by Nick M Lloyd
Tim checked his watch – almost midnight.
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SpaceOp, Anglesey, Friday 26th April
Tim woke up in the server room at six o’clock. He’d shared the tracking activity through the night with Sam, each of them taking turns to ensure MIDAS was working whilst the other slept.
It had not been a comfortable place to sleep.
God knows how Sam managed.
Getting out of the chair and stretching, Tim wandered over to her. ‘You were supposed to wake me at five. What’s new?’
‘I couldn’t sleep anyway,’ said Sam. ‘Radiation damage in Liverpool is severe. The wind has apparently shifted and a heavy dose of radioactive dust will hit Wales.’
Tim looked at the tracking function. Three thousand more Anglesey refugees had arrived in the last few hours. ‘How’s it looking at the Hot Zone?’
‘No idea,’ said Sam. ‘But I can show you this.’
She accessed the only two webcams that MacKenzie had authorised in SpaceOp. One was a long-distance shot of the launch pad – empty. The second was an external shot of Mission Control.
MacKenzie clearly wasn’t taking any chances. Work teams in hazmat suits were everywhere with rolls of tape, sealing the cracks in the windows and doors.
‘Shall we go up?’ asked Tim. ‘See if we’ve got any new instructions?’
‘I’ll stay here,’ said Sam, kneading life into her legs.
‘Sure.’
Tim walked back up the sloping corridors onto the main floor. One of the screens was displaying a new United Nations broadcast.
Four launches scheduled for Sunday
(RL1) SpaceOp – UK
(Test) European Space Agency – French Guiana
(Test) San Marco – Kenya
(Test) Esrange – Sweden
Our Ankor allies are entirely supportive of the efforts. UN population must seek to remain calm in light of the recent accidents
Dexter was at his desk, looking like he hadn’t slept at all.
‘So, we’re first,’ said Tim, nodding towards the screen.
‘Never in doubt, given MacKenzie’s ability to focus all his resources,’ said Dexter.
‘How are the refugee arrivals going?’ asked Tim, sliding into the seat next to him. ‘Is the tracking working?’
‘Like a dream amongst nightmares,’ said Dexter. ‘At three-ish we had crowds forming at the main gate. The Leafers were very slow to shuttle people into the Hot Zone – they were searching everyone extremely thoroughly before letting them in. Luckily, MacKenzie made a personal trip to the gate and now it’s flowing smoothly.’
‘Has anyone gone over to the Hot Zone to help?’ asked Tim.
‘No-one is allowed near there. You can imagine how Tosh feels about that,’ said Dexter, opening a new screen. ‘I’ve got this, though.’
Tim looked at the screen. It was a grainy long-distance shot of the Hot Zone.
‘It’s a webcam on our internal network,’ said Dexter. ‘MacKenzie allowed it for fire safety purposes.’
‘Are there more of these?’ Tim thought that CCTV and webcams were forbidden.
‘Hardly any.’
The camera was most likely fixed on the roof, or upper wall, of Mission Control. It showed the main receiving Hot Zone warehouse surrounded by a morass of chain-linked fences and gates. People were arriving by SpaceOp shuttle bus into a holding area about one hundred metres from the warehouse, and forming a queue.
They watched for five minutes as two shuttle buses emptied, and the people were led inside by Leafers in hazmat suits.
A large eighteen-wheeler truck arrived via the eastern perimeter road and drove up to the second warehouse.
‘Food and bedding,’ said Dexter.
The MIDAS news server pinged.
A new breaking story opened, with a video feed. The screen showed Chinese soldiers surrounding a large telecommunications installation outside the city of Xian. The news ticker at the bottom of the picture indicated that all private enterprises providing internet services were being nationalised to help the Chinese government control the flow of data.
‘They’re switching the power off,’ said Dexter. ‘No more internet for the Chinese.’
Good news for Sam’s Triple-Bs … the Fiery Fuyang Fatales, not so much.
Tim couldn’t help thinking about all the times Sam’s team had lost to their Chinese rivals.
Would she play again? Tim wasn’t sure. Doubts that had been gnawing at him, and the rest of the world, persisted. It seemed likely that the Ankor would not be operating in the way they were if it was a ‘simple’ invasion or annihilation. But equally, if the Ankor had arrived for their stated – purely benevolent – reasons, then their communication policy was appalling.
Poor communication was the only hard evidence of wrongdoing. The A-Grav explosions could be part of a planned destabilisation process, but equally could be accidents.
‘How are the warehouses in the Hot Zone connected?’ Tim asked Dexter.
‘Some tunnels,’ said Dexter. ‘Some trenches.’
A new MIDAS alert screen opened.
Liverpool Radiation
Initial calculations imply fissile material is Uranium
Radiation levels at ground zero less than 3 Sieverts
Minimal risk of excess Nitrogen-14
Cloud drift yielding 0.001Sv
Tim checked the internet. At those levels, anyone with a few inches of concrete over their heads would probably be safe.
Assuming nothing worse happened.
One thing was certain. The bridges were shut. Neither he nor Sam would be leaving Anglesey any time soon.
CHAPTER 23
Westminster, Friday 26th April
Military discipline allowed Martel to exude an air of calm whilst internally he seethed. Vital minutes were ticking away. An hour previously, he’d requested that the prime minister give him permission to land ten helicopters full of armed British soldiers to secure the launch capability at SpaceOp. By now, he was meant to be back at Porton Down with Captain Whaller finalising the plan.
Unfortunately, the standing rules regarding engagement with the Ankor meant he needed face-to-face confirmation from the prime minister.
‘Sorry to keep you,’ said Timbers, entering the room. ‘I’ve had a meeting with the other party leaders, the cabinet secretary, the home secretary, and the minister of defence. The final decision is that we do not send the helicopters.’
Wrong decision …
‘There’s simply not sufficient evidence of wrongdoing. Fanatical compartmentalisation is not a crime,’ said the prime minister, referring back to Martel’s recent report on the prevailing operating conditions in SpaceOp.
‘Given the stakes, Prime Minister,’ said Martel, ‘it feels prudent to add a level of control.’
‘Politically,’ said the prime minister. ‘An invasion of SpaceOp will not play well with a public who already mistrust the government’s ability to protect them.’
Martel stopped himself from reminding Timbers that he’d wanted far larger exclusion zones around the A-Gravs.
‘Simply put, they trust MacKenzie more,’ said the prime minister. ‘The people want a working shield and they trust MacKenzie to deliver it.’
‘Is it a question of there being insufficient excuse to land?’ asked Martel.
At this clearly pointed question, Timbers raised an eyebrow. ‘Casus belli?’
‘Within the next few hours, I will have undercover operatives inside SpaceOp posing as refugees from Anglesey. They can be instructed to cause enough disturbance that the British army would have a good reason to intervene.’
The prime minister paused to consider the offer.
‘It can all be done in twelve hours,’ said Martel.
The prime minister shook his head. ‘No. The decision remains. You cannot send the army onto SpaceOp property without my explicit permission.’
Martel was used to taking orders, but, in twe
nty years, he’d never been given one he’d disagreed with so fundamentally. He accepted that his team had not found any evidence of the Ankor, or MacKenzie, doing anything wrong, but his instinct was to halt the launches until a full inventory of all payloads had been analysed. Currently, his team only had time to spot check a sample of payloads and SpaceOp was such a convoluted warren he could not be sure those containers weren’t being switched.
It shouldn’t have come as so much of a surprise; the prime minister had made remarks on the radio a few hours earlier endorsing MacKenzie’s position. It was just that Martel was used to politicians saying one thing in public and then being more … pragmatic behind closed doors.
‘Final decision?’ asked Martel.
‘Yes,’ said Timbers.
They shook hands and Martel left the room, his mind whirring. He needed a way to protect the British population in spite of the prime minister’s intransigence.
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Later that day
Approaching the Liverpool ground zero by helicopter, having picked up Captain Whaller, Martel reviewed the situation.
Only moments before, the prime minister had given one of his twice daily public broadcasts. The salient bit underlined Timbers’s resolve in the matter of MacKenzie and SpaceOp.
‘… I know the sorrow I personally feel for those killed or injured in the Liverpool blast reflects the sorrow felt by the whole country. It has made me more determined to deliver on the shield – working closely with the Ankor and with Francis MacKenzie.’
Martel leant in close to Whaller, raising his voice over the whine of the helicopter’s rotor blades. ‘What happened to Jones?’
Whaller had been working in Porton Down on weaponry options for four days straight, but had also taken the recent report from Lieutenant Briars – the on-site lead at SpaceOp.
Corporal Jones, one of Briars’s on-site liaison team, had been sent to the Royal Liverpool Infirmary.
‘Last night he complained of severe stomach pains. This morning, the doctor sent him to the hospital,’ said Whaller.
‘Any suspicions?’
‘He’d been in the Hot Zone all of yesterday,’ said Whaller. ‘He said he didn’t eat or drink anything there, neither was there any unexpected radiation.’
‘What’s the latest status of the Hot Zone?’ asked Martel. The liaison team had been shown around it twice now. There were at least three floors below ground level with huge empty rooms.
‘The preparation for plutonium storage is accelerating: giant safes, internal gates, and a conveyor system linking to the monorail that feeds the Storage and Assembly Zones,’ said Whaller.
Martel consulted his mental map of SpaceOp. The Assembly Zone was the last stage before launch, where the rocket was put together. The Storage Zone was where all the underlying shield materials were held and sorted. Crates from production centres all over the UK were sent to Storage where they were transferred into standardised containers.
‘Still just as busy?’
‘Briars says it doesn’t stop – all day and all night.’
‘Seems like a lot of materials,’ said Martel.
‘The Storage Zone is also being used as one of the secure locations for A-Grav fit-out materials.’
‘A-Gravs? On MacKenzie’s precious SpaceOp soil?’
Whaller shrugged. ‘Obviously there are lots of shield components too.’
Martel kicked himself. He should have been more forceful with the prime minister. The continuing issue remained, however. There were very few facts: the Ankor refused to communicate in a useful bilateral way – with some human apologists mumbling about cultural contamination, the devices deployed by the Ankor had killed tens of thousands of people across the globe. The remaining A-Grav units – if they were bombs – were well positioned to kill a few billion more.
Beneath him, cars streamed along the motorways leading out of Liverpool, with the British army was overseeing the exodus. Tanks and armoured personnel carriers deployed at major road junctions ensured a systematic process. Not that there hadn’t been some escalations. Since the explosion, forty people had died from causes not directly related to the nuclear blast: rioting, looting, settling scores …
The country was perhaps only one more shock away from total anarchy.
It will take more than a set of personal emails from the Ankor to calm people if another A-Grav blows.
As they approached the blast site, Martel turned to Private Hunter, shouting over the noise of the helicopter’s rotors. ‘Where’s Captain Ulfsater?’
‘At the two-mile perimeter, sir,’ said Hunter.
‘Great, please take us in.’
Regarding the installation in Liverpool, Martel had already spoken to the army team several times by radio. Their stories were consistent and plausible. They had followed the installation instructions to the letter, and no-one had been allowed close. However, given the Ankor could be intercepting and faking all those radio conversations, Martel had decided to make the trip.
Of course, his true line of investigation was with Francis MacKenzie in Anglesey. Martel checked his watch. Whether the Ankor were culpable or not, the Liverpool tragedy had afforded Martel the opportunity to send in his undercover team posing as refugees – they would be arriving soon.
As the helicopter landed, Martel was met by Captain Ulfsater from the Royal Engineers who gave him a face-to-face – albeit behind hazmat suit masks – briefing of the situation in Liverpool.
The A-Grav itself had been entirely vaporised in the explosion, but Ulfsater showed video footage of the installation. Again, this could be faked, but in Martel’s mind it provided confirmation the A-Grav had been installed correctly.
Looking around, Martel could see the emergency response team had deployed incredibly effectively and quickly. ‘How did you get it all in place so soon?’
‘I’m told the Ankor provided emergency supply chain assistance,’ said Ulfsater.
Maybe they have a guilty conscience?
Martel switched subjects. ‘Do you have analysis of the projected radioactive cloud?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ulfsater. He opened a window on his tablet and showed the predicted track of the radioactive cloud with speed, bearings, and radioactivity levels. ‘We have real-time verification: there are three aircraft tracking the extremities of the cloud and sending us continuous readings.’
The cloud was drifting westwards across north Wales. Evacuation of a ten-mile corridor running south-west from the Liverpool explosion site was ongoing.
‘We’ve been lucky,’ said the captain. ‘Prevailing winds could have taken the cloud over densely populated urban areas.’
Martel looked around. The army cordon here, at the two-mile perimeter and upwind of the explosion site, also held one of the decontamination units and it was still processing civilians.
A line of about one hundred people stood waiting at the hastily erected Portakabins that housed the various scrubbing, sluicing, and garment-burning equipment.
On one side of the main Portakabin was a line of nervous looking people, scratching at their arms, reassuring their children, and pulling at the scarves that they’d tied over their faces.
On the other side was a series of shuttle buses loading ‘clean’ people for resettlement. These people were all wearing standard issue grey tracksuits and were wrapped in silver foil blankets. In most cases, they were holding tightly on to young children, who, between sobs, were asking questions that couldn't easily be answered.
Martel knew one thing. His team in Porton Down would be halving their efforts in looking for proof of wrongdoing by MacKenzie and the Ankor, and doubling their efforts investigating potential counter-measures.
Guilty until proven innocent.
CHAPTER 24
SpaceOp, Saturday 27th April
With Juan escorting him, MacKenzie descended from his office to the main floor and then through the security doors. Next, he took a staircase down to the laboratory occupi
ed by Kusr.
Decision time.
There were just under twenty hours before Rocket Launch One and it was time to select one of two metaphorical buttons to push. Start the processing to support the Ankor, or cleanse all traces of collusion and uncover evidence of Ankor ill will towards humanity … perhaps even send them an unwelcome gift in RL1.
It was not clear-cut.
The Ankor had hit four cities with ‘accidental’ A-Grav releases. The only plan they’d ever discussed had been for three. Washington had been an extra. It went directly against the ‘sanctity of life’ tenet the Ankor continuously preached.
Every single death they caused was meticulously calculated towards their goals.
Why did you hit Washington?
It was possible that the radiation leak could be a warning to the USA, who were being generally surly and uncommunicative.
Or it could be a gift to China.
If China was in collusion with the Ankor, then his own negotiating position would be gone. Recent news items concerning the Chinese shutting down the internet hadn’t altered his opinion at all: bluff, counter-bluff, and misdirection – these were all standard tools the Ankor wielded with ease.
Reaching into his pocket, MacKenzie fingered the packet of diazepam. He’d taken two the night before to get to sleep, and one more that morning to get out of bed.
MacKenzie entered Kusr’s laboratory and indicated for Juan to stand to one side.
‘Good afternoon, Dr Kusr,’ he said, looking around the benches for signs of progress.
‘Mr MacKenzie,’ said Kusr, flinching as her gaze flicked past Juan.
The neon strip lighting gave a harsh blue-white glare to everything. The confined space was oppressive. ‘Anything to report?’ he asked.
Kusr looked over towards a sealed chamber with a glass front. ‘It’s stable.’
‘Completely?’ asked MacKenzie, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.
Kusr nodded and indicated for MacKenzie to inspect the chamber. ‘I have all four configurations of neural link working. They’ve been stable for over ten hours of continuous information exchange.’
Behind the glass, two rats were strapped down on a wooden board, comatose. Each one had a series of ten fine wires coming out the base of its neck. In each case, the wires led into a small computer in the corner of the sealed chamber.