23 hours - the seventh hour

06.00. They crouch down behind a bush although the chance of being seen or heard in this light and wind is very slight. Faith has turned off her phone so we are giving off no light. We speak in muted voices. “How are we going to do this?’ she asks. “I can make my way around to the other side but he must be waiting here for a reason. Somone must be coming and we won’t know from what direction” We both stare at each other as we hear the sound of an engine approaching.

06.05. “Do it” line 1 says.

06.10. I am replaying the scene in my head. A small microlight helicopter lands and the man gets in. By the light of the cockpit we can see the two men hug each other. They are about to take off and we are shouting at each other over the engine noise when a second larger helicopter with a small red beam light appears in the sky. The light tracks onto the small microlight. There is a pause, a flash and then what appears like a bolt shoots down and the hill is bathed in an enormous fireball that blinds us. As our eyes adjust we can see the large helicopter disappearing into the distance lit by flames from the brow of the hill and the sun rising behind it.

06.15. “Target removed,” he says to line 1 as the blue light suddenly disappears from the screen. The red light has begun to move rapidly to the edge of view. The second red light is getting nearer to the scene. The voice on line 1 speaks, “This has not been a good morning. We shall speak on…” His voice is interrupted by the pilot on line 2. “Target gone, two fatalities and little will remain, Should look like a crash. “Two?” says the voice on line 1. “Yep, two.” By the computer screen the man feels a bead of sweat run down his temple.

06.20. The officer by the desk answera the nearest phone and then others start ringing. An urgent call is put out the nearest car who responds with the comment that ‘it’s near the end of their shift’ but the mention of a fireball switches on the blue flashing lights and they are suddenly accelerating along the road as the dawn breaks. “Be there in about five minutes.” The desk officer answers another phone and takes contact details, brief description of a ‘vision of hell’ and assures them a car is already on its way.

06.25. Faith and I have made our way back to the road and are marching toward Etlingham. “We have to get away from here,” she says. “The buses go on the half hour from 6.35, we have to be on that first one.” As we rush along we can hear the sound of a vehicle coming toward us. We both duck into the undergrowth and turn our faces away as a police car flashes by. We emerge as it goes over the brow of the road and walk even quicker. There is a trickle of blood on Faith’s head where a thorn has scratched her.

06.30. “You know what this means,” says the voice on line 1. “One of them is missing.” Of course he knew. He had already thought about that as soon as the pilot had reported back. “It’s possible,” he hesitated as he replied, “that they both didn’t go rogue, one might have killed the other.” There was a pause, and then the voice, “I don’t rule that out and it would be convenient. However we must work on a ‘worst case’ scenario. One is still alive and knows too much.

06.35. The bus is drawing up as we get to the stop. Slightly breathless we board and buy tickets to the terminal. At least we will be in a bigger town where there are chances of being able to blend in and the chance to plan is possible. As the bus sets off another police car and an ambulance shoot past with lights flaring. A lady in front of us turns and says, “Something must have happened.” She seems happy with her summary and turns back. I whisper to Faith, “I doubt they will need the ambulance.” I turn to look out of the window as we pass through an idyllic English village. What a strange juxtaposition with just a few minutes ago.

06.40. “God only knows Sarg,” the policewoman speaks over the radio. “It’s like a bomb has gone off here. I reckon we’ve got a helicopter crash from what we can see but there’s no way anyone survived this. You’d best get SOCO and accident investigators up here. We’ll tape off the area. We’ve got a few local ghouls already descending and it won’t be long before the reporters get here.” In the crowd one person’s eyes are more focussed than others. After a few moments he turns and moves away.

06.45. “If they got off at that station then they must have got a taxi. Get onto it and call me as soon as you know something.” Voice 1 goes dead. He checks the red dot on the screen. “Did you hear what he just said?” he asks. Once he hears their confirmation he just says, “then you know what to do, and be quick, this is beginning to unravel and we can’t let it come undone.” He sits back and looks at his cold cup of tea. Whatever happens next he knows his life is never going to be the same.

06.50. The call is patched through. The large wooden door to the office is opened and a head appears hesitantly around it. “Yes,” says the man without even troubling to look up from his desk. Years of being served, however begrudgingly and insincerely, have given such a sense of self importance that the niceties of decent behaviour have been subsumed by the expectation of forgiveness for social inadequacies. The man at the door speaks, “Minister, there is a call on the scrambled line.” Suddenly he feels the full weight of those eyes upon him. “Get out,” is barked.

06.55. He leans back from his desk and pounds a fist onto the green leather top. He curses himself briefly then quickly turns his anger to others. He has never been indecisive, he has never been without an answer. How the hell did he end up agreeing to this mission? He knew it was a mistake so why had he said yes? If this went wrong there was only one ‘head’ that would matter to the media. He shook himself and decided that the priority was no longer the mission but self-protection. It was this trait that had made him the consummate politician. “Get me the CRISIS committee he shouted at the closed door.