LETHBRIDGE-

STEWART
THE RUNAWAY BOMB

Based on the BBC television serials by

Mervyn Haisman & Henry Lincoln

Nick Walters
CANDY JAR BOOKS • CARDIFF
A Russell & Frankham-Allen Series
2017
 The right of Nick Walters to be identified as the
Author of the Work has been asserted by him in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988.

Copyright © Nick Walters 2017

Characters and Concepts from ‘The Web of Fear’

© Hannah Haisman & Henry Lincoln
Lethbridge-Stewart: The Series © Andy
Frankham-Allen
& Shaun Russell 2015, 2017

Doctor Who is © British Broadcasting Corporation,

1963, 2017.

Range Editor Andy Frankham-Allen

Editor: Shaun Russell Licensed by Hannah
Haisman Cover by Richard Young

Published by Candy Jar Books Mackintosh House

 136 Newport Road, Cardiff, CF24 1DJ
www.candyjarbooks.co.uk

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted at any
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prior permission of the copyright holder. This
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without the publisher’s prior consent in any form
of binding or cover other than that in which it is
published.
N ot for the first time that day,
Sergeant Richard Bell, formerly of
the Royal Corps of Signals, currently
on caretaker duty at Hope Cove in
deepest Devon, wished he was back in
the Bunker, counting the chairs in the
conference room or slowly drifting
into sleep in the soporific glow of the
monitor screens. But he wasn’t. He
was in the depths of a damp forest in
darkest Wales, lugging heavy
equipment, struggling to keep up
with the rest of the team. Snowdonia,
he thought, panting with exertion.
Always thought, rather irrationally
given the time of year, that the place
would be covered in snow, but, no.
Just seemingly endless shoulders of
mountains and ferny forests. Though
it was still summer, just, it had been
raining for days, only stopping that
morning, and the place felt tropical,
sticky and hot. Bell grimaced,
adjusting the shoulder straps. Didn’t
help. Still hurt. Taking a deep breath,
he thrust through yet another clump
of soggy ferns. Ahead and to his left,
2nd Lieutenant William Bishop
prowled (there was no other word for
it), alert, submachine gun at the
ready, eyes scanning the terrain
ahead. Ahead and to Bell’s right,
Corporal Jason ‘Stabber’ Stevens
advanced, mirroring his comrade’s
pose. Corporal Stevens. The nutter.
Bell tried not to think about how,
back in June, the man had tied him to
that chair in the Bunker. After all,
they were on the same side now.
Bell turned his attention back to
the task in hand. The two other
soldiers were fitter than him, but that
wasn’t the only reason he was lagging
behind. Instead of a weapon, he was
carrying a large metal box of
electronics across his chest, strapped
around his shoulders and fastened
around his waist. Bulky and
uncomfortable, yet vital to their
mission. As it was of his own design
he only had himself to blame for its
uncomfortableness. If only he’d
thought to put some padding on. But
it had been a rush job. The box gave
an almost inaudible beep and Bell
came to a halt. Glancing down, he saw
a glowing green dot appear at the
furthest edge of the gridded circular
screen that dominated the upper end
of the device. Dropping to his knees,
bell cupped his hand to his mouth and
made the low, eldritch sound of an
owl hoot.
Bishop and Stevens immediately
dropped into crouching positions,
submachine guns cocked.
Bell shuffled forward on his knees
towards Bishop. Sweat trickled down
the back of his neck.
‘Fifty yards ahead NNW,’ he
whispered into Bishop’s ear. He
consulted the scanner again. ‘Power
signal low, so it’s probably lying
dormant.’
Stevens had silently moved to join
them. ‘What’s the plan?’
Bishop kept his voice low. ‘We fan
out, slowly, silently, and close in.
Absolute silence – the damn thing’s
sensors are highly sensitive, even in
dormant mode. Once we’re near
enough, Stevens and I will provide
cover while you do your thing.’
Bell swallowed. Despite the heat,
his throat was dry. He nodded.
Bishop nodded back, then pointed
with his thumb. Bell moved off in the
direction of the signal source. Stevens
had already slipped quietly away and
was circling round, his khaki-clad
form shifting through the sunlight-
dappled ferns and trunks like a
predator. Bell didn’t have the benefit
of his training so he moved as
delicately as he could, peering ahead
through the foliage.
Forty yards. Thirty-eight.
Bell was sweating freely now, and
he could feel his heart thudding in his
chest, through his uniform against
the hard casing of the scanning
device. He glanced down; the green
dot, although nearer now, had,
reassuringly, not moved. Bell hoped
the thing was a deep sleeper.
Thirty yards. Bishop and Stevens
had paused, and were looking back at
him. He gave the thumbs-up and they
moved on.
Twenty yards. Fifteen. Again, a
pause and exchange of signals. The
thing was still sleeping. Sweet
dreams, Bell wished it.
Ten yards. They were almost on
top of it, but all that
could be seen up ahead was a thick
dome of some sort of bush or other.
Bell was no naturalist. Holly? Ivy? It
looked the perfect place for
something to hide. Bell shivered. He
tried to see into, see through, the
mess of dark, waxy leaves. Was that a
glimpse of something metallic? Or an
illusion?
Bishop was to his left, five yards,
Stevens the same distance off to his
right. Bishop signalled a halt.
The three of them halted.
Bell’s finger hovered over the
deactivation switch on the scanning
device, and looked expectantly at
Bishop.
 ‘Kill it,’ mouthed the lieutenant.
Bell eagerly flicked the switch.
The green dot remained. The thing
was still alive. Dormant, but still
alive!
‘Not close enough,’ Bell whispered
hoarsely. His mind spun. Ten yards
was well within the effective range!
That’s what he’d engineered. In the
field, though? Perhaps he had to be
nearer!
Bishop signalled, Bell moved
forwards – and stepped on the only
dry twig in the entire forest.
In the arboreal silence, the sound
possessed the resonance of a whip-
crack or a gunshot.
Bell grimaced and froze. They all
did. Nothing in the forest stirred.
Bell glanced at Stevens. The man’s
face was a mask of tension, sweat on
his brow, eyes like shining wet
marbles. He looked at Bishop. Bishop
gave a nod.
Bell advanced until he was almost
right on top of the foliage, and
glanced down at the device. Seven
yards. Was it enough? He flicked the
deactivator again.
Still the dot glowed defiantly.
Then from within the bush came a
metallic ping, followed immediately
by the choking growl of motors
waking up. Something shifted.
Something massive.
A scream – not of horror – but a
battle-cry. Stevens! Then a rattle of
machine gun fire as Stevens loosed
off into the bush.
‘Stevens, you fool!’ Bishop roared
over the pinging of ricocheting
bullets.
Bell screamed as something huge
and metallic heaved itself out of the
foliage and bore down upon him.

It had all begun so innocuously, with

a plain brown envelope.
It had dropped through the
letterbox of the front door to Bell’s
Lewisham flat a week previously,
during a period of leave from his
duties at Hope Cove Bunker. Opening
it over tea, toast and marmalade, Bell
found it contained a single sheet of
notepaper, upon which was typed:

Urgent. Recruiting for top

 secret mission. Your talents
required.
Report to Chelsea Barracks
04/09/69,
0930 prompt.

It was signed Brigadier Alistair

Lethbridge-Stewart. Bell dropped his
toast into his lap, marmalade
sidedown. Cursing, he retrieved it, as
memories crowded in.
That day in the Bunker when
Lethbridge-Stewart (a colonel then)
and his team had burst in, disrupting
his routine. That madman Stevens
with his bald head and terrifying eyes.
Their insane plan to take on the
nuclear recycling company, Dominex.
He took a bite of toast, a sip of tea.
They’d left him tied to that chair in
the conference room for God knew
how long, but he’d eventually been
freed by some regulars sent by
Lethbridge-Stewart and taken to a
debriefing held by Lethbridge-
Stewart himself and his commanding
officer, Major General Hamilton. He’d
been thanked for his assistance,
involuntary though it had been,
sworn to secrecy about the ‘Dominex
affair’ – little that he knew about it –
and sent back to the Bunker.
That was the last he’d ever seen or
heard from Lethbridge-Stewart.
Until now. And since then he’d
been promoted.
Unlucky for some, Bell thought.
He munched the last of his toast
and marmalade thoughtfully and
blinked at the letter. 4th of
September…? That was tomorrow.
What top secret mission? What
talents? Lethbridge-Stewart must be
desperate if he was depending on
him. Had to be something technical,
though. Perhaps those Quarks had
returned? Bell shuddered. He’d not
seen them but he’d heard enough in
that uncomfortable briefing to know
that he never wanted to see them, or
anything like them. Did he really
want to get involved?
He glanced round his tiny kitchen,
at the electric cooker with burned-in
grease he could never be bothered to
clean, the yellowing lino floor, the
Page 3 girl who grinned sunnily down
from the calendar on the wall. He
thought of the endless hours of duty
stacked up waiting for him back at the
Bunker. If he was honest, his
involvement in the Dominex affair,
however peripheral, had been
exciting.
‘But do I want excitement?’ he said
aloud.
He’d spent many happy hours
tinkering with outdated electronic
equipment in the Bunker, but that
was only marking time, it wasn’t a
career. Was it? The Page 3 girl’s grin
held no answers, neither did the
grease, nor did the washing up, nor
did the lack of a real girl in his life.
Bell had never been one for self-
examination, preferring to immerse
himself in his work, the more
technical and complicated the better,
and these moments of self-reflection
disturbed him, reminded him that
time was passing, he was getting
older, still alone, and with—
Bell stood up, still holding the
letter. ‘Dammit. I’ll do it! Whatever it
is.’

Sergeant Bell reported to Chelsea

Barracks at 0930 hours promptly the
next day, in uniform, ready for
anything – or so he’d thought.
He’d not been prepared for the
sight of Corporal Jason Stevens,
sitting on a wooden chair in the ante-
room outside Lethbridge-Stewart’s
office.
On seeing him Stevens leaped up,
grinning like a maniac, and embraced
Bell in a rib-crushing bear-hug, as if
they were old friends.
 ‘Mate!’ came Stevens’ muffled
voice. ‘How are ya, mate?’
They disengaged and Bell brushed
himself down.
‘Er… fine. And you?’
Stevens’ grin vanished, and there
was that thousand- yard stare. Then
the smile returned, softer this time.
‘Keepin’ it together. Keepin’ it
together.’
‘Right.’ Bell sat on the other chair
in the ante-room, opposite Stevens.
‘So, you got a little brown envelope
too?’
Stevens nodded and scratched his
nose. ‘Yeah.’
It was clear he was trying to be
casual but it clearly meant a lot to
him, more than it did for Bell.
‘Wonder what this “top secret
mission” is?’ And what ‘special
talents’ of yours does Lethbridge-
Stewart require, he thought darkly.
Stevens’ eyes gleamed. ‘Dunno;
but it’s gotta be
good! Back in the fire at last!’
Bell’s nerve wavered and he
considered doing a runner, but the
door to Lethbridge-Stewart’s office
opened and a uniformed officer (who
he was later to discover to be 2nd
Lieutenant Bishop), ushered them
both inside.
A strange feeling pervaded Bell as
he clocked the figure of Lethbridge-
Stewart. The neat uniform, the neat
moustache, the alert expression, the
way he somehow seemed to be
standing to attention whilst seated
behind his desk.
 ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ he said.
That voice, almost posh,
unmistakably in control. ‘Thank you
for responding. I’m glad you are here.
‘Glad to be here, sir!’ Stevens
saluted and Bell, somewhat belatedly,
followed suit.
‘At ease.’
Bell stood at ease, but didn’t feel at
ease.
‘Now, you have been selected for
this mission because of your
particular set of skills. Stevens, your
courage and bravery in the field, and
Bell, your technical know-how,
especially with electronics and radio
signalling.’ Lethbridge-Stewart stood
up and tapped the map on the wall
behind his desk with his swagger-
stick. ‘Llanystumdwy, North Wales.
Site of a secret MOD lab concerned
with next generation weapons
research and testing. The boffins
there have developed a new and
highly secret piece of kit: the All-
Terrain Autonomous Device Delivery
and Detonation Unit. ATA-3D-U for
short. Basically a sort of automatic
robot tank equipped with self-
defence capability, programmed to
penetrate enemy territory and deliver
a payload. This payload to vary
according to mission objectives, could
be anything from a secret agent, to
nerve gas capsules, or even a nuclear
bomb.’
Bell exchanged a glance with
Stevens.
Lethbridge-Stewart moved across
to a flipchart in the corner of the
room and turned over the top sheet to
reveal a line drawing of something
that looked like a squat, metallic
pillbox.
‘No photos, I’m afraid, but I have
some design specifications you can
look at after this briefing. The army
were taking the prototype ATA-3D-U
for tests in Snowdonia National Park
– deep in the forest, away from prying
eyes. Mainly tests of its autonomous
systems, the idea being that the thing
can be programmed with a
destination and objective, and left to
get on with the mission itself. The
problem is, they designed in too much
autonomy, and lost control of the
thing. The ATA-3D-U prototype went
haywire, killed its operators, and is
now running loose in Snowdonia.’
 ‘And you want us to catch it?’
Stevens asked with worrying
enthusiasm.
‘Yes. You two, plus Lieutenant
Bishop here.’
‘Hang on,’ Bell interjected. ‘How
exactly did it kill its operators?’
Lethbridge-Stewart coughed.
‘That’s the embarrassing thing,
actually. Although it was carrying no
payload, thank the Lord, the
operators loaded it with live ammo.
Thing has machine guns, for its own
protection. Idiots thought they could
control it, forgot about Murphy’s Law,
paid the ultimate price. Well, not all
of them. One survived to tell the tale,
but he was shot up pretty badly. Now
the thing is in “survival mode” and
must be stopped before it does any
damage. Moreover, its power supply
is this negative mass flux absorption
business that MOD boffins obtained
from Dominex technology. It’s quite
volatile and could go off if anyone
fiddles with it, causing quite a large
nuclear explosion.’
‘So it’s like some sort of runaway
bomb!’ Stevens grinned.
No one else did.
‘How exactly are we going to stop
it?’ Bell asked. Lethbridge-Stewart
turned to Lieutenant Bishop.
‘Bishop, tactics are your bag.’
‘It will only have a limited supply
of ammo, so our main tactic will be to
draw its fire until it runs out, and
then disable it. It has enough power
to last at least two weeks, so we can’t
let it lie.’
 Stevens frowned. ‘Disable it?
How?’
‘Bell, I want you to rig up some
sort of detection device, that will
locate the ATA-3D-U, and transmit a
signal to shut it down. Although the
original control panel has been
destroyed, the MOD have sent me the
codes. Feasible?’
Bell nodded. ‘Well, yes, but, once
detected, why not just blow it up?’
‘That’s what I would do, but we’re
under strict orders not to damage the
blasted thing. Too expensive,
essential project, you know the sort of
thing.’
‘Why us, Sir?’ Stevens asked. ‘Not
that I’m not keen, but can’t the
regulars sort it out?’
Lethbridge-Stewart paced back
and forth behind his desk. ‘Mainly
because of our experience in these
matters. Remember the Quarks? Well
this thing looks to me rather like a
similar sort of thing; minus the
shape-changing capability and with
less advanced firepower, obviously.
And also, do I even have to tell you,
deniability.’
Bell nodded. He could see the
picture clearly enough.
‘So, you’re in?’ Lethbridge-
Stewart had seen him nodding… and
taken that for agreement.
‘Yes, Sir!’ Stevens bellowed.
‘Yes… Sir,’ said Bell. So he was in.

Bell scrambled backwards as the ATA-

3-DU bore down on him, its engines
whirring furiously. The weight of the
scanning device pinned him to the
ground. He glimpsed a crazy vision of
branches and patches of sky and a
wall of metal. He scrambled
backwards, digging his boots into the
ground, left hand desperately feeling
for the deactivation switch. A rubber
wheel ran past his face and he
screamed, twisting on to his side.
Stevens let out another blood-
curdling battle cry and fired again.
Bell heard the sickening zing of the
ricochets, sickeningly close. At last he
found the deactivation switch and hit
it – but the thing was already moving
away from him, out of range, towards
Bishop, and Bell got his first true look
at the device.
The design sketches didn’t do it
justice; it looked mean, and somehow
alive, not merely autonomous, and it
had the unfinished, backroom quality
of a prototype. About the size of a
small car, it was circular, with a
rubber skirt concealing its all-terrain
wheels. A gunmetal grey cowling
formed its body, with eight machine-
gun ports at regular points in the
circumference, providing it with all-
round cover. There were odd bumps
and lumps on the cowling and atop
the device was an ovoid blister.
Bishop had already started running
when the ATA-
3-DU opened fire. He dodged
expertly between the trees, bullets
smacking harmlessly into the trunks
in his wake
A footstep close to Bell’s head.
Stevens. Hands helping him to his
feet. Bell staggered against the man.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he
gasped. ‘Now we’ll have to chase the
bloody thing.’
Stevens grinned maniacally, and
scampered (there was no other word
for it) off in the wake of the runaway
device. Bell groaned and followed. It
was almost as Stevens has done this
deliberately, created mayhem for the
sheer hell of it. He was almost as
dangerous as the damned ATA-3-DU.
The thing was crashing through
the forest about fifty yards ahead of
them. Bishop was nowhere to be seen
– presumably in hiding, maybe
climbing a tree. Interestingly, the
thing wasn’t able to follow a direct
line through the trees; its width
meant it had to go around where the
trunks grew close together. A design
flaw that will presumably be fixed in
the Mark Two, thought Bell, as he
crept after it. Damn thing was far too
unwieldy in its prototype form.
The thing suddenly stopped dead,
the whine of its motor fading away.
Had its power run out? Lethbridge-
Stewart had said it had enough for
two weeks, maybe three…
‘Down!’ Bell felt himself shoved in
the back. He went down.
The rattle of machine gun fire and
bullets slicing through the air where
they’d just been standing.
Stevens’ gurning face. ‘Bloody
thing’s on to us!’ Bell risked a glance.
The ATA-3-DU began to
trundle towards them. That’s it,
come closer. Bell’s finger rested on
the deactivation switch. And, as if the
thing had sensed its doom, the device
reversed (inasmuch as a circular
object could be said to reverse) and
began to move away, slowly, in the
other direction, as if it was confident
they wouldn’t now follow it after its
impressive display of firepower.
‘Come on.’ Stevens was already
helping Bell to his feet for the second
time in five minutes. ‘Let’s get after
it!’
‘What’s the point? It’s on to us, we
can’t approach it or we’ll be
marmalised.’
‘We switch to Plan B. Draw its fire
until it runs out of ammo.’ Stevens
began to creep slowly after the ATA-
3-DU.
 ‘Or it kills us.’ Bell trudged after
him. Why the heck did he ever
volunteer for this madness? It was
Lethbridge-Stewart’s fault. The
dratted man has the power to inspire
dullards like me, thought Bell. ‘Where
the hell’s Bishop? He’s missing out
on all this fun.’
They kept their distance as the
device trundled
through the forest, dodging past
gaps it couldn’t get through in a
manner that looked oddly dainty.
Eventually the trees began to thin
out, and Bell could make out the
humped brown elbows of mountains
in the distance.
Stevens came to a halt, and
pointed silently at a tree in the middle
distance. There, high up amidst its
branches, was Lieutenant Bishop. The
ATA-3-DU approaching the tree, ten,
fifteen yards and closing. Bishop
noticed them, and signalled.
Bell frowned. ‘What does that
mean?’
‘He wants us to circle round and
get into cover.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
Bell followed Stevens until they
were thirty yards east of the tree and
the ATA-3-DU, on a mound of higher
ground with a grandstand view. They
crouched behind a bush. ‘What’s he
doing?’
Bishop was breaking twigs from
the tree. He then began to lob them as
far away from his perch as he could.
The ATA-3-DU paused and
trundled over to where the twigs were
landing, and moved back and forth
across the area. It let out a few rounds
from each of its machine guns,
startling them.
Bishop was climbing down from
the tree, and once on the ground,
signalled again.
Bell recognised this one.
Attack Plan C.
Oh Lordy.
Stevens was grinning with glee.
Bishop began to approach the
device, keeping low, machine gun
held across his chest.
The moment the ATA-3-DU began
to move in his direction, Stevens
leaped up and opened fire, sending
streams of bullets in the carapace of
the thing.
The device whirled round, sending
bullets spraying in every direction,
missing Bishop (who had thrown
himself against the ground) and
Stevens and Bell (who were still on
higher ground).
Bell realised another design flaw –
the thing couldn’t aim at all well; the
machine gun ports were fixed in eight
places around its circumference.
Something else to be sorted out in the
Mark Two.
The firing stopped and the thing
began to move towards Bishop again.
He opened fire.
Bell, keeping behind Stevens, crept
down the slope. Stevens gave a blood-
curdling cry and ran down the slope
directly at the ATA-3-DU. He leaped
on top of the thing, grabbing on to
one of its protuberances. It whirled
round, trying to throw him off.
Bell saw his chance and ran down
the slope, dreading at any moment to
be enveloped in a hail of hot lead. But
the thing seemed preoccupied with
Stevens, who was riding it like a
bucking bronco, smashing the barrel
of his gun against the ovoid blister on
top of its carapace.
‘Now!’ Bishop yelled.
Bell almost fell into the side of the
ATA-3-DU, and grabbed on to a
machine-gun port to steady himself.
The device lurched and Bell lost his
footing. He fell back, the scanning
device winding him. The thing began
to trundle towards him, its rubber
skirt passing over his boots. Gunfire
from Bishop. Mad screams from
Stevens as he continued to hammer
the ATA-3- DU with his submachine
gun. The device was almost on top of
him – those wheels could crush him
easy. Bell screamed, and his hand
scrabbled for the deactivation switch,
found it, hit it.
The ATA-3-DU immediately
stopped, and there was a decelerating
whine as it settled on its axles. Bell,
whose legs were by now half-
underneath the thing, scrambled out,
panting. He unclipped the scanning
device and set it aside, resisting the
temptation to hurl it into the bushes.
Stevens slid down from his perch
and saluted the approaching Bishop.
‘Good job, fellas,’ he said.
Bell stood, panting, glad to be
relieved of the weight of the
equipment. He glared at Stevens, who
was grinning obliviously, idiotically.
‘We almost got killed because of you,’
he found himself saying.
Stevens turned his thousand-yard
stare onto Bell, raised his head so his
chin jutted out. ‘Almost, nuffink.
Walk in the park.’ He shoved past
Bell, with a look of disdain on his
face, and began to strip down his
weapon.
Bishop shot Bell a warning look, a
slight shake of the head that said,
leave it. ‘All right, men. Let’s get back
to the chopper, pronto.’ He kicked the
inert ATA-3-DU. ‘And it’s back to the
drawing-board for you.’

They were given the rest of the day

off, and ordered to report for a
debriefing at 0930 hours the next day
at Chelsea Barracks. Bell spent the
rest of his day off recuperating from
the exertion of the mission, drinking
tea, eating ham sandwiches, thanking
his lucky stars he was alive, and
cursing Corporal Jason Stevens for his
foolhardiness.
0930 on 6th September saw him
once again in the ante-room of
Lethbridge-Stewart ’s office, once
again with Corporal Jason Stevens.
But this time, there was no friendly
embrace, just a frosty silence.
The door opened and Lethbridge-
Stewart himself ushered them in.
‘At ease. Well, gentlemen, the
mission was a complete success. The
ATA-3-DU was deactivated with no
loss of life or destruction of property,
and has now been taken back to
Llanystumdwy for the boffins to
scratch their heads over. Our
efficiency and credibility with the
MOD has been proved and enhanced.
Thank you both for your participation.
Corporal Stevens, your bravery and
dedication are much appreciated, and
I may need to call upon you in the
future.’
Bell wanted to slap the grin from
Stevens’ face. Surely Bishop would
have told Lethbridge-Stewart about
the man’s irresponsible actions? But
here he was being hailed as the all-
conquering hero.
Lethbridge-Stewart went on. ‘You
may return to civilian life, and expect
to hear from me, should the occasion
arise. Dismissed.’
 ‘Sah!’ Stevens barked, then turned
on his heel and marched out the door.
Bell fervently hoped that was the last
he ever saw of the damned fellow.
‘Sir, permission to speak off the
record?’
Lethbridge-Stewart regarded Bell
for a moment, and the side of his
mouth twitched. ‘Granted, Sergeant.’
‘You do know that… that Corporal
Stevens put both our lives at risk? He
opened fire on the ATA-3-DU, just as
—’
Lethbridge-Stewart held up a
gloved hand. ‘I am well aware of the
particulars of the mission. Be
assured, I will not be requiring the
services of Corporal Stevens, unless
the direst emergency demands it. He
is far too unstable and cannot
function effectively as part of a team.
This mission was, well, a sort of test
for him. And for you.’
‘A test?’
Lethbridge-Stewart smiled. ‘More
of an audition, really. I’m in charge of
a corps which deals with threats like
Dominex and the ATA-3-DU. Your
technical skills alone make you a
valuable asset to the team. But on top
of that, you kept your cool in the field,
ensuring a satisfactory completion to
the mission. Lieutenant Bishop was
impressed, and so am I.’
‘Kept cool… To tell the truth, I was
terrified – all the time!’
‘In the field, we all are. Trick is not
to show it. Keep it together long
enough to complete the job in hand.
And that’s what you did. Are you
interested, Sergeant? Still a bit of
training for you at the Joint Warfare
Establishment, but there’s a position
with the battalion at Imber if you’re
up for it.’ Lethbridge-Stewart held
out his right hand.
Bell gazed dazedly at the polished
leather of the glove. It and the man
behind it represented the unknown;
challenge – danger. Lethbridge-
Stewart’s face was full of confidence
and reassurance; there was a man you
could trust, with your life. A man you
would be pleased to serve, follow
anywhere, into danger even.
An image of his kitchen flitted
through Bell’s mind. The Page 3 girl.
The grease. Then the Bunker –
endless routine, boundless boredom.
But I like boredom, an inner voice
shrilled. I like routine. I like the
chance to fiddle with antiquated
electronics.
But there has to be more to life,
said another inner voice. You’re not
going anywhere. Before you know if
you’ll be fifty and wondering what the
hell happened.
Bell reached out and grasped
Lethbridge-Stewart’s hand before he
could change his mind.
‘Welcome to the team!’ Brigadier
Lethbridge- Stewart said with a firm
smile.
What have I done? Bell thought,
but said, ‘Happy to be on board, sir!