Written under the pen-name Captain Silver, ‘Midnight Mission’ was part of the ‘Spectrum is Scarlet’ fanzine, a collection of numerous fan fiction, which was published in 1992 by Purple Unicorn Press/Mysterons Press, in association with the authorised Sylvia Anderson fan group. Behind Mysterons Press was Jay Felton, a talented Captain Scarlet fan who distributed the fanzine in the following years at a meagre price, to whoever wanted to own it. This was, of course, before the internet…
Sadly, Jay passed away in 2018. The posting of the following story – whose author’s real name remains unknown to us to this day – is meant as a respectful tribute to the work of a truly dedicated fan, to whom we are grateful to her contribution to the fandom of the timeless and indestructible Captain Scarlet.
Chris Bishop, Spectrum HQ administrator.
The corridor was empty. Good. It wouldn’t do to be seen at this crucial stage of the operation. With a stealth born of hours of practice where life hung on the balance of a single move, Scarlet slipped from the open doorway and hurried down the corridor, his footsteps echoing eerily after him. The lighting was dim, a constant reminder of the lateness of the hour. Scarlet stole a quick glance at his watch ‑ he had only a few minutes in which to complete the assignment or the game was up; he would have failed. Despite his familiarity with danger, he found his heart was thumping fit to wake the dead as he studied the doorway through which he must pass. Well, he had to go on ‑ to abandon the mission now was unthinkable. He would never live it down.
The door slid open at his touch ‑ although he had been told to expect this (his informant was, after all, a reliable fellow Spectrum agent) it still surprised him slightly. Ah well. He stepped through the doorway.
Instantly an alarm shrilled loudly. Scarlet froze, mortified ‑ and as the lights blazed on a split second later, he was still transfixed, unable to flee. He was done for.
“Scarlet! What in blue blazes do you think you’re doing, man?”
The stentorian tones of Colonel White brought Scarlet an unpleasant mental vision of himself being kicked back down the ranks, his Spectrum colleagues watching in ill‑concealed mirth at his misfortune.
“I... er...” For once he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. But his mind was not so paralysed by fear that he couldn’t think of a few choice things he would say to a certain Adam Svenson when next they met.
Before the immobile Scarlet stood Colonel White. Rudely awoken from his slumber, he was nonetheless a figure of authority even in his pyjamas. Scarlet noted distantly, as his life(s) flashed before his eyes, that World War Ill aircraft decorated the material nicely. Scarlet found himself looking into the ’business’ end of a small ‑ but quite deadly, he was certain ‑ pistol.
The Colonel was furious, and with good reason. The alarm which still clamoured for attention was one which had never been set off before ‑ in the event of an assassination attempt it was White’s last line of defence. Should one of his men be Mysteronised and attempt to gain entry to the Colonel’s quarters whilst he was sleeping, not only White but the whole base would know about it.
Scarlet swallowed. “I’m terribly sorry, Colonel. I... well, I can’t really explain. It was a joke, sir...” he faltered miserably.
“A joke, Scarlet? Oh, for heaven’s sake. man, I came near to blowing your head off!” He waved the pistol furiously at Scarlet. To his credit, Scarlet did not flinch.
“What kind of joke is that?” White continued, then paused, suddenly struck by the absurdity of putting such a question to a man with Scarlet’s particular ability.
“Nevertheless, Captain,” White recovered himself quickly, and went on, “it is far from amusing.” His gaze fell to an object Scarlet was clutching as the Captain attempted to conceal it behind his back.
“What have you got there?”
Scarlet groaned inwardly; the Colonel’s tone had not invited argument. He brought his hand forward. At that precise moment. he heard footsteps in the corridor behind him. Through the open doorway skidded Captains Blue and Magenta, pistols drawn. Their faces bore expressions of concern which would have done any erstwhile thespian credit, Scarlet noted somewhat sourly.
Messrs Svenson and Donaghue surveyed the scene before them; Spectrum’s Number One agent caught red‑handed, a novelty Christmas stocking dangling in his grasp. They could hardly believe their luck.
Scarlet eyed his fellow conspirators balefully, and the two men could conceal their mirth no longer. Blue’s howl of laughter brought a startled expression to the Colonel Is f ace, which was quickly replaced by one of patient long‑suffering.
“Would someone care to explain just what is going on?”
Blue recovered his composure and nudged the unfortunate Scarlet. “Your job, Captain, I think,” he said solemnly.
Scarlet straightened his back as if he were on a parade ground. “Well, Colonel White, it was a dare. I was to leave you this... er... small token of our esteem,” he hefted the novelty item, “sir,” he finished, and added silently, before midnight, and without getting caught.
“I see. In all my years...”
White paced around the group, now standing at varying degrees of attention. Despite the fact that the sight of their discomfort almost made up for his rude awakening, White reflected, discipline must be maintained.
“I will deal with you all in the morning,” he told them sternly, ignoring the fact that a new day had in fact just begun. It may be Christmas, he thought, but really...
“You are all more than well aware of my opinions concerning pranks on an operational base. That will be all, gentlemen.”
They left silently, and White returned to his interrupted slumber. As he was nodding off, a stray thought struck him: after all that, they still hadn’t left him the Christmas stocking.