shrugged out of a leather jacket to reveal a torn, dirty white T-shirt - a shirt without sleeves to reveal his missing right arm, but loose enough to not reveal that the rest of his musculature was that of a powerful athlete. His jeans were in a similarly tatty state. On his chest was a rather large, baroque, tasteless medallion - which was also a digital camera.
"They're there, all right," he reported, taking the medallion from his neck and handing it to Purdey, who immediately plugged it into a computer to download the photographs. "I hit every house on the street, asking for some cash for a hard up bloke, and everyone was quite generous." He extended a wad of pound notes. "After I'd refused to move off til they paid me. Made quite a noise at number 53, I can tell you.
"Then I got to #54 and the old lady answered the door. Verinder's wife. Terrified as could be, but putting on a brave front. They must keep her free to deal with any visitors, put off friends unexpectedly dropping over for tea, that sort of thing.
I talked loudly, demanding the cash, and said I wouldn't go away until I got some. She got all flustered, looked behind her...a man came to the door - not anyone in the photographs. A tough if ever I saw one. Handed me a wad of bills and told me to push off.
"You got any more people in there?" I demanded. "Hey, lady, any more in there? I can use as much help as I can get, ya know." And I waggled my stump at the tough. She looked at me...and she said, "It's just my family in here. But they can't have anything to do with the likes of you. We've given as much as we can. Please go away."
So I touched my forelock and shambled off to the next house."
Cathy nodded. "Confirmation then, I think. That the family's there, but only one guard?"
Gambit shrugged. "Probably don't need more than one, to watch over one little old lady and a lot more tied up."
"Depends on who the little old lady is, I'd say." Cathy Gale commented, and winked at Gambit.
Gambit grinned back. Then, "So, how are we going to get them out?"
II.
Mike Gambit lifted up the screen on the case that looked like a portable DVD player, and turned it on. The front lawn of 54 Rupert Lane appeared on the screen, as taken from a camera in a car parked on the opposite side of the road from the house.
He placed an earbud in his ear, then spoke into the voice-operated microphone that extended only as far as his earlobe, but nevertheless caught his every word.
"Testing, testing."
"Receiving you loud and clear," came Purdey's voice.
"I'm in position. The front camera is on. Turn on your cameras."
After a few seconds three small squares appeared in the lower right portion of the screen, with the faces of Cathy Gale, Tara Truffaut and Purdey in them, depending on who they were looking at any particular time. The three women were wearing glasses, each with a miniature camera embedded in the frame.
"All three cameras working," Gambit reported.
"Jolly good."
Gambit hefted the door battering ram - which he could manipulate quite easily even with his artificial hand. He didn't want to have to break in the back door - a security system might be activated and he didn't want to set it off, because it would cause the police to answer the alarm, and the news reporters would be on the scene before the alarm had died away.
On the other hand, if things went wrong inside, he'd have to go in.
"Gambit, we're going in."
"Right. Break a leg."
Purdey had parked the reconnaissance car at the front of the house an hour ago, and then strolled off casually down the street and out of sight, where she'd foregathered with Cathy and Tara. Gambit's van, with the door open, was parked behind the house, so that all he'd have to do was jump out and run up the path to the back door if the worst came to the worst.
It took training, and a bit of skill, to be able to concentrate on four screens at one time, but Gambit was a past master at it. He cradled the battering ram in his arm and waited.
Cathy Gale, Tara Truffaut and Purdey walked casually down the street towards their target. Tara carried a plate on which rested what looked like a German Chocolate Cake. They were each dressed to the nines.
They entered the yard at 54 Rupert Lane and walked up the path, chattering cheerfully to each other. Cathy knocked on the door. "Yoo hoo, Audrey," she called, knocking again. "The Cake Ladies are here."
The door opened just a smidgen, and Audrey Verinder looked out at them. "I'm afraid you..."
"Don't keep us waiting on the mat, there's a good girl," Cathy said loudly. "Tara's going to drop that cake any moment. Let us in," and then she pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway, followed quickly by Tara. Tara quickly took the lead and took two long steps into the living room, where a man with a gun was just beginning to extend his arm.
Tara threw the cake with the expertness born of long practice of 'turning anything handy into a weapon,' and the squidgy mass caught him full in the face. He didn't even have time to lift a hand to wipe his eyes before she'd taken another long stride and kicked him where it would do the most good.
Purdey had held back Mrs. Verinder. "Are there any more men in the house?" she asked.
"No, no, just him! My god, how did you know...how did you know...never mind that...please...my family..."
"I think they'll all need a cup of tea, Mrs. Verinder." Purdey said soothingly. "Let's go make some while my colleagues release your family, and I'll explain what's going on."
Seconds later Gambit entered the house and the hard work of restoring a family's shattered sense of safety and dignity began.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The Last Avengers Story Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen: Under Pressure
PRESENT DAY
THE TRITON AT SEA
The other members of the Tibet-By-The-Sea Retirement home sat quietly in the large wardroom where they had been stashed. The wardroom was quite luxurious - an ice cream machine, a popcorn machine, several microwaves and refrigerators, bookcases covered in glass, and a large screen TV set and rack upon rack of DVDs.
After they'd investigated the room and found there was only one door, which would not open, they'd resigned themselves to their fate and started making inroads on the food. They'd been quite cheerful until the door had opened, briefly, and Admiral Forrestal had entered the room. His face was sunken into a death's head and he sat hunched in a chair, casting a pall upon the whole affair. They left him alone and devoured the ice cream while they watched telly.
"I had to do it," thought Admiral Forrestal to himself. In front of his staring eyes all he saw was his wife...his lovely, sweet, fragile wife, tied tightly to a chair and with a strip of plaster over her mouth. Even with the plaster across half her face he could see that it was crumpled as she tried desperately not to cry...And beside her his son and daughter, and their children...all strapped down, all terrified...even if they survived they would never be the same again.
"I had to do it."
But the Triton had so many weapons...nuclear warheads to name only two...if they fell into the wrong hands...the carnage they'd cause...
His family...against the deaths of thousands of innocent people...
He'd had to do it...
There came a knock at the door.
Everyone froze and stared at the door. Why would one of the bad guys knock?
Every face turned to look at Admiral Forrestal. He felt their eyes on him.
Forrestal forced himself to move. He got to his feet, and crossed over to the door. The knock came again, to the tune of "shave and a haircut."
"Two bits," knocked back Forrestal.
There was a scraping sound, as if a heavy wrench were being removed from the hatch handle, and then the door swung open and John Steed and Emma Peel stepped inside.
"Thought we'd find you here," Steed said cheerfully. "Biggest room on the ship."
"Mr. Gascoine," said Forrestal. "Nurse Pray. How did you get here?"
"Long story, Admiral, and we don't have time for it now. What's going on. Do you know?"
Forrestal froze, for just a second...then said, "Bunch of terrorists. Hijacked the ship. That's all I know."
"How could they do that," said Emma, quietly. "This is a new ship, the latest design, remote controlled. They'd need access codes. How did they get them from?"
Forrestal straightened his shoulders. "I gave the codes to them."
He looked at them, and saw no accusations in their eyes, only curiosity.
"They have my family," Forrestal jerked out. "My entire family. Tied up in my own home...like animals waiting to be slaughtered."
Steed and Emma exchanged glances.
Emma turned back to Forrestal. "You have the access codes...does that mean you'd also have the codes to the networks aboard this ship?"
"Networks? What do you mean?"
"I've got a laptop computer. I can get in touch with the outside world, if only I could get online."
"Oh, I see. Well, yes, I know the general password for that as well."
"Then we're in business," said Steed.
"Wait," said Forrestal. "Who are you going to contact? If it's the police...or the military...they'll find out - they're bound to be monitoring the police bands. They'll harm my family."
"Not to worry, Admiral," said John Steed. "We know a few people who can handle this type of thing quite quietly."
"As long as they check their email," Emma murmured as she busied herself setting up the laptop. Forrestal gave her the code, and within seconds she was online. "All right, Admiral, what's your address."
"45 Rupert Lane, W2."
Emma nodded and typed it in. "All right. I'm sending this to Cathy, Tara and the Gambits. Informing them of the situation and requesting that they liberate your family from their captors. Meanwhile, we'll take care of the situation aboard this ship."
She struck a few more keys, then hit send.
Forrestal looked at the very old John Gasgoine and the very large Nurse Pray. "What do you mean, "we'll take care of the situation aboard this ship?""
"Half of my tai chi class is here," pointed out Gasgoine.
"Half of your geriatic tai chi class may be here," Forrestal snapped. "But what of it. You can't even move! And this faaaa...this..."
Emma Peel was divesting herself of the Nurse Pray outfit. All eyes were on stalks by the time she'd finished.
"Admiral, I'd like you to meet Mrs. Emma Peel," Steed said, quite quietly. "And I may not be able to move worth a damn these days but I am still John Steed, and when we work together as a team there is no one who can stand against us."
Admiral Forrestal stared at the two professionals...and a touch of color came back into his face. "I believe you," he said.
PRESENT DAY
THE TRITON AT SEA
The other members of the Tibet-By-The-Sea Retirement home sat quietly in the large wardroom where they had been stashed. The wardroom was quite luxurious - an ice cream machine, a popcorn machine, several microwaves and refrigerators, bookcases covered in glass, and a large screen TV set and rack upon rack of DVDs.
After they'd investigated the room and found there was only one door, which would not open, they'd resigned themselves to their fate and started making inroads on the food. They'd been quite cheerful until the door had opened, briefly, and Admiral Forrestal had entered the room. His face was sunken into a death's head and he sat hunched in a chair, casting a pall upon the whole affair. They left him alone and devoured the ice cream while they watched telly.
"I had to do it," thought Admiral Forrestal to himself. In front of his staring eyes all he saw was his wife...his lovely, sweet, fragile wife, tied tightly to a chair and with a strip of plaster over her mouth. Even with the plaster across half her face he could see that it was crumpled as she tried desperately not to cry...And beside her his son and daughter, and their children...all strapped down, all terrified...even if they survived they would never be the same again.
"I had to do it."
But the Triton had so many weapons...nuclear warheads to name only two...if they fell into the wrong hands...the carnage they'd cause...
His family...against the deaths of thousands of innocent people...
He'd had to do it...
There came a knock at the door.
Everyone froze and stared at the door. Why would one of the bad guys knock?
Every face turned to look at Admiral Forrestal. He felt their eyes on him.
Forrestal forced himself to move. He got to his feet, and crossed over to the door. The knock came again, to the tune of "shave and a haircut."
"Two bits," knocked back Forrestal.
There was a scraping sound, as if a heavy wrench were being removed from the hatch handle, and then the door swung open and John Steed and Emma Peel stepped inside.
"Thought we'd find you here," Steed said cheerfully. "Biggest room on the ship."
"Mr. Gascoine," said Forrestal. "Nurse Pray. How did you get here?"
"Long story, Admiral, and we don't have time for it now. What's going on. Do you know?"
Forrestal froze, for just a second...then said, "Bunch of terrorists. Hijacked the ship. That's all I know."
"How could they do that," said Emma, quietly. "This is a new ship, the latest design, remote controlled. They'd need access codes. How did they get them from?"
Forrestal straightened his shoulders. "I gave the codes to them."
He looked at them, and saw no accusations in their eyes, only curiosity.
"They have my family," Forrestal jerked out. "My entire family. Tied up in my own home...like animals waiting to be slaughtered."
Steed and Emma exchanged glances.
Emma turned back to Forrestal. "You have the access codes...does that mean you'd also have the codes to the networks aboard this ship?"
"Networks? What do you mean?"
"I've got a laptop computer. I can get in touch with the outside world, if only I could get online."
"Oh, I see. Well, yes, I know the general password for that as well."
"Then we're in business," said Steed.
"Wait," said Forrestal. "Who are you going to contact? If it's the police...or the military...they'll find out - they're bound to be monitoring the police bands. They'll harm my family."
"Not to worry, Admiral," said John Steed. "We know a few people who can handle this type of thing quite quietly."
"As long as they check their email," Emma murmured as she busied herself setting up the laptop. Forrestal gave her the code, and within seconds she was online. "All right, Admiral, what's your address."
"45 Rupert Lane, W2."
Emma nodded and typed it in. "All right. I'm sending this to Cathy, Tara and the Gambits. Informing them of the situation and requesting that they liberate your family from their captors. Meanwhile, we'll take care of the situation aboard this ship."
She struck a few more keys, then hit send.
Forrestal looked at the very old John Gasgoine and the very large Nurse Pray. "What do you mean, "we'll take care of the situation aboard this ship?""
"Half of my tai chi class is here," pointed out Gasgoine.
"Half of your geriatic tai chi class may be here," Forrestal snapped. "But what of it. You can't even move! And this faaaa...this..."
Emma Peel was divesting herself of the Nurse Pray outfit. All eyes were on stalks by the time she'd finished.
"Admiral, I'd like you to meet Mrs. Emma Peel," Steed said, quite quietly. "And I may not be able to move worth a damn these days but I am still John Steed, and when we work together as a team there is no one who can stand against us."
Admiral Forrestal stared at the two professionals...and a touch of color came back into his face. "I believe you," he said.
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