The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1. Crash (Wendy).

It was a pleasant early evening in late spring and I was out in my back garden. The garden with its white picket fence backed onto a lane that meandered away and disappeared in the general direction of the Long Mynd—one of the ranges of ancient hills that form the backbone of Shropshire.

I like my little garden, it’s very green, and I’ve tried to turn it into what foreigners imagine when they hear the phrase ‘English Country Garden’. I’m a teacher these days and work at the local Primary School so I have a lot of time to devote to my little garden, well not a lot exactly but certainly more than Julie Price, my next-door neighbour who was a nurse at the little hospital in near-by Bishops Castle.

I’m Wendy Pascoe, by the way: mid-thirties, single and unattached for reasons that’ll become obvious fairly soon.

Yes, it was a lovely evening, I sighed contentedly and smiled at nothing in particular. Suddenly I froze and looked up from the tray of tomato plants that I was bedding out—something had caught my attention but at first I was unsure as to what it was. The sun was low to the west and would soon slip behind the near-by green-brown bulk of the Long Mynd, the range of hills that were close by in the west where they lay like a long, stranded whale. Somewhere beyond that lay Wales, the Celtic land that always reminds me of my native Cornwall.

I looked around but could see nothing besides the odd bird wheeling around the blue sky. A gentle breeze, warm for the time of year, disturbed my long red hair which I used my fingers to roughly comb flat: after slipping off my gardening gloves, that is.

I frowned and took another look around—no, there was nothing. I replaced my gloves and carried on bedding out the tiny seedlings. Pinkish clouds heralded the approach of night: they’d turn black very soon and dusk would bring my activities to an end until tomorrow evening when I would be out here again, weather permitting!

Only a couple of the seedlings remained in their little plastic pots and soon it would be time to water them and call it a night...

I stopped again...

I hadn’t imagined it...

There was something...

Something in the sky...

Something that I could hear...

It sounded like the whine of an aircraft’s turbines, only it wasn’t. I knew aero engines, I had served in the RAF before training as a teacher and this one just didn’t sound right. There was a turbine ‘whine’ alright but there was also a throaty crackling popping noise hidden in it. The sound got louder. If that was an aero engine then there was probably something wrong.

I listened as it came closer and closer. There was definitely something wrong... Or at least, something that just wasn’t quite right.

Suddenly there was an audible ‘crack’ as the...... thing...... passed almost directly overhead. Then spewing smoke and flame and debris, the cylinder lurched off in the direction of the Long Mynd itself. I couldn’t tell how big it was or how high, but it looked the wrong shape for any of the aircraft that I knew, and I’d seen a lot of the things over my years in the service—a lot including some of the stranger ones that no one talks about. It looked too fat and stumpy to be a plane, even though it did have tiny triangular fin-like wings—surely they couldn’t give it enough lift? My mind raced as I watched it descend—and then it dipped behind a near-by ridge and was gone although the smoke trail persisted widening as it drifted in the air.

There was a dull ‘thump’ from close-by and I looked up and saw a wisp of smoke curling upwards in Julie Price’s somewhat overgrown garden next door.

Then it was gloves off as I fished her mobile phone out of my pocket and dialled ‘999’.

I listened to it ring for about thirty seconds, far longer than I would have expected, until. “Emergency. Which service do you require?”

I paused, mind racing. “Probably all three plus the RAF, I’ve just seen what looked like an aircraft crash near or into the Long Mynd.”

“We are aware of the incident, ma’am. Thank you for reporting it.” The reply was brusque.

“Some of the debris has fallen in my next-door neighbour’s back garden.” I came back before the operator had a chance to ring off.

“I—(pause)—see, what’s your name and address, Ma’am.?” The woman’s tone hadn’t altered—they were probably inundated with everybody and his dog calling it in .

“Squadron Leader Wendy Pascoe.” I gave my old Air Force rank as I was still on the reserve, I hoped that it might prove I wasn’t a time-waster. I gave my address as. “Rose Cottage, Narrow Lane, Little Stretton.” And finally the post code.

There was a pause and then the operator came back. “Can you secure the debris without touching anything, Ma’am? Someone will be in touch shortly.”

“Sure.” I replied to a dead connection. Then it was phone back in my pocket as I hopped over the fence to take a look at what had fallen.

It was easy enough to find, all I had to do was head for the column of acrid steam and smoke that twisted up into the air. I found it within seconds: a jagged chunk of something that looked like airframe, still with some of the skin attached. Black, dull and pitted: still hot. It had come down with enough force to slam into the ground and dig itself a small crater.

I bent down to take a closer look and it was then that I noticed the smell—a burnt plastic stench with a hint of ozone. Whatever it was, I didn’t recognise it but knew that some of the latest aircraft were built from pretty exotic composites and not just aluminium alloy.

I heard a noise behind her and straightened up. My neighbour was no doubt wondering what I was doing in her garden.

“What’s happened? What is it?” Julie Price asked, clearly mystified. I had been so engrossed in the debris that I hadn’t heard her approach.

Julie is about ten years younger than me and at the moment was wearing nothing more than a pink dressing gown although she also had a towel wrapped around her wet hair.

I explained about the plane crash that I’d witnessed and about the chunk of wreckage still smoking in front of us.

“Oooo!” Squeaked Julie, clearly intrigued. She bent down to take a closer look rewarding me with a close-up view of her shapely bum in the process.

While I’m not exactly into back-sides, I am into into women and had fancied my neighbour for years although being a teacher at the local school meant that doing anything about those feelings locally would be tantamount to committing social and career suicide.

Julie began to reach out towards the chunk of ‘aeroplane’ and let out a squeak of surprise when I grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back.

“Don’t touch it, Julie. It’s hot and could be dangerous and in any case I’ve been told to make sure that no one disturbs it.”

“Dangerous?” Julie squeaked, slightly irritated. “But it’s just a chunk of metal!”

I shook my head. “No it isn’t... It’s plastic or ceramic or something but it isn’t metal. Didn’t you notice the smell?”

Realisation dawned. “Oh yes! It does smell like burnt plastic, doesn’t it?” She frowned. “The plants around it are dying—must be the heat.”

And it was then that things began to happen. Time passed, Julie went in and got dressed, returning just in time to see several military vehicles speed down the lane behind the house and head off in the direction of the hills.

“My God!” The nurse exclaimed. “The Army’s quick off the mark!”

I shook my head. “They were RAF, not Army! RAF Regiment, probably.”

Julie had frowned. “How can you tell?”

“Number plates. Army vehicles never have an ‘A’ in the first block of letters.” I frowned, something did not make sense... “They were quick off the mark considering the distance to the nearest RAF station.”

Julie looked quizzical, the gathering dusk throwing her face into shadow and giving her a mysterious air. “Oh?”

“They must have been heading this way well before the crash was reported.” They had also been armed, which I did not mention even though it was odd for a rescue mission.

Suddenly my phone rang interrupting my train of thought. “Squadron Leader Pascoe?” The man’s voice said.

“Speaking.” I answered, puzzled by the fact that the caller used my rank.

“Call for you, Ma’am, please hold.” Came the clipped reply. There was a pause of several seconds until a new voice came on the line, a woman’s voice. “Squadron Leader Wendy Pascoe?”

“Yes?” I confirmed, probably sounding as puzzled as I felt.

“This is Group-Captain Rebecca Slater, at RAF Brize Norton. I understand that you witnessed the incident and have charge of some of the debris?”

Puzzled or not, my training from years before kicked-in. “Yes, Ma’am, whatever it was flew over where I live and crashed...”

“Okay!” The Group Captain cut her short. “I am aware of that, please make sure that no one handles the debris before the team that is on its way to you arrives.” There was another pause and then the woman added curtly. “Hold on please.”

As I listened I could clearly hear the Group Captain speaking to someone else. “Is it, by god?” I couldn’t tell what the other person said but distinctly heard Slater exclaim. “Oh fuck!”

There was another pause during which I had time to turn towards Julie, who was waiting patiently next to me and shrug before the senior Air Force officer came back on the line. “Squadron Leader, considering the seriousness of the current emergency, please consider yourself to be back on active service.”

“But I’m a teacher, I’ll be in school tomorrow!” I protested.

Slater seemed to ignore me. “You are a highly experienced reserve officer and the RAF needs you badly so I suggest that you dig out your combat kit and get changed. There’s a vehicle heading to you at the moment, the driver has all of the necessary bumf to make this legal and...”

Suddenly I was aware of a noise, one that I hadn’t heard for many years. “Wait!” I barked into the phone.

There was no mistaking it. “Gunfire!” I snapped.

“What?” Demanded Slater.

“I can here small arms fire coming from the direction of the crash site: there’s a dull thud that sounds like SA80’s. But there’s something else... Something sharper... Heavier...

“What the hell is going on?” I demanded but realised that the question was purely rhetorical which the reply confirmed.

“Sorry, Pascoe, better not say. Line isn’t exactly secure.” The answer was short but not unexpected.

“So, what do I do, Ma’am?” I asked resigning herself to whatever was about to unfold.

“Just play it as it comes—you’ll know more when your orders arrive. If anything happens in the meantime, report it on this number.” The call ended a sentence or two later leaving me with little more than speculation and worries.

As she broke contact there was a small explosion sounded from over near the crash site and that was that for after a few more shots, the firing petered out and late evening calm returned to our part of Shropshire. Silence marked only by a column of oily smoke rising from the flanks of the Long Mynd into the still evening air.

Julie Price, her eyes alight with uncertainly, starred across and demanded. “What’s happening?”

I shrugged and truthfully replied. “I don’t know. All I can say is that I’ve just been called-up and am back in the RAF.”

“That was an official call wasn’t it? So what did they say? Tell me what’s happening!” She sounded close to panic.

“Like I said, I don’t know and I don’t think they do either, but if I were you, I’d phone the hospital. I think that they might be rather busy in the near future.” I advised, words that would soon prove ominously true.

Then together we dragged the rusty old wheel barrow out from behind Julie’s shed and used that to cover the crash debris and as the sky darkened we went our separate ways to get changed. For some reason I had a dark premonition that things would never be the same again.

2. Corporal Woodnutt Takes Charge (Wendy).

The knock on the door came at about two in the morning, when I answered it I came face to face with a couple of RAF NCO’s who both saluted. Which I didn’t return as I I was not wearing a beret. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Good evening, Ma’am, I’m Flight Sergeant Penrose and this is Corporal Woodnutt.” The senior of the two said by way of introduction before enquiring. “Squadron-Leader Pascoe?”

“That’s me.” I admitted. “Won’t you both come in?”

They followed me into my cottage and through into my kitchen. The flight sergeant carried a briefcase but both were armed with pistols.

I offered them a coffee which they gratefully accepted and while I was making it the Flight Sergeant spread papers out on my kitchen table while the Corporal stood around looking like a slightly bored spare part.

“What’s going on, Flight?” I asked while spooning coffee into three mugs.

“Deep space monitoring at RAF Fylingdales picked up an object on approach early yesterday and it soon became obvious that it was on a re-entry trajectory, it entered the atmosphere over central Russia and was on near enough a ballistic track so at first it was thought to be a meteor: a damned big one, but a meteor never the less. But then it started to make minor course corrections and the trackers issued an alert.”

He accepted the proffered coffee and after taking a sip, spooned some sugar into it. “Thanks, Ma’am, that’s very welcome!”

Oddly enough the corporal took up the story and as he sipped his coffee I realised that he didn’t sound like a typical junior NCO and that his voice lacked any sort of an accent. He also looked older than most RAF corporals: harder looking, too. “The track was calculated while attempts were made to contact the craft for by now it was obvious that it was under some sort of control—either manned or robotic. When it entered the UK ADGE a couple of QRF Typhoons were scrambled to intercept and observe. Contact was lost with both aircraft when they got well within half a kilometre of the object and it was later confirmed that they had crashed.

“What were the rules of engagement?” I asked.

“Defensive only, Ma’am, fire only if attacked.” The Flight-Sergeant said, no doubt unhappy about playing second-fiddle to Corporal Woodnutt.

The Corporal had a wry, lopsided grin as he resumed the narrative. “As it crossed the UK mainland it was clearly descending for some reason and although we were out of the game at this point the Army were able to arm and scramble an Apache in time to intercept. But a similar thing happened to it a short while later: however it survived the contact and returned fire after being hit by some sort of energy weapon.

“The Apache survived, though damaged but managed to close with the thing and hit it with just about everything it had got. The intruder was critically damaged and came down a short distance from here.” Woodnutt concluded.

The Flight Sergeant gave the Corporal a surprised look: clearly much of this was news to him too. He muttered something that I did not hear and then drew my attention to the papers on the table. “Before we go any further, Ma’am, could you sign one of these?”

I frowned at him... a lot about this account did not make a great deal of sense. “How the hell could a helicopter bring down a fixed-wing aircraft?”

The corporal shrugged. “That’s what we need to find out. Now could you just sign the form please, Ma’am?”

When I looked at where he indicated I saw a copy of the official secrets act. I nodded, picked up a pen and scribbled my name and signature across it. I had signed a lot of the things during my years in the service.

“I think it would be best if you signed one too, Flight.” The Corporal added quietly.

Penrose gave Woodnutt a questioning look, clearly he didn’t like being told what to do by a mere corporal, but he signed non-the-less. The next twenty minutes was taken up with me reading and signing various forms and documents: clearly the RAF still ran on paperwork: somethings never changed.

“So, gentlemen, what happens now?” I asked, still slightly mystified by the proceedings. Again it was Corporal Woodnutt who answered. “We would like to set up a forward headquarters here in your house. With your permission of course, Ma’am?”

I nodded, this wasn’t exactly unexpected as the incident promised to be a serious one and besides, I knew that the MoD would make good any damage and replace the things that would inevitably go missing.

“At first light I am going to take a look at the crash site, Ma’am; perhaps you would would be good enough to come along and advise me since you know the area? By then the Rock Apes should have secured the crash site.” He said very quietly. (Rock Apes being the nickname of all RAF Regiment personnel.)

I think that I must have nodded. The request sounded more like an instruction. “I heard small arms fire and an explosion shortly after the Rock Apes drove past here.”

“Did you, by God?” Woodnutt said frowning. Clearly my statement had surprised him.

Meanwhile in my neighbour’s garden more of the plants surrounding the debris were dying but of course I didn’t know this at the time.

At zero-four-thirty I found myself behind the wheel of an RAF Landrover for the first time in years although I hand never been called on to drive a corporal around before. “It would be better if you were to drive, Ma’am,” the man had said quietly, “you know the area and I don’t. And besides, I might have to sort of hop out in a hurry when we get close.”

I gave him a questioning look. “I thought that the Regiment were going to secure the scene of the crash?”

Corporal Woodnutt shrugged but didn’t said anything else for several seconds. Suddenly his face went blank. “We’re in crisis management mode.”

Strangely enough I did not find his statement to be reassuring in the slightest.

Half a dozen more RAF personnel had arrived during the short summer’s night and they had set up shop in my tiny front parlour (as we still call the living room here rural in Shropshire) consuming even more of my coffee as they did so. Then as I climbed into the driver’s seat of the Landrover I was treated to the sight of a pair of said personnel dressed in full NBC suits and respirators heading into my neighbour’s garden carrying equipment that I could only guess at.

Corporal Woodnutt hopped into the front passenger seat at the same time as an armed airman climbed into the back. He nodded to the Corporal who instructed him to load and cock his rifle and apply the safety. He then turned to me. “The Rock Apes who went to the crash scene haven’t reported in yet, Ma’am.”

“Shit!” I muttered as I started the vehicle’s engine and then glanced out of the corner of my eye at my mysterious front seat passenger. “Okay, Corporal Woodnutt?”

“Ma’am!” He answered with another one of his wry lopsided grins, it was almost as if he was enjoying things. I put the Landrover into gear and pulled away. It was a warm morning with just a hint of an early morning mist, as there so often is at this time of year. There would be more of it in the folds and little valleys that flanked the hill that we were heading for.

I was pretty sure as to where the thing came down and headed off in that direction. We were soon heading out of Little Stretton, where I lived, and following a narrow, rutted farm track that climbed diagonally up the flank of the Long Mynd itself.

I glanced at Woodnutt out of the corner of her eye: if anything, his angular face looked as relaxed as if he was out on a Sunday morning drive. The track levelled out and we drove through someone’s farm yard, getting a friendly wave from the farmer as we passed through. The handful of farms that dotted the area were all pretty remote and he was the only person that we saw until we arrived at our destination.

I carried on following the track which was becoming increasingly over grown and then, after driving slowly through a small wood we became aware of something up ahead. The Corporal said. “Pull up, if you please, Ma’am.” His tone making it sound almost like an order, which of course it couldn’t be. Corporals don’t tell officers what to do...!

I stopped the Landrover and waited. There was still the hint of smoke rising from behind a ridge about a hundred yards ahead. There was a hedge with a gate across the track and a figure on the other side of it. A figure who was clearly armed.

“I’ll hop out here, if you could pretend to look at a map or something, Ma’am? Give me a minute before you pull forward, go slowly.” Then as he slipped into the back of the Landrover he did give an order. “Whatever happens, neither of you are to get out. Argue with the sentry, anything to buy time but don’t get out of the vehicle or drive through that gate!

“Don’t let anything happen to, Ma’am.” He growled at the airman and then was gone into the early morning mist which clung to the trees in the little wood.

I did as requested and picked up the map that was between the front seats. I peered at it... It was a map of Yorkshire, of all places! Then after about a minute I pulled forward towards God knows what!

I could see that we had attracted the sentry’s full attention as was obvious from the way that the figure’s rifle was no longer slung over their shoulder.

“Okay in the back?” I called to the Airman trying to make my voice sound cheery.

“Ma’am!” He said in a glum sort of voice, this being the first thing I’d heard him say: clearly he wasn’t happy about being dragged out of a warm billet this early in the morning.

I pulled up short of the gate, poked my head out of the door window and looked at the sentry who was wearing normal combat kit. “Everything okay?” I called.

The sentry was a woman and was armed with an SA80 assault rifle that was pointing in my general direction. She didn’t say anything, she just shouldered her rifle

and opened the gate and turned towards me. I noticed that she was wearing sergeant’s chevrons on her chest-tab. There was a lot about the scene that wasn’t right...

“Since when do sergeants stand guard?” The airman muttered from behind me as we were waved forward.

“Sorry, I was just passing... On my way to somewhere else when I saw you.” I said for want of something to say and realised that I was babbling... There was no somewhere else, not around here.

“That’s okay, Ma’am, only we’ve got a badly injured man. Can you pull forward and pick him up, please?” The sentry said, her voice a calm, flat monotone.

“What? Why didn’t you just radio for casevac?” I demanded.

“Coms problems, Ma’am.” The voice was definitely flat and almost robotic.

“Phone then? There’s a good signal up here.” I said arguing as Corporal Woodnutt had ‘requested’.

Suddenly the rifle was off the sergeant’s shoulder and was pointing straight at me. “Get out of the vehicle, NOW!”

Before I could react there was a blur of movement and the sentry was down with Woodnutt standing over her. He picked her up in one easy movement and carried her to the back of the Landrover, dumping her over the tailgate before scrambling in himself.

“I suggest that we get the fuck out of here.” He chuckled happily as he unloaded the sentry’s rifle.

During the drive back, which took a lot less time than the drive out. I grasped the nettle. “You’re not an RAF Corporal, are you, Mister Woodnutt?”

Woodnutt, if that was even his name, sighed. “Not exactly... I don’t suppose it will hurt to tell you, but I’m SRR.”

“Shit!” I muttered. “Sorry I asked!” I mentally kicked myself for not realising that special forces would be involved. But involved in what?

There was a groaning sound from behind me a short while later: this was followed by a shuffling noise.

“Keep still!” Woodnutt snapped. Then in a calm voice to the Airman—“If she tries to get up, shoot her in the leg.”

There was a pause of a minute or two before he spoke again. “Squadron-Leader, I’m going to need your local knowledge for a while longer, I’m afraid.” He said quietly. When we get back to your house we’ll pick up more passengers and then could you drive us to the nearest hospital?”

“That’ll be in Bishops Castle, about twelve miles away,” I answered, no doubt sounding more than slightly puzzled. This promised to be the start of a new phase in my RAF career... I was now a Corporal’s driver! How many other Squadron-Leaders can say that?

“Okay, Ma’am, we have a few minutes; I’ll wait here with the Landrover if you would like to go and get yourself some breakfast. It could be sometime before this is over.” Woodnutt said casually making it sound like a suggestion, which it technically was.

I nodded my thanks and headed into my cottage to grab something to eat... By now I was getting used to being ordered around by a mere corporal.

3. CAT Scan (Wendy).

Bishop’s Castle hospital was new, or at least newish. I brought the Landrover to a halt by the steps and exited while Woodnutt hustled the ‘patient’ out and up into the hospital reception area accompanied by the two armed Airmen. I followed behind with the Wing-Commander who had been my new front seat passenger. He had introduced himself as Dr Maybury, but had said very little else during the journey which he had spent staring out of the side window as a blatant indication that he wasn’t going to say anything.

The female sergeant that we’d snatched from the gate was quiet now, placid even, but then the doctor had injected her with something at Woodnutt’s request.

“You can’t come in here with those guns!” Somebody shouted but we ignore her and hustled the ‘patient’ up to the front desk.

The receptionist looked uneasy: no doubt being confronted by an armed air force party was something that didn’t happen to her everyday. “Y... Yes? C... Can I help you?” She asked rather timidly.

“I’m Wing-Commander Maybury, I phoned half an hour ago.” His face looked determined. “Where’s your CT scanner?”

“CT scanner?” She asked nervously.

“CT scanner, yes, this is an emergency.” Maybury said with exaggerated patience.

“Is this an exercise?” She asked. Her question earning a glare from the Doctor.

While the receptionist hesitated, I looked around and luckily spotted a familiar face: that of Julie Price, my next-door neighbour. I called out to her and she walked over.,

“Hi-ya, Wendy, what’s going on?” She asked in a puzzled voice.

“Julie, we need to use the CT scanner, can you show us the way?” I asked.

Wing-Commander Maybury spun around and saw that I was speaking to a nurse. “Yes, this woman is from the crash scene, she’s been hurt. I need to use the scanner.”

Julie hesitated, then made a decision and set off towards the left-hand corridor. “Okay, follow me, Wendy.”

Luckily there weren’t a great many people around this early as we must have made a strange sight trekking through the hospital corridors on that pleasant summer’s morning.

The CT scanner wasn’t in use when they reached it, this saved a few complications although our presence in the hospital didn’t go unnoticed, which was only to be expected.

Once inside the room one of the Airmen shouldered his SA80 and began working at the scanner’s console and it didn’t take me long to realise that he had to be some sort of medical technician. This was confirmed when he looked over to the Wing Commander. “No probs, Sir, I’m familiar with the scanner: it’s a bog-standard Siemens machine, I’ve used one before.”

Maybury nodded and moved over to the scanner just as things began to happen.

The receptionist, having rapidly recovered from her shock, must have started making phone calls and as a result the door flew open a couple of minutes later and a rather portly middle aged woman burst in.

“What on Earth do you think you’re doing? You can’t just invade my hospital like this!” She snapped.

The Wing Commander looked up from the scanner where he was working alongside the airman. He introduced himself. “I’m Dr Maybury and I have a patient who needs urgent treatment. Hence my commandeering of your facilities.” His voice was mild and I noticed his faint disarming smile.

“You need to go through channels: you can’t just burst in like this!” The woman blustered.

“And you are, Madam?” Corporal Woodnutt enquired from the far side of the room where he was standing holding the patient’s arm.

The woman, ignoring a mere corporal. “Please leave immediately and make a formal request through the proper channels.” She noticed Julie Price and turned towards her. “Nurse Price, what are you doing here?”

Maybury ignored her and turned towards Julie. “Could you introduce your colleague please, nurse?”

“This is Ms Barton, she’s the hospital’s chief executive.” Julie said in a slightly flustered voice, clearly she didn’t like being caught in the middle of the confrontation that was developing between her boss and the RAF.

“Your objections are duly noted, Ms Barton, never the less I am going to use your scanner to examine the sergeant who probably has internal injuries.” Maybury said crisply before nodding to the medical tech who commenced powering up the unit.

Then, after a signal from the doctor, the other armed airman shouldered his rifle and began to undress the ‘patient’.

“Really!” Gasped the Chief Executive who was clearly perplexed by our treatment of the sergeant.

“Pass your rifle to the Squadron Leader.” Woodnutt instructed when he saw that the airman was beginning to struggle as the SA80 kept slipping off his shoulder.

“Weapon loaded!” The airman said brusquely as he handed me his rifle, making sure that the muzzle pointed upwards as he did so.

“Keep it ready!” Woodnutt said crisply, not even trying to disguise the instruction as a request.

I nodded as I checked that the safety catch was on... Corporal Woodnutt, whoever he was, was definitely the one running the show.

Within a minute, the sergeant was naked below the waist and was hoisted up onto the scanner’s table by Woodnutt and the airman.

Without being told to, Julie moved over and began to check that the woman was comfortable and ready for the scan. She straightened limbs and made sure that there was nothing that could get in the way.

At one stage the sergeant grabbed her arm and held on to it. “Julie just patted her hand and said. “It’ll be okay love, I’ll be right here. I won’t leave you.” Her voice calm and reassuring.

The sergeant loosed Julie’s arm but the white pressure marks that she left there took time to fade.

“Was it really necessary for you to man-handle her in such a cavalier fashion?” The hospital’s chief executive demanded. Mainly to remind everyone that she was still here and also very important.

The sergeant’s head seemed to flop over and she stared at Barton for a few seconds. I couldn’t help but notice her expression—it was sort of appraising... Almost as if she was trying to work out the woman’s significance. Suddenly I had an uneasy feeling about things... The woman up on the table was more ‘with-it’ than she wanted us to think.

“Are you sure that she’s still tranquillized?” I muttered.

“She’ll be out for another few hours!” Maybury snapped, clearly not happy to be challenged on a medical point by an engineering officer. Whether it was because I was a woman or because I wasn’t a doctor, I’m not sure but the look that he gave me was a filthy one.

“Might be best if you gave her another shot, doc.” Corporal Woodnutt said in a mild voice. “We’re still not sure just how these things react to drugs.”

It was the corporal’s turn to be glared at. “That’s why I am constantly monitoring the patient!” The Wing-Commander snapped.

There might have been a confrontation if the Medical Technician manning the Scanner’s Console hadn’t chosen that very moment to inform everyone that the machine was on-line and he was ready to commence the scan.

Maybury checked the patient’s pulse and then signalled that it was okay for the tech to begin. He stepped back and slowly, very slowly the platform bearing the half-naked woman slid through the oversized white doughnut that formed the business-end of the device.

Her legs were of no interest and so went through first and rather quickly at that... But when her thighs had almost passed through, the moving platform slowed down to a crawl. When she showed signs of becoming restless, Woodnutt moved across the room like lightening and pointed his pistol at her head.

“We don’t actually need you to be alive for this procedure, in fact it would be easier if you weren’t.” The corporal said coldly. The sergeant froze and then slowly relaxed: her face an expressionless mask.

When the woman’s belly-button entered the doughnut Maybury instructed the technician to stop. “Can you do a second scan in the opposite direction?”

The technician nodded. “Not a problem, Sir.”

The Wing-Commander gestured to the other airman. “Help me roll her onto her left-hand side.”

This done, they both stepped back and the new scan was carried out.

A few minutes later we were all able to relax, the sergeant was helped down off the scanner platform and wrapped up in a pale blue towelling dressing gown that nurse Julie Price had got from somewhere.

“Shouldn’t be too long before we get some images.” The technician said indicating a large wall monitor. “This is an old set-up so it’ll take its time processing the data. But we should get some half decent pictures all the same. The first ones will be cross sections: good internal shots will take the computer longer to come up with.”

One by one a series of blurry grey mosaics appeared on the big screen. Maybury dismissed most after a glance. Okay, okay, so they weren’t that blurry... They just looked it to me. I don’t know what I had been expecting... Some sort of highly detailed textbook view of her internal organs in full colour perhaps? But whatever it was, the seemingly random collection of grey-shaded lumps and blobs hadn’t been it.

Section after section flashed onto the screen until Maybury suddenly said. “Stop... Hold this one.”

We all clustered around the screen, all except Woodnutt who never moved away from the prisoner, nor did he seem to take his eyes off her.

“I can see they’re her ovaries...” The medic not operating the system said in a bemused voice. “But I’m damned if I can see anything wrong.”

Ovaries??? All I could see were yet more of the assorted grey blobs. Oh, I could now make out the bones of her pelvis that framed the image... Her spine too, where the scan cut through it... The bone was denser than flesh and so it showed up as well-defined pale grey shapes. But ovaries? I couldn’t make them out in the jumble of blobs that nestled inside the frame of bone.

“Take a good look!” Maybury snapped and pointed at a pair of dark grey miss shaped ovals.

“Ah!” Mused the technician. “I see what you mean, Sir.”

I was damned if I could but this was the first time I’d seen a CT scan up close and personal.

Luckily the hospital’s chief executive came to my rescue for she was peering at the image along with the rest of us: her curiosity having overcome her officious hostility... “Yes, I see what you mean, Doctor, they’re smaller than what I would have expected and the wrong shape too.”

The Wing-Commander nodded. “Yes, they’ve been modified.”

“But how and who by?” Ms Barton asked.

“Even more important is ‘why?’” Woodnutt mused from over where he was guarding the source of all our interest.

“Okay, tag this image and then carry on running through the sections.” Maybury ordered.

The next two showed more or less the same thing as the one that had attracted his interest: ovaries and all and it was now that I realised that we were being shown a sequence of sections or slices of the woman’s body. Each one lower down than its predecessor.

Six later and Maybury snapped. “Stop!” Once again. He leaned in closer to the screen and frowned. “They’re missing!” He muttered.

He wasn’t the only one who frowned... I did too. Just what were missing? I shrugged and waited for someone to enlighten me and luckily, I didn’t have long to wait...

“Her fallopian tubes!” The medical technician squawked.

“She hasn’t got any!” Ms Barton proclaimed.

“”Not even a hint of any on this or the previous few scans...” Julie Price mused.

“They’ve been removed.” Barton said.

“Or more likely been absorbed because there’s no sign of surgery.” Maybury concluded before adding. “And did any of you notice that her ovaries have been lengthened and are now shaped like a couple of miniature bananas?”

The slideshow recommenced and soon a grey mass was occupying the centre of each one: a shape that became progressively larger section by section. “Is that her womb?” I asked, no doubt sounding as bemused as I felt.

My friend Julie nodded. “Her uterus, yes... At least that’s still there!”

The scans carried on until Maybury stopped them again.

I peered at the screen... Part of the wall of her uterus was thickened and was a paler grey than the rest of it—grainy too.

“I want a surface view of that thing from the inside.” The doctor barked at the man operating the machine’s console. “Can you produce one?”

The technician nodded. “I can... Well I think I can... But it’ll take a few minutes.” He bent over the keyboard and began inputting commands while the small screen up at his eye level showed a series of dynamic twisting and turning views as he combined and rotated a series of images.

We waited, time crawled and gloom seemed to overwhelm me. What had they done to the sergeant’s body? Who had done it and why? The latter was the most distressing. Why had it been done? For it was obvious to me that her reproductive organs had been reshaped to serve some dark and sinister purpose: but whatever that purpose was, it was a mystery to me and I suspect also to everyone else who was present in that room.

Suddenly the screen blanked and a new image took the place of the section. A grey patch of tissue which the technician informed us was the lining of her womb. We all stared at it. Or to be more accurate, we were all staring at the intricate grey-shaded pattern that seemed to be embossed on to it.

“My God!” Corporal Woodnutt exclaimed. “It must be several inches long! It looks like a giant...”

“Grammasow!” I hissed. “A gert big grammasow!”

“A what?” Maybury demanded in a bemused voice.

“Grammasow—it’s a Cornish word for a woodlouse.” I said quietly for up there on the screen was the first thing that I had been able to recognise since the series of projected body scans had begun. Embedded in the lining of the woman’s womb was the clear outline of a giant woodlouse... Flattened... Spread-out... Slightly curved... But a bloody big woodlouse non-the-less!

“What the fuck...?” The Airman operating the scanned muttered. “It can’t be...”

“It is,” Maybury said quietly, “or at least it looks like one!”

He began to peer at the screen and I stepped forward to try and make out: I was intrigued: disgusted, but intrigued non-the-less.

He traced something with his finger but didn’t say anything other than. “Hmm!”

I kept on looking and suddenly I made out a series of very faint lines... Almost invisible threads that seemed to be growing out of the grammasow and into the surrounding tissue of the womb. Threads like some obscene parody of a root system.

“What are they?” I asked, not expecting a reply.

Maybury licked his lips. “Oh, nerve fibres... Blood vessels... Quite a network too. I should imagine that there’ll be far more when we scan her tomorrow. The thing needs oxygen and nutrients after all: hence some of them have got to be blood vessels.”

He paused and frowned again. “Nerve fibres too: the thing is clearly controlling her behaviour.” Suddenly his gaze shifted to the arse-end of the parasite. “But that’s neither!”

Once again it took me several seconds to make out what he was looking at. “It’s a bit like a tube...”

“A tube connecting the creature to God knows what!” He mused.

“What is it, Sir? Something to take its excretions away?” I suggested.

He considered what I had said, chewing his lip as he did so. “No, I don’t think so, Squadron-Leader... That thing won’t be producing any solid waste—it’s getting its food directly from the hosts bloodstream—it’ll dump its waste there too.

Good suggestion, though.” He added thoughtfully.

Suddenly his face lit up. “Got it! It’s a reproductive structure... That thing’s got to be able to breed, after all! It must be an ovipositor... A tube for carrying away its eggs I bet it leads to her vagina.”

Suddenly I felt very sick.

4. Recessional (Julie Price).

5. Awakening (Wendy).

I suppose that it was my own fault: I’d been out of the RAF for too long and had got

myself into a civilian mindset. There is one major difference between life in the services and civilian life: the latter takes place in a state of cushioned, risk averse safety. While life in the services is one of calculated risk... Okay, so it is measured and controlled risk but it is risk non-the-less. Risk is something that civvies just don’t understand.

Don’t get me wrong, life in the modern RAF, Army or Navy is a hell of a lot safer than it used to be but it isn’t the pampered existence experienced by the average British civilian. When you are in the services you are to some extent living on the edge: putting on the uniform is no guarantee that you are going to live through the experience—something that the average twenty-first century Brit is incapable of understanding. They have been brought up to think that they have a right to be safe... But rights are meaningless without responsibility and it becomes someone else’s responsibility to guarantee Joe-Public’s safety and comfort. And that ‘someone’ is the serviceman or woman.

Civilians do not think in the same way as service personnel do... They’re lucky, they don’t have too! When confronted by a threat the civilian instinctively expects someone else to deal with it... That someone else invariably being a member of the services.

It was this way of thinking that caused my friend Julie to get clobbered by her patient’s flying foot and myself to be felled by a flying chair.

I had been an Air Force officer once upon a time... But now, even though I had donned the uniform once again, it was still a Primary School teacher that was wearing it. I’d lost the mind-set: I’d ceased to be the Squadron-Leader that I once was and had turned into something that was essentially all pink and cuddly: something that belonged in front of a class of eight year-olds and was no longer someone capable of combatting unexpected lethal threats.

So here I was huddled underneath a canvass awning and guarded by members of the service to which I notionally belonged. Oh they respectfully called me ‘Ma’am’ and clearly had my safety and well-being at heart... It was just that they weren’t going to allow me to leave.

They weren’t alone either, there was another presence here: something that had no doubt been travelling in the ship when it crashed. And yes, ‘ship’ was the best term to describe the couple of hundred feet of metal, ceramic and polymer that had crash-landed on the flank of the Long Mynd less than twenty-four hours earlier. I had seen a couple of the elf-like beings and strongly suspected that they were not from around here. Oh, they looked human(ish) alright, or at least they did if you ignored the fact that they lacked a nose... This feature, or lack of it, brought an old joke to mind... A joke that had probably not been funny when it was first written down, printed and placed inside a Christmas Cracker...

-They don’t have a nose! How do they smell?

-Awful!

Actually they didn’t—they smelled slightly musky: spicy even. Their natural scent reminding me of a warm pussy, much to my surprise. The one that gazed down at where I was sitting actually smiled.

“Hi, there.” I said: my behaviour after-capture training kicking in. I knew that I had to convince her that I wasn’t a threat—my very survival may well depend upon just that.

She turned away and spoke to the sergeant who was responsible for me being here. “We need to leave this place of death. It won’t be long before the humans descend on us in force.”

The sergeant nodded. “A couple of the girls have found an isolated farm a couple of miles away.”

The Elf nodded, a strangely human gesture, but like the smile it was probably one that she had learned as an aid to communication. “Make sure that everyone is ready to move out as quickly as possible.”

She looked back at me and smiled again. “You may implant her—it will only take a few minutes.”

The sergeant grinned. “And the nurse, too?”

“No!” The Elf replied.

“No?” The sergeant asked, querying the order.

“No, we have a a better use for her. Medicate her and bring her along.” And then she was gone.

The sergeant smiled down at me. “Sorry about all of this, Ma’am.”

“What the hell’s going on? Why are you working with... Her?” I demanded as forcefully as I could.

She just smiled again. “It must be very confusing for you, Ma’am, but don’t worry. Everything will begin to make sense in a few minutes.”

I sincerely doubted that but didn’t say so for I had noticed another Airwoman approaching from the direction of the wrecked ship. She was carrying some sort of plastic container that looked a bit like a fish tank only it didn’t have any fish in it, although something large, yellow-brown and mottled could be seen scuttling around inside it.

“Oh my God!” I yelled. “Get that... thing... away from me!” For even at a distance I could see that the Airwoman was carrying something living inside the tank.

“I like you, Ma’am, so would love you to be able to take one that I’m going to produce but sadly we can’t wait for them to grow-up. We really need a rider to take you now.” The sergeant said as she pointed her rifle at me. “Undress please, Ma’am... Just below the waist will be fine. Undress and kneel down.”

I looked at her and then at the rifle. Would she shoot me? Somehow I didn’t intend to find out... I was just just a school teacher these days: remember? Any thoughts of being a hero were long gone.

Within a few seconds I was naked from the waist down and on my knees with much more of my delicate pink skin on display than I was comfortable with. Suddenly a couple of the Airwomen seized me and forced me back so that I was sitting on my heels with my knees apart, my pussy only inches above the short grass.

The sergeant smiled and then, without taking her eyes off me, gently tipped the thing out of the tank and onto the ground a short distance away from my secret place.

It was then that I saw it clearly for the first time: I stared down at the giant grammasow and it stared back up at me, or rather seemed too. A mottled yellow-brown and about ten centimetres long, it was bigger than any woodlouse had a right to be. It seemed to regard me for a few moments until, feelers twitching, it scuttled forwards on myriad of tiny legs until it was on the grass less than an inch from somewhere that I really wished it wasn’t

Hesitantly, it extended one of its antennae, one of its feelers, which brushed against my naked skin.

“Don’t be afraid,” the sergeant said, “it’s just tasting you.”

Suddenly the other antenna flicked forward and brushed against my clit causing a burst of sensation that I wasn’t expecting. I gasped and the sergeant chuckled. “It really likes you, Wendy.” She said using my given name for the first time.

I tore my eyes away from the monstrous creature and glared at the NCO. “Get that fucking thing away from me!” I shouted.

Suddenly there was a load cracking sound from somewhere in front of me and I stared at the creature once more... It was perfectly still now but there was a crack running the length of its back. A crack through which a mass of pale-pink flesh was visible.

Is it injured? Has something killed it? I wondered in hope.

But no! Despite my prayers to the contrary, the creature was still very much alive. Suddenly it seemed to twitch and writhe, the crack widening as it did so. Slowly, a mass of flesh seemed to hump-up out of the gash as the thing shed its outer case. The head made an odd sucking noise as it seemed to ‘un-plug’ itself out of the shell before rearing up like some sort of fat, segmented pink grub.

It moved like a grub too as it slithered forward all wet and slimy until the head made contact with my body in a place where I really wished that it couldn’t. It pressed against me and despite my scream of terror, forced itself into my pussy, pressing against my clit as it went.

The grammasow was inside me now... I could feel it crawling up through my vagina until it was pressing against my cervix. Suddenly I felt a stab of pain as it oozed up into my womb and I slumped down onto the ground no longer supported by the two women who had prevented my escape. I felt tired... So tired... It had been a long day and all I wanted to do was sleep and forget.

Suddenly I was aware that the sergeant was kneeling next to me... She gathered me up in her arms and kissed my unresisting mouth. “It’ll be over soon, my darling,” she cooed, “don’t try to fight it... Everything will make sense now that you have a partner—a rider all of your very own.”

This was the last thing that I remember for quite some time... Oh, there were odd snatches like being helped into the back of one of the RAF Landrovers that were up by the crashed plane. I remember being gently lowered onto a pile of rolled-up sleeping bags and left there next to Julie who was out cold.

I guess that I must have dozed for sometime as I remember someone shaking me and handing me a plate of stew, or something... This was followed by a mug of something hot. Much later when the vehicle started up, I was rocked, bounced and jounced around as it was driven for some distance along a bumpy track. The rocking motion was oddly comforting and seemed to send me back to sleep.

I awoke with a start as a sharp pain stabbed deep inside my lower abdomen. I gasped and sat up no doubt shocked by the sudden intensity of it. Ah! I remember thinking. Nothing to worry about, its just my rider making herself comfortable in my womb.

I thought about my rider, my new loving partner, and to me she is a ‘her’ even though I would later learn that she was in fact both... She didn’t really have a mind and couldn’t talk, not buried away deep inside my living flesh like she was: but she still managed to calm me down and the stabs of pain gradually subsided and turned into a warm comforting glow. A glow that was almost like low-level arousal.

I glanced over the tail-gate and could see that we were being followed by two similar vehicles. Dreamily I remembered the events of last night... The visitors’ ship, clearly in trouble as it snarled and coughed its way through the evening sky... The crash... The small RAF Regiment convoy that headed off to the scene...

I remembered catching a glimpse of the armed men and women peering out of the backs of the Landrovers and the four-tonner that made up that convoy. Then I recalled the fire-fight that I’d heard... The crack of the SA-80’s the dull, slower thump of something else echoing back from the crash site... I knew then what had happened to the male troopers who had been in those vehicles.

They would have approached the downed visitor’s ship probably not expecting to find any survivors and definitely not expecting to be fired on by four heavily armed Elves.

The males would have died there and then—oh, and yes I did experience a pang of remorse. I was an RAF officer, all said and done, and those had been Air Force personnel who had died out on the hillside just as night was falling.

Sad... So sad... I thought, and yes I was sad even though they were males and therefore irrelevant to the needs of our Elven sisters and our new, loving riders. If only they hadn’t posed a threat they wouldn’t have been terminated like that. The Elves were only defending themselves after all... It wasn’t them who had instituted hostilities... If the army hadn’t damaged the ship as it flew over the British Isles then none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t have been chosen to be partnered by a wonderful rider.

A Merlin helicopter chattered overhead, the racket it made snapping me out of my reverie. I glanced at my watch: it was still only a little after ten in the morning. I wondered where the helicopter had come from; not that it mattered any more. The only thing that did was the survival of my sisters, my rider and myself.

I rolled over and checked Julie who was still out cold. Poor Julie! She was all alone and had not yet not been taken by a rider. The Elves had something special in mind for her, but I hoped that she would be able to carry a partner soon: I would hate for her to be deprived of the comforting experience of feeling one nestling in her womb. Still, I knew that they were in short supply and would be until us carriers could mate with each other and produce our own. Maybe Julie could be taken by one of mine? By one nurtured in my womb. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Julie ridden by a daughter of my rider! I sighed contentedly but realised that it wasn’t feasible as it would be ages yet before any locally produced daughters were mature enough to ride human women.

Another Merlin yammered its way overhead and I realised just how close we had been to being captured or killed by my former comrades... We couldn’t have made a stand... We were too few for that and I doubt if the Elves would have permitted us or themselves to be captured for examination.

We weren’t safe yet and wouldn’t be until we could vanish into the general population and established nests somewhere... One nest would lead to others until eventually we would spread across the face of the Earth like our sisters, the Elves, had across the firmament of stars. Like them we needed to disperse in order to survive.

Suddenly there was a bright flash as the air was rent by a loud and powerful explosion that echoed back and forth around the hills. I sat up and saw a column of smoke rising and flattening out into a mushroom cloud. The Elves had detonated the engines of their wrecked ship. Of the Merlin helicopter there was no trace.

6. MoD Main building, Whitehall (Diana).

It was shortly after nine in the morning and I was at work in the Minister’s office up on the sixth floor of the MoD main building in Whitehall, London. The sixth floor providing accommodation for Ministers, the Chiefs of Staff and a host of other senior officers, civilian as well as military. This essentially being the place from which Britain’s armed forces were controlled.

I’m Diana Short by the way: Private Secretary to the Right Honourable Donald MacIntyre MP, an Under Secretary of State based here at the MoD. Although we both have the word ‘secretary’ in our job title, mine means that I am a Civil Servant while MacIntyre’s identifies him as a Government Minister. The Minister’s office was not large and the five of us gathered for the meeting made it seem crowded.

It was a small meeting, as Government meetings go and this was because the agenda was short, in fact there was just one item: the UAP crash in Shropshire. Perhaps a course of action would emerge from the meeting, perhaps not but that was not the purpose of the gathering. The main reason for the main reason for us all being there was to bring the Minister up to date on current developments.

“Right,” the Under Secretary said brusquely, “the story that the two Tornados collided has more or less been accepted by the press and the general public but there are a lot of rumours flying around regarding the crash in Shropshire that happened shortly afterwards. That and the explosion and the loss of the two Merlin helicopters.”

Ginnie Davies, one of the MoD’s senior Press Officers, looked up and gave him a thin-lipped smile. “I wouldn’t worry about the rumours, if I were you, Minister. It’s just the UFO community having a melt-down... They always go into conspiracy mode when anything remotely out of the ordinary happens aviation-wise.”

MacIntyre nodded but the CAS looked dubious. “Some of the stuff that is floating around on the internet is pretty close to the knuckle.”

Davies shrugged. “Perhaps we should launch a disinformation campaign? You know, flood the internet with a mixture of truths, half-truths and drivel... It’s a fairly standard tactic in cases like this.”

MacIntyre had only been in-post for three weeks when the UAP had downed the typhoons and so was new to the way things worked here in the MoD. I noticed that the Press Officer was explaining things as she went and so was grateful as a confused Minister can be difficult to handle.

MacIntyre thought for a moment. “If you’re not worried then we’ll save that tactic until you are.” He turned to the CAS. “Sir David... We are sure a hundred per cent that the Typhoons were brought down deliberately?”

Air Chief Marshal Sir David Falkner hesitated for a moment. “Completely sure?... No, Minister, it may have been any number of things. One of their systems may have interfered with the Typhoons’ avionics... The Army reported that their Apache encountered something like that as it approached the craft but, being far slower than a fighter jet, they were able to pull back before any fatal damage was done. The crew concluded that they were under attack so retaliated as per the current rules of engagement.”

The Under Secretary, who had spent all of his previously ministerial career as a junior member of the Whips Office, frowned.

“’Rules of Engagement’, Minister: this covers the circumstances and situations during which the aircrew can engage a target... At the moment it is strictly self-defence: in other words only when they believe their aircraft to be under direct attack.” The CAS explained patiently.

“Ah! And they thought that they were under attack...” MacIntyre smiled. “Thank you, Sir David.”

The CAS wasn’t finished. “The craft may already have been damaged... We are getting unofficial enquiries from the Russians as to whether one of our aircraft ‘inadvertently’ crossed their airspace just prior to the interception. The Americans have received a similar enquiry.”

“Unofficial?” The Minister asked.

“Oh yes, ‘unofficial’. This is how we iron out difficulties and prevent incidents from escalating. They also informed us that they had engaged it after it had brought down one of their MiGs and we confirmed that we had brought it down.” The Air Marshal said.

The Minister gave the CAS a piercing glare. “Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier?”

“The exchange of information was only concluded just over an hour ago, Minister.” The CAS said quietly.

“Ah!” Donald MacIntyre said before turning to the Chief Scientific Advisor, who was also present. “What can you tell me about the crash site, Dr Patel?”

“Well the two Typhoons came down over the North Yorkshire moors, luckily the wreckage didn’t hit anyone or anything. It is being recovered to Farnborough where it will be examined.” The Chief Scientific Advisor said quietly.

“No, I meant the crash site in Shropshire where the craft itself had come down.” The Minister said somewhat irritably, although I could not tell whether he was annoyed by Ramesh Patel’s answer or by his own failure to phrase the question more accurately.

The CSA nodded. “Well that craft is considerably bigger than a typhoon and so preliminary studies are being carried out in situ. We’ve erected a temporary structure over it and work is proceeding. The site is isolated and the Army has the area sealed off.”

“What have we learned so far?” The Minister asked.

There was a pause during which the Chief Scientific Advisor and the Chief of Air Staff exchanged glances, then the Air Force officer began. “The craft had received damaged, some from the crash landing but mostly from the explosion that occurred some hours later...”

David MacIntyre interrupted him. “Was the explosion a result from damage suffered during the crash or was it a deliberate act by surviving crew members?”

The Air Chief Marshal hesitated. “There is an indication that it was a deliberate act that was intended to destroy at least the propulsion system and so keep it out of our hands.”

The Minister nodded. He would have liked to ask the Chief Scientific Advisor if he agreed but that would have been unprofessional. Instead he changed the subject. “So the two Merlin helicopters were caught in the blast?”

The Air Force officer nodded. “One on the ground and one in the air... We lost some key people in the latter one... The doctor, Wing Commander Maybury and Sergeant-Major Woodnutt, the operator from the SRR... They were the closest thing to experts on the craft’s occupants that we had.

“There were other casualties too, mainly the RAF Regiment personnel who were first on the seen: as far as we can tell by the bodies, the male members of the platoon all died in a fire-fight... or at least they had been shot.”

“By whom?” I asked when it looked as if the Minister had neglected to enquire.

The Chief of Air Staff seemed to stare into space for several seconds—the answer that he was about to give being painful. “It... It would appear from the postmortem results that some were killed by a weapon of 8.67mm calibre which is unknown to us... As far as we know nobody has ever produced anything remotely like it. The rest were killed by 5.56mm NATO standard rounds that appear to have been manufactured in the UK and might possibly have been fired by SA80’s.”

“What are you saying?” The Minister almost shouted. “Are you saying that they shot each other?”

“I am afraid that I cannot rule that out, Minister.” The senior officer said quietly. “About three quarters of the platoon were males and all of their bodies have been identified. There were no females amongst the dead.”

“What?” The Minister demanded. “Are you claiming that the women joined the craft’s occupants and helped them kill their male colleagues?”

“That’s... one possibility.” The Chief of the Air Staff said in a sad, heavy voice.

MacIntyre thumped the table. “But that’s preposterous!”

“Never the less it cannot be ruled out.” Air Chief Marshal Sir David Falkner said very quietly. “Painful though it is.”

There was silence for the next few seconds until the Chief Scientific Advisor came to the CAS’s aid. “Minister, there is the CAT scan that Dr Maybury had done during his examination of Sergeant Rosie Lowe. We have the results of the scans that were carried out and additional information provided by the Chief executive of the Bishops Castle Hospital and the two Airmen who were present when the scans were done... One of whom was a Medical Technician.”

“Yes, yes.” The Minister snapped. “I’ve read the reports about how she had some sort of parasite growing in her womb.” He paused and the colour drained from his face. “D’you think that it was controlling her?”

Patel nodded. “That would be a conclusion we might draw, Minister, especially when her behaviour is taken into account. Maybury sedated her heavily yet she was still able to disarm the sentry and escape, kidnapping the nurse and Squadron-Leader Pascoe, taking them both with her at gun-point.”

“But not the RAF sentry?” The Minister mused.

“He was male, Minister. It seems that they are only interested in women.” The scientist replied stiffly.

The Minister frowned in the way that he always did when he didn’t quite understand something, which if I am honest was quite often. “O-kay,” he said slowly, “and who are they? Just which country do we suspect launched this craft? Have you been able to come to any sort of conclusion regarding its origin?”

The Chief Scientific Advisor stiffened. “We... Have... But it’s only a very tentative conclusion, Minister.”

“Well out with it, man, where is that damned thing from?” The Minister demanded.

“A preliminary examination of both the remaining infrastructure, the systems and the surviving content lead us to believe that who ever built the craft is not from around here.” Dr Ramesh Patel answered very quietly.

“Well if it isn’t from Europe where then?” MacIntyre demanded.

The Minister did not understand, but I did. I looked across at the Chief Scientific advisor who was looking sheepish and took pity on him. “Dr Patel, are you saying that the craft is probably extraterrestrial in origin?”

There was silence for a moment before he answered very quietly. “That is what we have been forced to conclude.”

7. One week later (Rosie).

8. About another week later (Julie).