The beams hit the forward portal - the coruscating radiation obliterating any view. His arm hurt, but he held on. Klass knew where he was heading – he held his course, slipping the levers forward. The barrage intensified.
“The ship’s computer is useless here!”, complained Morris, the engineer.
“I have no use for it either. Turn up the AI anyway, it must try to keep up with me best it can.”
Ambassador Carla, his precious cargo, curled herself around his good shoulder. She had faith in him after the last time. He would get her to the Galactic Mission on time, come hell or Cylons.
“Jim! Jim! Watch the road.”, said Mrs Klass. James brought the car back into lane. “I’d rather be late at the airport than end up in the hospital.” The couple arrived, in time, at the city airport, but sensibly Klass dropped her outside, arranging to pick up his wife, Sura, and their son in 45 minutes or so. He headed off for a drive-thru coffee.
The hospital was in lockdown. There had been a terrorist incident – the Dead Hand had struck. A magnesium/aluminium-powder fire ripped through the main block – a coruscating white fireball consumed his view. The heat was unimaginable.
“Dr Klass, thank God you’re here!” The young doctor led the way against a tide of staff and patients escaping the danger area. She passed him the new Watson Breathing Apparatus and they fought their way to the operating theatre.
She continued through her mask, “Dr Sørenson had just opened when the bomb went off. Then she found…”
“Yes, a double, double Kuppuzinay lesion. I know Sørenson’s work, but that would be beyond even her. Perhaps together we can save the Prime Minister?”
The teenager stared at him. “You said at the speaker post you wanted two Double Doubles, now you want a cappuccino too?”. From the car behind came, “Hurry up pal! We all want serving.” Klass collected the cardboard tray and pulled up in a parking spot. He waited for a call or a message.
“Waiting on your command triple-0 seven!” The silence was crippling. He cursed his hurt shoulder and held the arm against his bandaged side.” Home Secretary Sørenson was there; she had done much in her time as special agent, but everything was at stake now in global relations. This was his problem now - a matter of action not diplomacy.
“It’s been an hour. If they were going to release him we would have seen movement, heard something on the back channel. We’re going in!” said Klass.
The flotilla of commando boats with their powerful, AI-managed engines made their way up the Thames toward Hampton Court Palace. In the lead craft, James Klass clicked on his comms: “GO! GO! GO! GO!”.
The SBS troopers ignited their Costa CosmicArc Lamps as they swept around the last bend of the river. They illuminated the old building with a coruscating light show.
“Today will be a good day!”, he thought, but a message was coming through on his comms.
“Where the hell are you Jim?”, he heard, when he eventually answered his phone, “Paul and I are stood in the pick-up area.” Klass sipped his cold coffee and set off, clipping the waste bin as he navigated the exit.
He stopped in the airport pickup, popped the hatch with the remote. Sura and Paul muttered, as they squeezed in his rucksack. James Klass felt for the Beretta tucked into his shoulder, pulled his trilby deep over his eyes and kept watch ahead. The Dead Hand were somewhere close.
I was inspired to write this by a love of James Thurber’s short story The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, introduced to me by my dad. Surprisingly, it’s available free of charge.
I’m no James Thurber, but I am a Walter Mitty, and I continue to dream.
~Niall
Oh no! An early version of this story was missing the last paragraph. Sorry, I blame the Dead Hand.
Or you could buy me a coffee if you enjoyed this.