Chapter 13
The newsroom was in an uproar; reporters were frantically filing reports on the ever-worsening global situation. Typewriters and teleprinters clattered, telephones jangled, the clamour of voices all adding to the bedlam. Doug Turnbull had been in the office for sixteen hours without a break. He was desperately tired and his head felt as if it would split apart at any moment. He swallowed another two aspirin, gulped down some cold coffee, grimaced and pressed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. The phone on the desk jangled. Sighing, he snatched up the receiver: "Yes? Reverse charge from where?" He sighed. "O.K. I'll take it… Keith? This had better be good." He listened for a moment.
"O.K., see you."
He'd no sooner put the receiver back on its cradle than the bell jangled again. Sighing, he scooped up the receiver once more.
The bell jangled as Cheeseman closed the door, then drew the blind. It had been a fairly quiet day but at least the bills had been covered for the week. He climbed to the workroom on the top floor and unwrapped the picture. As he suspected, the frame had split, probably as a result of an impact. The glass had broken into two large pieces and a number of splinters. He sighed, the surface of the photograph had been scratched. That would be a job for young Roger in the camera shop next door.
Having carefully placed the photograph between some sheets of acid-free paper, he returned to work on the frame.
Having reported in, Ford climbed back into the car. The engine roared into life once more and he set off for the guesthouse.
The beer, a local brew, was as good as ever and had the desired effect; both doctors had mellowed and were chatting amiably.
"I really can't get over that specimen," said Saxby, "The blood group doesn't match any known type"
You think that's bad?" replied Meakins "I've a body for which I can only surmise the cause of death"
"Oh?" replied Saxby" You carried out the usual tests?"
Meakins sipped at his pint then put the glass down. "I would have, had there been anything to test "
"Huh?"
"The body was an empty shell; every organ had been surgically removed."
Overnight, RAF West Raynham had been transformed; members of the RAF Regiment, alert and armed with live ammunition, had supplemented the civilian guards. Dog handlers patrolled the perimeter wire at regular intervals. Armoured cars stood ready to defend the base against enemy forces.
That the base was a prime target for a nuclear strike and a multi-megaton blast would not only vaporise the base but also several square miles of the surrounding countryside around it was irrelevant.
The road leading up to the main gate was now lined with coils of barbed wire and a hastily-erected sangar, built from sandbags, replaced the flimsy wood and glass gatehouse which now stood empty and forlorn.
In the main Administration building, a hastily convened conference was drawing to a close. On returning to the station, Fairfax had read the signal, opened his safe and retrieved a hardbound manual. He already knew the contents from frequent drills but he had to make sure before issuing instructions.
Now he was receiving reports on the results of the night's work. All the sections had, so far, reported that everything was, if not ideal, at least serviceable. Finally, it was the Senior Armourer's turn
"Both 'A' and 'D' Flights are operational. 'A' flight has all launchers fully loaded with one reload per launcher; 'D' flight has one launcher down with hydraulic pump failure. All other launchers are fully serviceable and loaded. With the dead launcher, we effectively have one reload per launcher in the Ready Use Missile Store. Spare rounds to replace those expended in yesterday's tests are on the way from Glascoed but won't arrive until tomorrow."
"How long to repair the launcher?"
"Well, I've got a crew on it but I reckon at least another day. The problem is that half the spares and tools are on their way to Germany and there's only so much that I can scrounge from the local garage"
"Fairfax sighed, "O.K., do the best you can." He looked round the table one last time. "I'll be briefing the ECs at fourteen hundred. O.K. Dismissed"
As with all new weapons, the Alien gun had been passed to the relevant section where it had spent the night, securely locked up in the armoury. Next morning, it had been conducted to the test area in a secure compound at the north end of the site. There, it had been clamped to a firing stand at one end of a long tunnel bored into the Kentish.
The weapon glittered eerily in the light of the incandescent bulbs, arranged at regular intervals in armoured casings along the brick-lined sides of the tunnel. The far end of the tunnel had been filled with several tons of loose sand to catch any spent projectiles and prevent ricochets. Between the two ends, at increasing distances from the stand, a series of standard military targets had been erected. Although notionally operated by the Ministry of Supply, virtually all the research and development conducted here was of a military nature. Adjacent to each target, a powerful strobe light had been erected, triggered by the projectile cutting a light beam alongside a Fastax High-speed Camera.
Capable of more than five thousand frames per second, each camera could capture a bare few seconds of film before its film magazine was empty
The Technician, William Hickmott, made a final adjustment to the firing stand. Satisfied, he left the tunnel and locked the door before taking his place at the firing point, where his long-time colleague, John Boorman was waiting.
The firing point was inside a bunker, built from two-foot-thick cast concrete blocks, colloquially known as 'Pendine Blocks'. The structure was generally considered to be blast proof
"Prepare for Firing!" Hickmott called.
His colleague, John Boorman, turned the Tunnel Light Switch to the 'Off' Position. Then he pressed the switch to activate the camera system. A moment later, series of lights lit up to indicate that the equipment was active.
A small box then took over the operation, starting the first camera, releasing the trigger of the weapon, then starting each camera in turn.
Inside the tunnel, the gun coughed once and the strobes flared as the unseen projectile triggered them.
A green lamp indicated the test was complete and the two men entered the tunnel
The smoke slowly cleared. "Bloody 'ell!" Exclaimed Hickmott as the extent of the damage was revealed. Every target had a large hole blasted through it, as if hit by an anti-tank shell. As Boorman unloaded the film cartridge from each of the high-speed cameras, Hickmott began the long walk down the tunnel to retrieve the projectile. A metallurgical analysis of the spent shell would reveal a lot about the weapon.
Ford had left the guesthouse just after breakfast. The need for a comfort break and the particularly heavy traffic as he approached London meant it was well past lunchtime before he pulled into the staff car park. A brief diversion to the canteen provided him with a bacon roll and plastic cup of coffee. Or, as had been muttered more than once, a cup of plastic coffee. He then headed towards the Newsroom. On arrival, he faced a scene of mayhem. The normally busy newsroom was now in utter turmoil. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke hung just below the ceiling, defying the best efforts of the air conditioning to disperse it. The clatter of typewriters and teleprinters along with the endless clangour of telephones added to the pandemonium. Ford weaved his way through the maze of desks, noticing the detritus of a busy office: full ashtrays, half-filled cups of long-cold coffee. He was just about to sit in his chair when he heard his name. At the far side of the room, a figure made indistinct by the fug gestured. As he picked his way across the room, he realised it was Turnbull. Normally so neatly attired, the open neck, stubble and the dark shading around his eyes could only hint at the strain he was under. He waved Ford into a seat.
"Welcome Back to the Madhouse. Good holiday?"
"Yes. You wouldn't believe what I've-" Turnbull waved him to silence. He had no time for small talk. It's absolute mayhem here."
"I noticed, " Replied Ford. "What's going on?"
"In the wilds of East Anglia, you may not have noticed that the Cold War has been heating up. NATO and Warsaw Pact are on the brink. I need you to go to Edinburgh"
"Why Edinburgh?" asked Ford. "Have the Scottish Nationalists joined the Warsaw Pact?"
Turnbull chuckled for the first time in several days.
"No, A seismologist, " Turnbull consulted a note pad in front of him. "Dr Mackenzie, at the British Geological Survey claims that Turkey has been conducting underground nuclear tests.
"What?" Ford was incredulous. "You're joking!"
"I'm not, but I think he is. I want you to go up there, talk to him and find out why."
"And if he isn't?"
Having completed enquiries at the forest and supervised the clean-up operations, Hargreaves had returned to his office at Hunstanton Police Station.
All things considered, this case was rapidly becoming a nightmare; a call to the Pathologist had left as many questions as it had answered. The boffins at Fort Halstead had still to report. He slumped into his chair.
His 'In' tray was piled high. He grabbed a report from the top. It concerned the serial sex attacker who had been terrorising the county.
So far, there was very little to go on. Four corpses, all blondes in their early twenties, had turned up. In every case, the victims had been bound and gagged before being strangled.
The Press, with all the imagination typical of their profession, had christened him 'The Suffolk Strangler', even though only a single case, the first, had occurred in that county.
Hargreaves realized his hand was numb; his fists were tightly clenched.
Like all coppers, he reserved a special sort of hatred for the sort of sub-human creature that could descend to such depravity.
Fairfax replaced the handset on the cradle. Of all the times for Fighter Command to arrange a Liaison visit. Oh, well, the Americans were usually pretty harmless. He looked at his note pad. Whoever this Colonel Straker was, he wouldn't find RAF West Raynham wanting.
Not for the first time, Ford was glad he kept a small travel bag at the Studio. Leaving his car in the car park, he'd taken the Underground to Euston, from where the Sleeper service would depart. Of course, he could have taken a service from nearby King's Cross but that would have meant trying to find overnight accommodation. Whilst he waited for the train to depart, Ford read the paperwork that Turnbull had given him. He barely noticed the motion as the train started to pull away from the platform. After stopping at Crewe, the train would run non-stop until just outside Edinburgh where the coaches would be parked in the carriage sidings until morning. The locomotive would then return to pull the train into Waverley Station, completing the journey just after breakfast time.
"Excuse me, Sir," Ford looked up from his papers. An attendant was standing beside him. "Your berth is ready if you'd like to follow me. He led Ford through to the sleeper coach, where he unlocked one of the cubicles. Ford entered. The facilities were basic; a small washbasin, chair and bunk bed were the only furniture. Ford sat on the lower bunk. It was comfortable, rather than luxurious, but it would do for the night. The Attendant handed Ford a card. "If you'd care to fill this in with your breakfast preferences and leave it outside, I'll be along later to collect it."
"Thank you"
"Will there be anything else, sir?"
"No, Thank you."
The attendant slid the door shut, leaving Ford alone once more.
He looked at the card he'd been given; after a moment's consideration, he made his choices, ticking them off on the card, before sliding the door open and placing the card in the holder.
Having closed and bolted the door, Ford settled down for the night. The gentle swaying of the carriage and rhythm of the wheels on the track were very restful. Within minutes, Ford was asleep.
The projectile glittered strangely under the lights of the microscope, defiantly keeping its secrets. Despite the tons of sand, intended to stop it, the projectile had embedded itself so deeply in the end wall that workmen had taken most of an afternoon to chisel it out of the brickwork. Remarkably, it showed no signs of scratches.
During the past two days, it had been subjected to all the standard tests, all of which had drawn a blank. Not only was the projectile of a type previously unknown to the RARDE scientists, it seemed to be made of a material unknown to terrestrial science. Even stranger, there also appeared to be no evidence of any propellant residue.
The copious notes, generated by the analysis, would be typed up in due course, eventually their way into a report which, after review by Dr Halliday, would be passed to interested parties at the Ministry of Defence in London. In the meantime a preliminary report would have to be telephoned through to Norfolk Constabulary. The scientist picked up the telephone receiver and dialled the number for the Operator. To make a telephone call on the public, as opposed to the Military telephone network, it was necessary for the switchboard operator to make the connection, having first confirmed that the call was official. Private calls, no matter how important, were frowned upon as an unwarranted use of Public funds.
"Can you give me an outside line please? Yes, it is official." The line clicked, to be followed by the soft burr of the dialling tone. Having consulted his notebook for the number, the scientist began to dial.
The telephone on Hargreaves' desk rang
He picked up the receiver: "Hargreaves…"
Ten minutes later, frowning, he replaced the receiver. He looked at the notepad – it was covered in the notes he had just jotted down. The official report would arrive in a few days but the notes he had taken would suffice for his initial report. Far from answering his questions, the call from Kent had raised more.
"So, Mr Ford, What do you know about earthquakes?
"Only that I don't want to experience one" smiled. Ford.
The train had pulled into Waverley Station a few minutes after eight o'clock.
To his surprise, instead of having to find a taxi, Dr Mackenzie had met him in person. Twenty minutes later, the two men were sitting in Mackenzie's office where the scientist began a brief introductory lecture.
"As you know, the Earth's inner structure is similar to that of an onion, with a central solid iron core, surrounded by a liquid iron outer core, itself surrounded by the semi-liquid mantle. On top of this floats the Earth's crust. Until a couple of years ago, it was commonly accepted that the continents floated on the mantle. This was known as the Continental Drift Theory and was originally proposed by Alfred Wegener in the early part of the century. Since then, a new theory has replaced it which suggests that the Earth's crust is split into a number of tectonic plates, each of which floats on the Earth's mantle. It seems that most seismic faults occur at the boundaries between these plates. So far, this theorem has held up. That is, until this week…"
"Oh?"
Mackenzie stood and strode over to a large map, pinned to the wall.
"As you can see from this map, the major faults are marked. Of particular note is the Anatolian Fault, which is where Asia is apparently colliding with Europe. The pins indicate the epicentres of earth tremors and -quakes."
"And that one?" Ford had spotted a lone pin, a long way from the others.
"That, Mr Ford, is the problem. That pin should, by rights, be on or near the Anatolian Fault. The fact that it isn't and other data indicate that that event was no ordinary quake."
"Other data?"
"The lack of any aftershocks. After a 'quake of that size, there is always some settlement of the rocks."
"Then what was it? The press release said that you had confirmed the Americans' assertion that it was a bomb.
"I wouldn't go that far; What I said was that there had been an 'Unexpected event with some similarities to nuclear tests and that such a test could not be ruled out. Look here:" He led Ford across to the table. The charts were laid out, side-by-side.
"As you can see, the seismograph traces are remarkably similar. In fact, I'd go as far to say that there is only one thing that prevents the Turkish event being a nuclear test."
"And that is?"
"The time, Mr Ford. Every Soviet test has taken place precisely on the hour.