Rollerball (Commander Shaw Book 17)

by Philip McCutchan

  “You mean — ”

  “I mean that for it to roll right on into the sea could be the answer. I can’t be sure, none of us can, but — ”

  “This would mean the removal of the blocks,” the admiral interrupted, staring at me in concern.

  “Yes,” I said, “it would. That’s just what I’m asking for. Nothing can be done — I’m convinced of this — while Rollerball’s in the fissure. We can’t do anything from the surface.”

  “But the whole security of my base now depends on the strongness of the blocks! I cannot jeopardise this.”

  “I advise it as the only way, Admiral.”

  Ashimov sat back, his arms outstretched against his desk.

  There was a look of Max, the same pugnaciousness, the same determination. Stiffly he said, “No. I am adamant.”

  I began to sweat. I didn’t propose to sacrifice everything on any admiral’s adamancy and I knew from past experience that few people could be as adamant, which is to say obstinate mostly, as admirals when they had made up their minds to it. Admirals, even communist ones, always know they are very important people and they always know they are right.

  I repeated my point, insistently. I said, “Once Rollerball’s out in the open, once it’s into the water, we have a hope. I believe it would simply go on rolling … right out of Russia.”

  Ashimov didn’t believe it. He began again on base security, saying that the blocks themselves were the best defence against the bacteria. I said, not if Rollerball blew up; and again I went into the business of heat and flame. Ashiomov sent for his staff medic, who gave it as his opinion that no bacteria or fungus spore would survive an explosion; for reasons I’d given Demichevich already I disagreed: Seiko had been a brilliant man in his field. But the medic was as dung-headed as his admiral. His opinion was sheer gold and I was a layman. I told him that I knew for a fact that the Fusarium Sporotrichoides spores were able to survive flame-throwers. An explosion, he said with a sniff, was hotter. I admitted the point, but said I was convinced Seiko could have produced a much more heat-resistant strain than had yet been known. The doctor simmered; we got nowhere fast. While we were doing that, a report came in from the team of geologists allocated to the base to take soundings, as it were, along the fissure. Rollerball was still coming in and still holding its speed. Just on the chance that it might be useful I asked the geologist who had brought the report what the possibilities might be of my penetrating the fissure somewhere between Rollerball and the naval base.

  The fissure, he said, was deep all the way in from the English Channel. The many strata would be difficult to penetrate, indeed impossible in the likely time available. There was the rock, he said. “What,” he asked, “would you do if it was possible to sink a shaft?”

  I said, “I don’t know. It was just an idea. If I can get into actual contact with Rollerball … My brain whirled; I was probably talking and thinking nonsense. I went back to my theme of getting the blocks removed and speeding Rollerball on its way. Perhaps the idea of good riddance had its attractions once it had churned around in the admiral’s mind. After more pressure he backed down a notch.

  “I will refer it to Moscow,” he said stiffly. “If approval is given, nothing must go wrong. You understand, Commander Shaw?”

  I said I understood very well; it hadn’t been hard to interpret the look in his eye. I just wished I had a lot more knowledge of Rollerball. For one thing there was the question of the timing of its self destruct. Where and when that took place was of vital importance to Russia. And to me personally.

  *

  With Demichevich I was taken down to the dockyard area of the complex. It was incredible; the massive blast-proof roof that Demichevich had spoken of earlier covered the whole of the external base area, though much of the place was in fact internal — right inside the new outer mouth of the fissure; offices, operations rooms and accommodation for the personnel had been cut out of the rock. It appeared to me to be impregnable — to everything except Rollerball, approaching along the one weak spot that led slap into the heart of it all. No wonder the Soviet leadership had been scared close to the point of war.

  We walked along the fissure mouth. The concrete blocks had been positioned farther in beyond the offices and accommodation units, where the cleft narrowed quite considerably. I could understand the admiral not wanting them to be opened up; they gave a feeling of some safety. But it was no more, I believed, than an illusion; their very presence tended towards a sort of Maginot Line mentality, a false sense of security. I put this to Demichevich. I said, “It’s not just the self destruct element, which may or may not be achieved by explosion — for all we know it could simply disintegrate — ”

  “In which case the disintegration would be behind the blocks, and safe.”

  “Not necessarily safe. The spores and bacteria would multiply, proliferate in their billions. The whole fissure would be lethal for ever, the very strata could become saturated and the diseases seep through to the surface, given time. Water supplies could be affected, just to mention one thing. Besides, there’s something else. It’s this: I don’t know a lot about Rollerball, but I have seen it in action. I’m beginning to think Seiko may have intended it to bore its way through the concrete, by means of its flanges. If that’s so, the blocks are going to be useless anyway. It’ll just go through regardless.”

  Demichevich was looking as though he’d lost all hope. He said, “And you cannot stop it.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “But as I told the admiral, it’ll be better rolling free.” From our tour of the base I’d seen that Rollerball would have a clear run right to the water if the blast-proof screens across the pens were lifted, and certain other clearance work carried out.

  *

  The tour of inspection had taken some considerable while and when we got back to Ashimov’s office he had news: Moscow had forbidden the opening up of the fissure. Ashimov was powerless; no use talking to him, and if — if — I was right about the sphere’s ability to crash through then perhaps it didn’t matter anyway, but the bore-through theory couldn’t be relied on. A word with Max might help. I was given the facility of a telephone and I called Focal House on IDD, not worried at this stage about security. The line, not being a security one, was poor and there was a technical hitch somewhere and it took me some time to get Max. When I did, he told me Fawcett had already reported Seiko’s suicide to the Foreign Office. I tried to pass a report of my own but he cut in on me — apparently he’d been trying to call me at the same time as I was calling him, just one of those things that had perhaps led to the hitch on the line. He said, “Two things. One: You remember the deposit Rollerball left up by Hawick?”

  “The spores — ”

  “Yes. They resisted the flame-throwers, right? But only temporarily as it’s turned out. At some risk to themselves, a team from Porton Down went up and collected all the excavated earth that had been contaminated. It was quite a lot — a couple of truck loads of polythene bags. They made tests and they’ve just reported to the Home Office. Flame does in fact kill the spores but only after initial proliferation of them. It’s a kind of two-stage thing. The first application of heat makes them breed, multiply, and the second kills them. Seiko had produced a new strain, an adaptation or development of Fusarium Sporotrichoides, and — ”

  I said, “I thought he might have done. You know what it means, don’t you?”

  “That they could survive an explosion?”

  “It wouldn’t be impossible, I imagine. The initial heat would lead to the proliferation — ”

  “Until they were subjected to more naked flame to burn them up. Well, that’s for you to work on, Shaw. See what you can make of it. What’s your plan so far?”

  I told Max that the only possible thing seemed to be to let Rollerball continue on course into the sea, which it might well do if the Russians would allow the opening up of the fissure. The constriction of that fissure was currently forcing its course; but the mome
nt it was free it would, I reckoned, react again to its programmed straight line, and that straight line led from the fissure exit along the channel into the Barents Sea.

  “The North Pole’s going to be happy about that,” Max said drily. “We know it can cross water. It won’t sink. In theory, it could cross the pole and keep on going around the globe until its motive power runs out — which I suppose it has to sometime.”

  I said, “All the same, I’d like you to make representations to the FO, Max. That fissure entry. I consider it vital.” I paused. “Pressures — you know?”

  He knew, but didn’t comment. I saw the look on Ashimov’s face as he overheard what I’d said. I could see no real prospect of a change of mind on anyone’s part. Ashimov hadn’t liked it from the start. Max went on, “Here’s the second thing I have for you: York police plus troops have turned their patch inside out. They found Seiko’s safe house and certain people, not all of them Japs, have been arrested and interrogated — without result, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is this: the police dug up what we believe is Seiko’s remote control canister, and — ” '

  “It can’t be,” I said. “Why hadn’t he got it with him when he tried to board the train?”

  I sensed Max’s shrug along the wire. “Redundant, possibly. I don’t say it’s the control for getting rid of Rollerball or anything like that. Could be just the initial means of getting the damn thing on track and down into the earth, but it may be of help.”

  “Fly it in by all means, though I don’t — ”

  “On its way,” Max said. “Fawcett told me where you could be found.” He put his phone down and that was that. I told Ashimov what was being flown in. I didn’t expect much of it; unless Seiko’s canister was accompanied by full instructions I could well do more harm than good. Then I went down again to the working part of the complex, taking a confirmatory close look at the lie of the basins and berths and the route from the fissure and checking on what would need to be shifted to clear the way for Rollerball if it emerged. This took some time. I’d almost finished when an aide came along and said I was wanted back in the admiral’s office. When I got there I found four men filling the place with their ominous presence. They were all done up in fur coats and fur hats and they looked like hardliners. They were; and they had come in post haste from Moscow. Why? Comrade Chairman Solushev had had second thoughts about Britain’s honesty and there had been a panic when Ashimov’s call had come in asking if he could re-open the fissure. The men had come to ensure that orders were obeyed, the fissure kept blocked. We were far from off the hook yet; Solushev saw any re-opening as giving the Western warmongers their chance. Out of it could come Rollerball. Couldn’t it?

  “Yes,” I said, beginning to sweat. “That’s the idea, in fact.” I tried to explain that it didn’t really help to leave the blocks in position; I put to the four men what I’d put to Demichevich, that Rollerball was likely to push through notwithstanding. Demichevich was in the office with me but was keeping a silent tongue and looking wary; there wasn’t going to be any pressure from him to have the fissure opened up. He could so easily be labelled as someone who had been tainted by contact with the West. The leader of the hard-liners closed the discussion with a snap.

  “The fissure remains shut. Admiral, you will ensure this. The order comes personally from Comrade Solushev.”

  The admiral was fairly granite-faced himself, but he couldn’t make it plainer that Comrade Solushev was always right. He practically grovelled at the name.

  One of the men from Moscow spoke to me. “You will be closely watched. We understand a package is coming for you from London. We understand that this can deal with Rollerball. This must be done without opening the fissure. Failure will lead to certain orders being given to our missile sites, our army, our navy and air force.”

  When I tried to explain that the coming package would probably be no more use than a fried egg, they wouldn’t listen and I saw the nuclear holocaust staring me in the face.

  15.

  I was taken to a bleak room with a chair, a bed, a wardrobe and a chest-of-drawers. Here I was to await the arrival of the package, now regarded by the four hard-liners as the panacea. Well, I’d done my best to tell them. The package arrived from London in a little over an hour, by which time some food had been brought to me by a naval steward, plus some nasty, raw red wine. I removed a sewn canvas wrapping, opened a protective wooden box, and there was Seiko’s control system. It was quite small, a metal canister a foot across, maybe a little more. There was an aerial, a collapsible one which I pulled out. I doubted if any transmission would penetrate to Rollerball while it was incarcerated in the earth, which was another possible reason why Seiko hadn’t bothered to take it aboard the train in York. Since the four men had come in with it and were waiting, I told them this.

  There was a heavy, suspicious silence. They just wouldn’t face facts. The set had to work and that was that. I looked it over. It was remarkably crude and basic, considering. There were three push-buttons and that was all I could find. No dials or anything of that sort. One of the buttons was painted red, another green, another white. They didn’t mean a thing. There was no indication whatever, either in Japanese or English, what those buttons meant or what would happen if I pressed any of them. I had a good mind to press all three at once and just see what did happen somewhere around the Russo-Finnish border but I resisted the temptation.

  “You understand the control?” one of the men asked.

  I thought I’d told him in the admiral’s office that I wouldn’t be likely to. “No,” I said. “Do you?”

  He was angry. “Do not make stupid jokes. The responsibility is yours.”

  I was angry myself. I said in disgust, “Well, I always did think some Russians were thick.”

  “Thick? What is this, thick?”

  “Never mind,” I said wearily. “It’s not important. I doubt if anything’s important any more — unless you get that fissure opened right up.”

  That, of course, was just as much of a non-starter as ever. It was so bloody cretinous. I couldn’t rely on my theory of Rollerball crashing through — not rely on it. Those blocks were as thick as the Russians; even Rollerball might grind to a halt in the debris and in any case would be delayed beyond the time it would take for it to roll unobstructedly on through a clear exit. Rollerball might not vanish entirely if given that clear run, but at least somewhere far out at sea in the Arctic wastes was a better place for it to be than going into a self destruct while crunching away at the stressed concrete and then shedding its bacteria-and-fungus cargo on the spot. I’d done some more wondering, in a frustrated sort of way, about the self destruct and the programme timing. With the ball having for some reason, possibly a fault, speeded up, it was in all probability going to arrive at the naval base ahead of the time set for the self destruct — another excellent reason for letting it go free before anything happened, rather than caging it in to carry out Seiko’s wishes when the time came. But I couldn’t make the men from Moscow see this. They had their orders from Solushev and that was that, and the control box was still the only salvation. I began to wonder if after all the leadership was really set on war now they had the excuse and all this was just moonshine, a smokescreen to cover the intent. Mysteries and enigmas … it would all be in character, perhaps.

  I began to see my job as one of outwitting the Russians. In the process I might save Britain and they would give me an OBE; but I wasn’t going to get those concrete blocks removed.

  I blew out my breath in frustration and asked for another word with the geologists. That was perfectly agreeable to the hard-liners and they went off reasonably chuffed that they’d forced me to co-operate. Half an hour after they’d left me, a geologist turned up, the same one as had come to Ashimov’s office. He told me that Rollerball was now passing into Russia and its speed was constant.

  “And positively no way down into the fissure?” I asked.

  He said, “I a
m not certain … not so certain now. There is a possible place, yes.”

  “Tell me more,” I said. The geologist was looking worried; I had the idea there had been certain pressures from the hardliners to find some method of entry after they’d digested what I’d had to say. That impression grew as the geologist explained. It didn’t sound hopeful but it was a case of any port in a storm, I supposed. Further examination of his maps and graphs and readings had thrown up a spot where it might be possible to penetrate. Just might — no more than that. It was the point of least depth combined with least rock cover and there might just be time to sink a man-sized shaft before Rollerball passed the spot.

  I asked why he hadn’t suggested this earlier and his noncommittal shrug gave me the answer: it was basically a bum idea and it was going to be dangerous to say the least. So was nuclear war. I took a deep breath and said, “Let’s go and see the admiral — at once.”

  *

  The admiral agreed, so did the men from Moscow, and I was trucked out to the spot, around forty miles south-west, along with the geologist and Demichevich and a hole-sinking crew with their mountain of gear — generators, drill bits, scaffolding, an implement like an outsize corkscrew or a number of small ship’s propellers joined together — following in a couple of articulated vehicles. The night drive was taken at breakneck speed; on arrival at a spot of utter desolation covered with snow, arc lights were set up and the work began. First the snow was cleared away quickly with flame-throwers; then, when the gear was all set up, the sinking and widening of the shaft began at once. I walked up and down with Demichevich, trying to keep warm. It was a really bitter night, and my thoughts and anxieties were as bitter too. After an hour’s work the shaft didn’t appear to have made much progress and my impatience grew like a fever. Then I wondered if the effort was worthwhile anyway and decided I would take a big risk and find out if a transmission or impulse could penetrate the strata. After all, in due course I was going to have to use that control box without knowing how to. I might as well try now.