They’ve located the fog,’ he announced sombrely. ‘It’s moving back north. Towards Winchester.’
12
Captain Joe Ennard took his seat in the cockpit of the giant Boeing 747, greeting his flight officers with a forced grin.
‘How was your day off?’ his Flight Engineer called out.
‘Terrific,’ Joe said without enthusiasm. He thought of his day with Sylvia, the day that had started so well and ended so miserably, while he ran through the checks before take-off. Pressing his transmit button, he asked Departure Control for permission to start his engines. He was acknowledged and permission granted. He began pulling switches with his First Officer and the jumbo jet rumbled into life. The noise increased the dull ache he had at a point just above his eyes.
He had spent the previous day in the New Forest with his wife in an attempt to recapture some of the zest they’d had for each other earlier in their marriage. She’d always known about his casual affairs over the past few years but had tried to accept them because of her own shortcomings. At thirty-eight his sexual drive had hardly diminished from the time he was twenty-five. Whether it would have been the same if their marriage had taken a normal course, he didn’t know, but the fact that she was so repulsed by the sex act had seemed to strengthen his demand for fulfilment rather than diminish it, despite the fact that he still loved her, he had been forced to look elsewhere for the important missing part of their marriage.
The irony was that he felt the guilt. She never spoke of his unfaithfulness, never blamed him for his misconduct. Often he found her quietly weeping, but they were never tears of accusation; only tears of regret. It had started two years after their marriage when they’d lost the baby. It hadn’t been her fault but nobody, not even the doctors, could convince her of that. Joe had been present at the birth and even now he could see the beautifully formed human being that had emerged from her womb, so tiny, so perfect – so dead. The doctors had all the answers, of course, but answers couldn’t bring the baby back.
Afterwards she was afraid that if she ever became pregnant again, the same thing would happen, and this had led to her frigidity. Even the precautions he took could not allay her fears and it wasn’t too long before he gave up trying. But they had still loved each other deeply and his casual affairs were just that. There was never any emotional involvement, just a physical act that offered him some release. Was it possible to be unfaithful yet still love your wife? He knew the answer, at least in his case, was yes.
And then yesterday. A day that was meant to bring them closer, to seal the gap that he felt was developing between them. The years of infidelity were finally beginning to take their toll and he had decided that he would no longer look outside his marriage for physical comfort. He had brought her down to the New Forest, where they’d spent so much time before they were married, to pledge his love and loyalty to her, that he would not let his body betray them any more, that there was still enough in their marriage to tie them together, to begin to build on again.
But in the fog that had suddenly enveloped them, she had told him she was leaving. She had found someone else who was prepared to live with her on her terms, who wouldn’t need others to satisfy his desires, who would be content to love her for herself and not her body.
He had been too dismayed even to plead with her.
That morning, he had felt a strange relief, almost as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He was free. It wouldn’t be him leaving her but the reverse. He didn’t have to worry about her breaking down because of the parting, she would be happy now. Perhaps it had been this which had bound him to her all these years; not love, but fear of hurting her when she’d already suffered so much. He even found it in himself to ask about the man. Who was he? Did he know him? Was he married? What did he do? He asked with no malice, with no thoughts of righteous indignation and she sensed this and answered his questions. His name was Kevin – Joe couldn’t remember the surname – no, he’d never met him, he was divorced, he was a radar engineer. She’d met him in London while Joe was away on one of his flights. They’d known each other years ago, before Joe, and hadn’t seen each other since. She was on a shopping spree and had bumped into him outside Heal’s in Tottenham Court Road. He was on his lunch break and he asked her to join him. She had.
Kevin had told her of his divorce three years before, but she’d said little of her relationship with Joe. At the end of the lunch, they both knew they’d felt a mutual contact with each other, reached out and been met as neither had been for years. He told her proudly of the new field he was helping to develop in radar and that at the moment he was based in London’s giant GPO Tower, promising her if she met him the next day he would give her a private tour of the fantastic building.
She broke her promise, but six days later, when Joe was away again, she rang his office at the Tower and arranged to meet him. That had been six months ago, and their feeling for one another had grown till neither wanted to live apart any longer.
She was surprised when Joe smiled at her and wished them both happiness. Was it really so easy to end ten years of marriage?
Joe had left the house and driven to Heathrow airport, the dull headache successfully excluding thoughts of his failed marriage from his mind. He didn’t bother to report the headache to the medical officer, considering the dull pain only a minor discomfort.
The 747 trundled towards its appropriated runway, taking its place in the queue behind the other waiting aircraft. The jumbo, weighing over three hundred and fifty tons and, although not fully-loaded, carrying nearly three hundred passengers, quivered with unreleased power.
Joe wiped the moisture from his forehead as he waited for the command from the Control Tower to get his aircraft moving. As always, it was a relief when the order came. The thrust from the four giant engines pushed him back in his seat and the jumbo rolled down the runway, gathering speed by the second. After six thousand feet he was able to ease back on the stick and bring the nose up, allowing the four main bogies to take up all the weight. Then the huge, clumsy beast was off the ground, gaining height, an impossible spectacle, but a triumph to man’s ingenuity.
The crew breathed their sighs of relief as the 747 circled the airport in an effort to increase height. There was always that tense moment when they wondered if the monster would rise or flop back to the ground, despite their years of experience that told them the former would inevitably be true.
Miller, Joe’s First Officer, grinned across at him. ‘New York City, here I come. And Beryl, my dear, am I going to fly you!’ He laughed at his own joke. Beryl was an air hostess belonging to a rival airline he had met at the John F. Kennedy Airport. Her company’s over-used slogan always tickled him.
He was surprised at his Captain’s lack of response to his joke. ‘You okay, Skip?’ he asked.
Joe Ennard stared ahead, his hands tightly clutching the stick before him.
‘Hey, Captain,’ called the nervous young Flight Engineer. It was only his second fight with Captain Ennard and he was still slightly in awe of the man. ‘Er, we’re a little off course.’
Miller didn’t even have to check his instruments. He could tell visually by merely looking down at the ground, still only ten thousand feet below. ‘You should be going that way,’ he said humorously, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘Skip? Hey, Joe!’
He reached across and shook Ennard’s arm. ‘You okay? Come on, Joe, snap out of it!’ He leaned forward anxiously to look into the rigid man’s face. He shook him again.
The blow from the back of Joe Ennard’s hand knocked him back into his seat and drew blood from the corner of his mouth. ‘Terry, get him!’ he yelled at the Second Officer as he turned to his own controls and tried to wrest them from the Captain’s iron grip.
The Flight Engineer unbuckled his seat belt and hurried forward, not sure of what he was going to do, reluctant to lay his hands on the Captain.
‘Pull him away from the controls!�
�� Miller shouted at him, his efforts to gain control of the giant machine useless without the Captain’s co-operation.
Terry grabbed at Joe’s hands and tried to yank them away, but the grip was too strong. He put his arm around the Captain’s neck and squeezed, pulling back at the same time. The First Officer tried to prise Joe’s fingers away from the stick. None of them heard the discreet but urgent tapping on the locked cockpit door; the Chief Steward was also worried about the direction of their flight.
Suddenly, in a swift movement, Captain Ennard released himself from his safety belt and rose as much as his cramped position would allow. A powerful man, and more powerful because of the madness within him, he lashed out at his First Officer, blinding him with his fist, sending him into a heap back in his seat. He drove an elbow into the Flight Engineer’s ribs, causing him to lose his grip and double up with pain. With another blow from his forearm, he sent him crashing back down the cockpit.
Miller was holding his head, rubbing his eyes so that he could see again. He screamed at the half-conscious Flight Engineer, ‘Get the gun! For God’s sake, shoot him!’
They kept the illegal gun hidden behind the transmit unit, a secret agreement among themselves and many other aeroplane crews, as a protection against the increasingly frequent hijackings.
His words were cut off as a two-fisted blow landed on the back of his exposed neck. He slumped forward on to his controls, unconscious.
Joe Ennard took his seat again and reached for the stick. The angry mechanical sound of the voice from Heathrow’s Control Tower buzzed through his head, filling the cockpit, but he ignored it. He looked down at London, searching for the tall familiar landmark, his eyes glazed but still seeing.
A grin of satisfaction spread across his features, a strange grin that bared his teeth, made his face skull-like. He’d found what he’d been looking for.
Terry slowly became aware of the frantic banging on the door. The Chief Steward had heard the commotion and was anxiously demanding that the door be opened, oblivious now to the fact that some of the passengers would hear. The Flight Engineer pulled himself groggily to his knees and looked towards the front of the cockpit. He couldn’t see Miller, but he could see the Captain hunched over the controls as though looking through the windows at something below.
He felt the aircraft go into a dive as the pilot pushed forward on his stick, felt all four engines being given full throttle and the great machine thrust forward with unbelievable power. Desperately, he reached for the hidden gun and fumbled with its safety catch. He crawled towards the pilot’s seat, holding it before him in a trembling hand.
‘Stop!’ he called out futilely. ‘Pull her out or I’ll shoot!’
He staggered to his feet, using the back of Captain Ennard’s seat to lever himself up. He raised the gun to the back of the Captain’s head, imploring him to pull back on the stick. Then his eyes fell on the building that was rushing towards them. He screamed as he squeezed the trigger.
Before the sound of the gunshot, before the Captain’s brains mixed with blood were spattered on to the instrument panel in front of him, Terry thought he heard him say something. It sounded like, ‘Good morning, Kevin,’ but the Flight Engineer had no time or desire to reflect on the words for his head was filled with its own terror.
The 747 jumbo jet exploded into the tall GPO Tower with a mighty roar that echoed throughout London, over three hundred and fifty tons of crashing metal that toppled the building as though it were made of children’s blocks.
13
Holman was driven to the Middlesex Hospital to pick up Casey with Detective Inspector Barrow acting as escort. The Home Secretary had made him a valuable man; the one person they had so far who had recovered from the effects of the mysterious fog. He would have to be examined and his brain patterns studied to find out how he had recovered – and if he were now immune. Casey was necessary too, as the nearest person suffering from the effects. Corpses would be flown up from Bournemouth by helicopter for autopsies to be performed on them in an attempt to discover exactly what damage had been done to their brain. Others, still living but insane, would be selected and flown up for further tests. But at that precise moment, John Holman and Casey Simmons were the two most important people in England.
From the hospital, they were taken by ambulance to the Ministry of Health building that was strangely situated at the Elephant and Castle. Holman sat in the ambulance looking down at Casey, who was under sedation, holding her hand in both of his, worried over the paleness of her features. He looked at his watch: 9.45. God, he was tired! He had thought it would be at least around noon. People were still scurrying off to work, their day just beginning, just hearing of the devastating news from the seaside resort. Would they panic? They’d certainly have to be given some answers. Who would they blame? The government? The Russians? The Chinese? Maybe some other countries for a change. Were there any friendly countries left? Even America was becoming hostile.
What excuse would the government give? Pollution? Would that play its part? God knows, he’d found enough evidence of the damage pollution could do in his job, but nothing of this magnitude, obviously. And the public weren’t that stupid any more. The media had broadened their minds, given them an insight, however vague, to things that years ago would have been completely unheard of, let alone believed. They would suspect a chemical, a poisonous gas, mistakenly unleashed by some scientific laboratory somewhere, and if they didn’t, he felt sure the media would point them in this direction.
If it hadn’t been so catastrophic, he might have enjoyed watching the officials trying to worm their way out from the responsibility. But then, there was always the doubt, the doubt that governments all over the world could so cleverly play on. Even he wasn’t sure if it was a man-made or freak-of-nature phenomenon; the tiny doubt in the back of his mind would prevent him from going all out to lay the blame on the Ministry of Defence’s doorstep. But if he ever found concrete proof . . .
A muffled explosion jerked him from his thoughts. The ambulance pulled to a halt and as he opened the back doors, he saw that all the other traffic crossing Waterloo Bridge had done the same. As he climbed down the steps, Barrow came running around from the police car that had been escorting them.
‘Look,’ he pointed, ‘over there!’
Holman followed his gaze and saw a great ball of smoke and flames rising from the direction of the West End. It snaked up towards the blue sky, a black, billowing cloud, violently red at its base.
‘What the hell is it?’ Holman asked nobody in particular, his question echoed by the other drivers who had emerged from their cars and were standing perplexed, staring into the sky.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Barrow, evenly, ‘but it’s coming from around the area of Tottenham Court Road. It might be just in front of the GPO Tower. If it isn’t in front . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.
Holman turned to stare at him. More muffled explosions came from the same spot and they could see flames shooting into the air.
‘It’s beginning to happen here,’ said Holman quietly.
‘What? No, we’ve had no fog here!’ Barrow retorted. ‘There’s no connection, can’t be!’
‘I wish we could be sure of that.’
Several groups of people had gathered and were talking excitedly, gesturing towards the black-stained day. Barrow walked over towards one of the groups and asked same sharp questions. A minute later, he returned to Holman.
‘There’s your answer,’ he said. ‘The people over there saw a jumbo jet circling over London. They said it was very, very low so they realized it was in trouble. Then it went into a dive. They think it hit the Tower, one old boy swears it did.’
Holman shook his head in disbelief. ‘It’s incredible. The school, Bournemouth – and now this.’
‘I just told you, it’s probably got nothing to do with the fog!’
‘I wish I could believe it, Barrow. I wish I could.’
Even in th
e bright sunlight, Holman felt a shiver run through him.
He was surprised at the vast basement area that was used for medical research beneath the Alexander Fleming House building. Even as a civil servant himself, he hadn’t known of its existence. They were met by the Chief Medical Officer, a fat, jovial man who explained, ‘I’m going to take you downstairs and hand you over to Mrs Janet Halstead, Principal Medical Officer for the Research Council. It’s a completely different department from ours, but they occupy that part of the building for good reasons. Their divisions of research are spread all over the place, the majority in London, but many as far as Scotland. When they need to get together on a project – and it has happened quite a number of times in the past I can assure you – they get together here. Needless to say, you’re bound by the Official Secrets Act to keep this to yourselves.’ He laughed at their serious faces. ‘It’s not that secret, you understand, but there are reasons for not letting it become public knowledge.’
They entered a lift, Casey having been taken through a more private entrance to the rear of the building.
A plump middle-aged woman wearing a white coat greeted them when the doors opened again. She stepped forward and shook Holman’s hand without waiting for an introduction.
‘You must be Mr Holman,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ve been reading about you from your file your department sent me. Your photograph doesn’t do you justice.’
Holman smiled back weakly, completely disarmed.
The Chief Medical Officer spoke up. ‘This is Mrs Janet Halstead. I’ll leave you to it then, Jan?’
She nodded and asked Holman and Barrow to follow her as the lift doors closed on the grinning Ministry of Health man. This was the Principal Medical Officer? Holman couldn’t help but smile. She was certainty sweet, but she looked no brighter than the average housewife. The day would prove her to be otherwise.
The Fog Page 15