By Signal McFresh The strange craft sped on through the polar night. The man at the controls knew that somewhere, hundreds of miles to the south, the sun had set on another winter鈥檚 day. There, as he sped over the cracked ice of the frozen wastelands of the North, night had reigned for several weeks now and so darkness shrouded his extraordinary machine as it silently powered on South. Tonight he had no ordinary mission, nor would it be an ordinary day. After what seemed a timeless interval, the cloud cover broke, allowing the brittle silvery moonlight to dance a lapping silhouette on the cold angry waters below. Skillfully, he manipulated the controls so his craft effortlessly dodged the dark imposing shadows of icebergs that rushed into view. Dipping lower above the ocean, so that the spray painted a salt film on the underside, he set course for the nearest land. His craft swept over the coastline with no apparent effort, undetected by the probing radar that guarded this land. No missiles pursued him, no predatory fighters were scrambled to intercept and pluck him from the sky, so on he sped through the faint moonlight. For his mission was beyond the wild imagination of those who defended this noble land. His propulsion so fantastic that no weapon system was designed that could detect it. Snow clad hills and forests passed beneath his feet, as ever onward he sped towards his goal. Gripping the controls of his craft, the man set it into an almost lazy bank, as he began to sense his objective was near. Ahead in the valley, the lights of a small village blinked in welcome. The man found a lonely, isolated field and gently brought his craft to land in a flurry of powdered snow. He sat at his controls and surveyed the area in the iridescent moonlight. Nothing stirred, he had not been spotted. Slowly exiting the craft, the man silently opened the vast payload of his vehicle. He selected what he needed and then set off in the direction of the nearest dwelling, the snow crunching gently under his heavy black boots. He crouched silently in the shadow of a frost-rimmed hedge and surveyed the scene. He was alone, still. Nothing stirred in this white diorama. In a split-second, his well trained eye summed up the situation. The ground floor entrances carried a great risk of detection, as they always would. However, his eyes fixed on the roof and an arcane ventilation system. There was no alternative, he thought, as he moved forward cautiously towards his objective. He would have to risk it to gain entry. He moved up the side of the building with apparent ease, his movements almost instinctive from years of practice as he edged slowly, quietly towards his chosen point of entry. On the lip of the shaft he paused, but he knew from past experience that there was no turning back. Slowly, he began to lower himself in and down the grimy shaft and with some difficulty, he reached the exit on what he judged to be the ground floor. Not bad for a man of my years, he thought sardonically to himself, before his instincts took over and he stood still waiting. Once more, silence was the only response and he continued on his mission. The man stood in the middle of the room now. It was dark, but this was no barrier to his night trained eyes. Undetected he may have been, but he knew that time was his greatest enemy and so he moved on to rapidly reach the conclusion and exit before he was discovered. He deployed his ordinance in the optimum positions, making sure they would have maximum coverage. But as he prepared for his final escape, his roving eyes fell upon a sight that turned his blood cold and froze him to the spot. All the years of training and preparation had finally come to naught, for despite the secrecy of his plan, they were expecting him. They had anticipated his every move. The silence within the room crept insidiously towards him. The encompassing darkness seemed to press in on him, like the walls of a tomb. His red, one-piece flying suit now clung to him, heavy with perspiration. The spark in his hunter鈥檚 eye was now extinguished by the terrible sight before him. Slowly, with a trembling hand, he reached out to the apparition that chilled his existence. Could he endure it again? Slowly the words formed on his lips. Groaning inwardly, he resigned himself to his fate. His voice rang out in a ragged whisper, hoarse with emotion. 'Not traditional British sherry and home-made minced pies again!' Grabbing the bunch of carrots, he made his escape, quickly vanishing into the darkness and the new challenges that awaited him. |
