Chapter 2
High above East Anglia, a lone fighter sped. Resplendent in its brilliant scarlet and yellow colour scheme, it looked like some strange tropical bird, flying south for the winter.
The pilot checked the instrument readings being relayed from the aircraft, Normally, the fuel gauges, registering less than ten minutes' flying time, would have given cause for concern. This flight however was a one-way trip; once the pride of the Royal Air Force, the Gloster Meteor, superseded by newer, faster models, was now obsolete and according to the accountants, fit only for scrap. Thus it had been converted into a drone by the addition of radio control and basic telemetry systems so it could perform one final task.
Safe on the ground, the pilot skilfully operated the radio controls. Obediently, the Meteor banked towards its destination, a designated piece of sky, high over the North Sea, well clear of commercial air traffic. The pilot couldn't help feeling it was a waste. He shrugged. Using obsolete aircraft for target practice had to be preferable to breaking them up for scrap.
The fighter's progress had not gone unnoticed. Ever watchful, the electronic eyes of RAF West Raynham's Type 87 Radar had picked out the speeding object and relayed the information to the Launch Control Point; a large caravan packed with computers.
"Target bearing zero eight five, range ninety miles. Speed, six fifty. Entering Engagement Zone" Harker, the NCO reported.
"Strange, I didn't think Meteors went that fast," replied Flight Lieutenant Lewis Waterman, the Engagement Controller.
By now, the radar had locked on to the speeding object and was tracking it.
In obedience, to the controlling computer, the eight Type 202 launchers, servos whining powerfully, turned in unison until their Bloodhound missiles were trained on the incoming target.
"Elevation and Azimuth track locked in, sir". Reported Harker.
After a moment, the message 'FREE TO FIRE' appeared on Waterman's terminal.
"Release firing circuit on my mark. " Ordered Waterman, inserting his firing key into the slot in the console in front of him.
"Yessir. " Obediently, Harker inserted his key into its slot. The dual key system prevented any one person from firing a missile.
"Three…two…one…Mark!"
The two men turned their keys to the 'Fire' position.
"Firing in three…two…one…zero!"
Waterman's finger stabbed at the firing button.
With a roar, the four Gosling solid rocket boost motors strapped to the body of the chosen missile ignited. The bolts holding the Bloodhound to the launcher sheared and the missile leaped from the launcher into the azure sky.
"Dog Two away sir. " Reported Harker
Within four seconds, the Bloodhound had accelerated to two and a half times the speed of sound, fast enough for the two Thor ramjets to ignite and sustain the missile for the rest of the flight. Now spent, the booster rockets fell away, to plunge into the sea, far below.
The lift door slid open and a tall, well-built man stepped out. His gaze fixed on the lonely man perched on the chair. He smiled and proffered his hand. "I'm Henderson". The visitor stood and gingerly grasped the outstretched hand. He quickly checked for signs of the trap being sprung. "The SB don't know you're here," smiled Henderson. His visitor flinched at the mention of the Polish Secret Police. "Please, come with me." Henderson gestured towards the lift. The two men stepped in and the doors slid shut.
"Time to impact, two minutes, ten seconds. " Waterman read from the timer display in front of him
"Target speed and course changing sir," reported Harker "Range now ninety-two miles, bearing: zero eight seven, speed Mach one and increasing. Strange, target aspect remaining constant"
At that moment, the telephone rang.
Waterman placed the receiver to his ear
"Engagement Control Officer…" He answered.
The missile had now reached an altitude of fifty thousand feet. Soon it would stoop down onto the target and blow it from the sky
Waterman slammed the telephone down.
"Aborting missile," he said, pressing the DESTRUCT button "The call was from HQ. " He explained. "Apparently the test flight was late taking off"
"Then what're we shooting at?"
"You tell me. "
The reflected radar signal changed slightly, indicating a change in the target's course. The clipped wings moved a fraction and the needle nose of the missile turned towards its prey.
"Destruct Negative, sir." Reported Harker.
"Damn!"
The two men could do nothing now. Cutting the radar would have no effect; the missile could track the target from its own in-built memory.
All they could do now was wait for the flare on their screens to indicate the destruction of the missile - and whatever it had been aimed at.
Henderson was seated behind his desk. His visitor sat, in a comfortable char, facing him. The visitor looked around. The office was modern. The walls were a deep blue. Small shelves held an assortment of books and models of spacecraft. In a commanding position in the centre of the wall behind Henderson was a large picture of the Earth with a constellation of artificial satellites and debris enclosing it. The desk itself was modern. At the front, it bore the legend:
PRESIDENT
IAC
President? Surely Britain was a Monarchy?
IAC?
A mural of the Earth surrounded by satellites? Mere decoration, or something more meaningful? More questions.
On the desk, the visitor noticed, were a sheaf of papers. He could only guess at the contents.
Henderson wasted no time, he picked up a typewritten from the sheaf of papers and began to read: "You are Wlayslaw Jasinski, born 12th March 1933, in Zgierz, Poland. You are a qualified psychiatrist, until recently chief interrogator for the Polish State Security Service. Convicted of Murder and sentenced to Death, you somehow escaped from Barczewo Prison.
Henderson looked up. "Have I missed anything?"
Jasinski sat, mouth open, too dumbfounded to reply.
Who was this man?
What was going on?
"There you are, Doug," said Ford, placing the still-wet photographs on the desk in front of Turnbull, "All the proof we need. " Despite the low light levels, the sensitive film, push-processed by the lab, had produced clear prints.
Turnbull smiled weakly. This was not going to be easy.
"Look, Keith, I can see you've put a lot of work into this item," Ford paused. He didn't like the sound of this. "But, I don't feel that the public are ready for something as powerful as this quite yet. "
"What are you trying to say?"
Turnbull sighed. "I'm going to level with you, Keith. When you left this morning, I had a 'phone call from the Network Controller. There's been a 'D' Notice issued on the whole subject. "
Ford swore. A Defence Information or 'D' Notice was an official clampdown on a particular subject. Any reporter or editor unwise enough to defy the notice ran the risk of prosecution.
"Then what do we do?" Asked Ford.
"We don't do anything," replied Turnbull "We can't. "
"So that's it," fumed Ford "You're going to let the story of the year go down the pan, just because some snotty-nosed politicians decide to lean on the Controller. What's he afraid of? Not getting a gong in the New Year Honours?"
"It's not like that, Keith. " Turnbull tried to placate Ford
"No?" yelled Ford "You're forgetting something. Those things butchered my wife. Do you honestly think I'm going to let them get away with it and say nothing? How many more people will be butchered?"
Turnbull raised his hands. "Look, Keith, I do sympathise…"
"Oh, you sympathise?" Ford interrupted him "I've had it up to here with sympathy. I want ACTION!" The coffee mug jumped as Ford's fist slammed onto the top of Turnbull's desk.
He changed tack: "Do you know how many people disappeared in the UK last year, never to be seen again? Over a thousand. I'm telling you, the people of Britain need to know the threat facing them.
"And what will they do?" Turnbull interrupted him. "I'll tell you. They'll either panic as they did over the Orson Welles' 'War of the Worlds' or they'll laugh it off as another 'Spaghetti Tree'. "
Turnbull was referring to a now-famous report on the Swiss annual spaghetti harvest. That particular April Fools' day programme had taken in millions of people.
"Then what do you suggest?" Ford was calmer now. But not much.
"Target speed now Mach two point two, still increasing." Reported Harker
Perhaps whatever it was would be able to outrun the missile. Waterman found himself hoping so.
Ford slammed the door behind him and stormed down the corridor. Clearly, Turnbull was going to do nothing. His suggestion had been that Ford should take a couple of weeks off. Ford had refused outright. The other suggestion had been that Ford concentrate on other stories whilst Turnbull tried to get the 'D' notice lifted. "More chance of lifting the Titanic" Ford had muttered to himself bitterly as he stamped down the corridor.
The radar screens flared for a moment as the Bloodhound's warhead exploded, showering the target with a lethal hail of metal fragments.
Waterman picked up the telephone. "Get me the Station Commander. "
Thick smoke billowed from the object as it began to spiral to the ground, far below.
Vanes torn askew by the blast, the UFO could no longer maintain height. Already it was becoming harder to control in the thickening atmosphere. The crew would need all their skill and a lot of luck to land safely. These missions were becoming more dangerous by the year. That mattered little. Whilst the Race faced extinction, the Quest had to continue.
Instruments indicated a suitable landing site, a densely wooded area where they could wait until help arrived.
The pilot frowned. His aircraft should have been blown from the sky several minutes ago. Instead, his instruments continued to relay telemetry from the aircraft that he was currently flying under radio control. Something had obviously gone wrong. But what?
The only clue was a set of readings, about the time the Meteor should have been destroyed, indicating some sort of shock wave buffeting the aircraft.
That was in the past. He had to concern himself with the present.
He glanced out of the window; the heavy clouds that had been lowering for some time had now taken on a dark, steely grey appearance. A low, ominous rumble heralded the approaching storm. The first drops of rain spattered the glass. Manually landing an aircraft in this weather would be difficult enough, remotely guiding one down safely, impossible.
He pressed a switch on the console in front of him and spoke into the microphone.
"Flight, this is Target Alpha Two Four. Destruct negative. Unable to RTB. Request permission to ditch. Over"
The loudspeaker crackled for a moment before the reply: "Alpha Two Four, this is Flight Control. Permission granted. Steer zero two seven degrees. Out. "
Carefully, the pilot eased the control stick over. Satisfied that the aircraft was no longer likely to endanger life, he throttled back and pushed his joystick forward.
Obediently, the aircraft, now gliding gently, dipped towards the North Sea and its watery fate.
Despite the brilliant afternoon sunshine, the figures huddled in their overalls against the cold. The chill wind blew from the nearby Broads and whistled through the framework of the Type 202 Launcher. As they waited, the technicians muttered curses at the lucky few who had gone to Germany as part of the advance party Soon, the whole squadron would be re-deployed there.
As the ungainly loader vehicle moved into position next to the launcher, its sleek load held gently but firmly by the loading arm, the figures crowded round, like worker bees around their queen.
With a whine of hydraulics, the loading arm lifted the replacement missile onto its launch rail, where the technicians bolted it into position.
Task completed, the loading arm retracted and the vehicle headed back to its shed. The rest of the crew, until now, little more than spectators, moved into action; electrical connections were made and checked and boosters attached.
In total, the well-rehearsed routine took a little under twenty minutes. Task complete, the figures climbed down from the gantry and hurried back to the waiting Land Rover.
On its gantry, the newly loaded Bloodhound missile waited for its prey.
It had been a long meeting but finally Jasinski had seemed to relax and Henderson knew the man was his. As He and Henderson talked, Jasinski's anxiety subsided. Discreetly, he pressed a button under his desk. Five minutes later, there was a quiet knock on the door and Miss Scott, Henderson's secretary, entered, bearing a tray of coffee. There was also a buff envelope.
Wordlessly, she carefully placed the tray on the desk, smiled at the visitor and left.
Henderson poured coffee for Jasinski, then himself. He picked up the buff envelope from the tray and slid it across the table.
"What is this?" Jasinski was curious.
"Open it"
Carefully, Jasinski tore open the envelope. Inside: a small, dark blue book. Emblazoned on the front cover were the Royal Crest and the wording: "The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland". Set into the cover was a small handwritten panel bearing the name "Dr D. Jackson."
He opened the passport. His own face looked back unsmilingly at him. Beneath it was a perfect copy of his signature. Jasinski looked up, puzzled.
"Wlayslaw Jasinski is dead." Henderson pointed out. "His government have no further interest in him. Douglas Jackson has just taken up an important role…"
"I will not betray my country!" Jasinski leaped to his feet.
"No-one is asking you to." Henderson reassured him. "I was about to explain why I, no! Why the World needs your unique skills."
Jasinski sat, more puzzled than angry. "You say that the World needs my skills? I am confused"
"Let me explain," said Captain Peter Fairfax, the Station Commander of West Raynham Airfield leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands together. He looked at the young flight lieutenant standing rigidly to attention in front of him.
"As Station Commander, I am responsible for the actions of the officers under my command. If something goes wrong, I'm the one who carries the can. Your actions yesterday could have had very serious repercussions. What would have happened if you'd shot down a civil airliner?"
With respect, sir," replied the young officer "No civil airliner currently in service is capable of travelling faster than Mach one. That object was travelling in excess of Mach two and still accelerating. It was no civil airliner sir - I'm certain of that. "
Fairfax nodded slowly. "I see. " He replied. He leaned forward and opened the report on the desk in front of him. He read the final page once more. He looked up: "Looks as if we've bagged ourselves an Unidentified Flying Object. "
Thoughtfully, he closed the file. There were several things he should do. He considered them.
Fairfax closed the file, reached for his pen and carefully wrote on the front cover 'No Further Action'. He then signed underneath with a flourish. He tossed the file into the OUT tray then sat back. "I'll have to report the sighting of a UFO to the Ministry of Defence, of course, but as far as I'm concerned, that's the end of the matter. " A worrying thought occurred to him
"I see from your report that the object was not destroyed. "
"No sir. ", Replied Waterman. "It was obviously damaged, though. It came down about five miles outside King's Lynn. Whatever it was, it must be pretty tough to withstand a direct hit like that. "
"Indeed. " Fairfax got up from his desk, strode across the room and consulted the map on the opposite wall. He frowned. "That's too damned close to Sandringham for my liking" he muttered to himself. He turned to face Waterman: "Take a team with a you. Find out what it is and whether it constitutes a threat. "
"Yes sir"
"OK Waterman. Dismissed"
Waterman saluted smartly and left. As the door closed behind him, he sighed with relief. He would have been court-martialled had the missile destroyed an airliner.
Jackson's mind was reeling. Unidentified Flying Objects? Invasion from space? Alien body snatchers?
It seemed quite absurd, like something from science fiction, yet the evidence that Henderson had shown him had been absolutely conclusive.
In comparison with this the rivalry between East and West paled into insignificance. When Henderson began to explain the need for security, Jackson, having seen the evidence, agreed that public knowledge of the menace would lead to widespread panic, the breakdown of authority and with them, any chance of countering the threat.
At Henderson's signal, Miss Scott had shown Jackson to his own office.
His role would be, as part of a medical team, to evaluate psychological profiles. There seemed to be three types: potential recruits, those individuals who had claimed to see UFOs but for one reason or another could be safely disregarded as eccentrics and finally, those who could not be so lightly dismissed and who might well have to be discredited, perhaps in rare cases, silenced. To emphasise the point, Henderson had told him that this had already happened; the chauffeur who had been unlucky enough to survive the UFO attack during which the Cabinet Minister had been killed but he and Straker had survived, had been taken care of by Security.
Henderson waited for that to sink in. He had gazed intently at Jackson as he asked whether the Psychiatrist could do this.
Jackson had reassured him; of these people, some might well become potential recruits. Those who couldn't, they could be discredited. If that wasn't an option…
Henderson seemed satisfied.
Already a number of folders were laid out on Jackson's desk. Although he sometimes found colloquial speech difficult, written reports gave him no trouble. He picked the top one off of the pile, opened it and began to read.