Freeze Frames

The night lies misty over Salisbury plain. Every now and then the moon breaks free of scudding clouds and gleams on the fields that lie either side the road up from Bournemouth. Already the sleek grey limousine has glided through the edge of New Forest. When it sped along the by-pass around Salisbury, the driver, Sergeant Potter, saw a glimpse of the cathedral spire under the moon as the road turned. Whether his important passengers in the back seat, invisible behind smoked glass, saw the spire or even cared he does not know. They have left the ruins of Roman Sarum behind, too, and now run free through farmland, rolling over the downs. Here the road runs past Bronze Age tumuli and the barely visible scars left by cursi and avenues, but Potter knows little and cares less about the Bronze Age or the Romans either. To him Salisbury Plain means what's left of Britain's army, the artillery ranges and the infantry base, the airfield that shelters the new StarHarriers.

Although Potter of course knows where they are going, he hasn't the slightest idea of why, in the middle of the night, he is driving the prime minister, two generals, and the Duke of Kent to Stonehenge. The only logical reason he can come up with is that the entire government has gone daft, but he would prefer to think otherwise.

At the crossroad, as he turns right and heads down the last slope, Potter can see the ancient stones, standing behind their new plastiwire barrier, which shimmers and gleams in the moon-shot mist. Not far from the circle, across the access road and just past the refreshment kiosks and souvenir shops, stands a pale structure. In the moonlight it seems to be made of several tea tents clustered together. Potter wonders if he's the one going mad. Behind him, a tap on the glass -- the general's aide-de-camp slides open the communication panel.

"Just pull into the regular lot, sergeant," the lieutenant says. "Down at the far end."

"Very good, sir."

Potter pulls into the last space at the end of the asphalt strip, then slides out of the car to open doors. Out of the circling ditch materialize sentries in field uniform, rifles at the ready. The lieutenant barks a hasty password. The sentries nod, one salutes, they stand waiting while the generals and the Duke get out. The prime minister needs a little help; Potter smells brandy hanging about him like perfume.

"Wait with the car," the lieutenant says

"Yes sir."

His cargo delivered, Potter leans against the bonnet and watches the Important People clamber down the side of the wet ditch, re-emerge safely on the other side, and hurry toward the collection of tea tents with two of the sentries trailing behind. This close Potter can see that yes, tea-tents are exactly what they are, pink and white striped pavilions, lit from within -- a cool white light very different than the usual field lanterns and electric torches. The last sentry clambers out of the ditch and strolls over to help him guard the limousine. Potter jerks a thumb at the tents.

"Wotthehell?"

The sentry shrugs. Since clouds have darkened the moon, Potter cannot get a good look at his face, but when the man speaks, his voice shakes badly.

"They called us out of barracks to put the bloody things up," the sentry says. "Emergency, they told us. Only thing they could find were bloody tea tents. Ours weren't big enough, they said. Hurry it up, lads. Then they hauled something in on a couple of lorries. Something big. Looked like a tank, maybe, wrapped in canvas. A couple of squads put up another tent around it. To hide it, like, before the wraps came off."

"Missiles? Something the sodding 'Merrkans don't want us to have?"

The sentry shakes his head no. Potter waits.

"After they had it stowed," the sentry says in a moment, "The captain sends me up there with a message from Field Command to the colonel in charge. He was inside, you see, the colonel. So I handed it over at the door." He falls silent.

"Well now, here, if you're under orders to keep your mouth shut -- "

The sentry shakes his head again. Overhead the moon breaks free and floods them with silver light. Even though he's a veteran of the Pakistani Border wars, Potter has never seen a man so terrified as the sentry is now.

"There's these creatures in there," the sentry says. "With wings. Wearing clothes. Aliens, they must be, from outer space."

Potter would like to laugh, but he restrains himself in the interests of morale.

"Uh, now here, you've had a few, have you? It's cold out here, can't say I blame you, and it's none of my job to report it, anyway."

The sentry laughs, an unpleasant giggle like a teen-aged girl's.

"I'm not drunk, and I'm not joking." The sentry's voice turns hard with near-rage. "I saw these things, I tell you, a couple of meters tall, they were, and they had wings. Blue and green wings. And they were walking back and forth and talking to the colonel."