He jumped up and opened the parasol that was used to shade the echo-sounder's screen from the sun.
"What's up, Tony?" one of his men asked.
"That rope's making rings," said Selby tightly, switching on the echo-sounder.
The men gathered around the instrument. The strange triangular anomaly that Harding had discovered with the echo-sounder showed up in the centre of the screen.
"Where the hell's the bathyscaphe?" someone asked.
The screen refreshed. Selby spotted the blob and pointed. It was not below the pontoon but was deflected some 20 metres off centre. The next screen refresh showed that the blob had shifted its position. A few more refreshes removed all doubt: the bathyscaphe was definitely swinging in a wide circle, furthermore the diameter of the circle was increasing inexorably.
"So what the hell's causing that?" Selby wondered.
"It's probably an upwelling current," Dayton ventured. "This lake's well-known for it. Storm water run-off from the downs. Last March the whole area was turned into a swamp. When those two men were drowned."
"But any upwelling would bring up bottom sediment," one of the winchmen said. "That picture looks clear."
Selby switched the echo-sounder's to profile. Instead of a downward view, the display showed a side view of the folds and slopes of the lake's bottom. The bathyscaphe was shown swinging towards the steep bank that they had been at pains to avoid when positioning the pontoon. Fogging around the bathyscaphe was possibly a cloud of sediment, suggesting that it had already been dragged through a fold. "Let's get her up," he ordered urgently, jumping to his feet. "We don't want her getting buried."
Even before he finished the sentence the echo-sounder's screen suddenly went blank. All five men on the pontoon felt the simultaneous shockwave that punched up from the depths. Tony Selby yelled an expletive. Before the two winchmen could reach the winch, the lake erupted all around them. A column of water exploded through the central hole in the raft and geysered into the air with sufficient force to tear away the steel "I" beam that had been supporting the bathyscaphe's weight.
Roger Dayton was the only man not thrown clear into the water as the pontoon was tipped up by the massive bubble exploding beneath it. His seafaring experience taught him to stay with his ship at all costs, so he clung grimly to the winch with all his strength as the world about him suddenly seemed to be standing on end.
During a particularly savage storm in the Indian Ocean he had been running before a banshee gale under bare poles with only a drogue sea anchor to maintain the yacht's heading. He had been about to inspect the drogue's straining sheets when a tremendous sea had thrown the vessel onto her beam ends before he had had a chance to secure his quick-release safety harness. He had wrapped his arms and legs around a deck stanchion rail as the raging seas boiled up to meet him -- praying that the iron tonnage of the yacht's keel would assert itself. After moments that had seemed like hours, the keel had asserted itself and rolled the vessel upright. Roger Dayton had clung on then and he clung on now. But this time it was his seafaring experience that killed him. That and the "I" beam that crashed down on his head.
Chapter 52.
MALONE'S MAJOR CONCERN AS HE STOOD before the 150 of his officers crowded into the operations room on that hot Saturday afternoon was how many of them were one hundred per cent trustworthy. He knew most of them by now but the number of recent recruits and the law of averages suggested that there was likely to be at least one among the gathering who, although not a supporter of Adrian Roscoe, would not be averse to receiving the cult leader's shilling in return for information. One was all it would take for Adrian Roscoe to be party to Malone's operational details to ensure the security of the coming evening's carnival. To minimize the consequences of a leak, Malone had appointed a hand-picked 20-strong armed unit under the command of Russell Norris as the `special protection unit'. They had already been briefed and knew their duties.
"To recap," he said, using a pointer to indicate the buildings around Market Square on a large scale wall map of Pentworth town. "All those I've assigned to roof coverage are to be in position by eighteen-hundred hours. The search units covering all the roads and passage ways into leading into Market Square are also to be in position by eighteen hundred. I stress that everyone entering the square must be searched. Members of the public already in the square when you go on duty must also be searched. There can be no exceptions, even if they're carnival organizers. The same goes for vehicles and wagons. All must be subjected to a thorough search. The carnival committee have given me a list of transports that will be bringing in barbecue supplies." He paused and added wryly. "Don't be put off checking sacks of charcoal. No one's going to have a go at you for looking scruffier than you usually are."
The comment was greeted with laughter.
"Any questions before we move on?"
"How many are expected, sir?"
"I can only go on the Mayday carnival figures. About one thousand three hundred. Any search unit that's under pressure can call on backup from the Delta unit."
Carol Sandiman slipped into the room and passed Malone a note: Serial 55. Fatal accident at the lake. Deceased: Roger Dayton. Chairman would like you to attend asap.
"I'm being called away," Malone told the gathering. "Russell will fill you in on dealing with the shops and the security arrangement for public buildings."
On the short drive to the lake, Malone picked up a radio interview with Adrian Roscoe. The poor quality of Pentworth's telephone system had little effect on the sonorous quality of the cult leader's voice, and, for once, he was talking in moderate tones that would be certain to impress listeners.
"All I know is what you've told me," Roscoe was saying. "But Pentworth Lake is, as we all know, at the exact centre of the Wall and is therefore the centre where God's almighty potent powers are concentrated. To probe or challenge those powers in any way is to invite retribution, and that seems to be exactly what has happened. I can only express my deepest condolences to Mr Dayton's widow. It seems that her husband was an innocent party who was cynically exploited to further the evil machinations of others."
Malone swore and turned the radio off. Everyone seemed to know what was going on except the police. Had anyone visited Mrs Dayton or had she learned about her husband's death on the radio? The lake came into view and his anger was forgotten. It was the same sickly mustard colour of churned sediment that he recalled from the previous March after the storms that had turned the lake's margins into an expanse of dangerous swamps. The artificial beach had been scoured by a wave that had nearly reached the road. The watchman's caravan was tilted at a crazy angle. The pontoon had been beached and there were several figures standing on it. The structure looked undamaged apart from the missing "I" beam.
The ambulance that was leaving the parking area stopped beside his Range Rover. Millicent Vaughan leaned across and confirmed that they had Roger Dayton's body on board and that he had been killed by an explosion under the pontoon.
"Mrs Dayton left five minutes ago," Millicent concluded. "She seemed okay -- taking it very well, but these things don't hit home until later. Delayed shock."
Malone thanked her. He left the Range Rover at the entrance rather than risk the heavy vehicle on the soft sand. The watchman standing nearby had a theory concerning the explosion.
"My dad told me about this Heinkel bomber, or it may have been a Junkers, that got shot down -- 1941 or 42. Pilot tried to land on the lake. They found some bits of wreckage. Wing and tail but most of the aircraft were never found. Lake too deep. So I reckon it was one of the 'plane's bombs that got set off."
Harding was tight-lipped and pale when he greeted Malone. Tony Selby and his men were examining the shattered remains of the bathyscaphe. Only a third of the original filter housing had been recovered. The rest had been blown out of the lifting harness and lost. The bright yellow glass fibre housing lay on the pontoon like a fragment of a bizarre egg.
Malone listened to
Tony Selby's account of what had happened.
"Did the bathyscaphe touch the bottom?" he asked when the engineer had finished.
"We think it may have done. But only briefly as it was swinging. Did George tell you about the Dornier?"
"He said it was a Heinkel or a Junkers."
"No -- it was a Dornier," said Selby. "1941. My grandfather was in the Observer Corps. It was heading for London when it was hit by Pentworth's one anti-aircraft gun. The only thing it did hit in the entire war. So the chances are that the bomber had a full payload of bombs on board."
"There was nothing that looked remotely like aircraft wreckage on the bottom," Harding observed. "You saw the echo-sounder's display, Mike. You were with me when I found the anomaly."
Malone made no reply. He asked Selby's men to prop the remains of the bathyscaphe on the winch so that he could take a close look at it. He tilted what was left of the base around so that it was in full sun and spotted a gleaming fragment of metal embedded deep in the glass fibre's yellow gel coat. He teased it loose with a penknife and slid it into an evidence bag. Several more fragments of the same material caught his eye and they, too, were added to the transparent bag. He passed the bag to Harding.
"They look like aluminium. About the right weight, too."
"That's what I thought," Malone replied. He took the bag from Harding and wrote some details on the paper tag. "This is one of those times when I feel nothing but envy for those TV cops who used to say, `we'll run it by the lab boys and see what they come up with' except that I don't need a forensic lab to tell me that the Gemans didn't make their bombs out of aluminium, and if they did, it wouldn't remain bright and shiny after nearly three-quarters of a century underwater."
Harding was nonplussed. "You think someone made a bomb?"
"I don't know what to think," said Malone wearily. He took Harding to one side. "All I know is that Roscoe was already making quiet capital out of this on the radio without histrionics or rhetoric. That this place is the centre of God's omnipotent power and that what happened here is divine retribution because we sought to challenge those powers."
"Shit," said Harding softly.
"Just what we wanted today of all days," said Malone wryly.
Harding stared at the fragment of his bathyscaphe. "I've asked myself if this could be due to some sort of defence mechanism used by the Visitors."
"My first thought," Malone replied. "But on past form, something as crude as an explosion is out of character for them. If they'd taken a dislike to your presence, they could've used their spyder to punch holes in the pontoon's oil drums, or something like that. I don't think they'd harm people permanently. In fact I know they wouldn't."
"We think alike, Mike. If the explosion was due to an external cause, the big question is whether or not it damaged the Silent Vulcan and whether or not the Visitors might construe it as a hostile act."
"How else would they construe it?"
"And whether or not they're still alive," said Harding.
"The echo-sounder was wrecked?"
"Totally."
"There's not much point in worrying about the Visitors right now," said Malone. "If they're alive, they'll probably let us know."
The police officer was being less than honest with Harding. In truth, Malone, having encountered the formidable powers of the Visitors at first hand the night before, was very concerned about the Visitors -- about their welfare and how they might react to this latest development. To what extent did Vikki's insistence that they could not harm people cover self-defence? How could he be sure that she had correctly interpreted that they had a code that prevented them harming people? The lives of 6000 people was an awesome responsibility that could not be left to chance and surmise.
"You could help a lot, Mr Chairman, if you went on the radio asap to explain about the German bomber and that the possibility is that one of its bombs may have been accidently set off during the test dive."
"I suppose that could be considered near the truth," said Harding doubtfully.
The comment irritated Malone but he didn't show it. "It's probably a damn sight nearer the truth than the story that Roscoe is promulgating."
Malone returned to the beach. Ted Savage and his Radio Pentworth gig had arrived. The radio reporter was interviewing a group of six angrily chanting demonstrators. Malone tried to ignore them but Ted Savage, his Uher tape recorder hanging from his shoulder, buttonholed him before he had a chance to get into the Range Rover.
"Michael Malone, the chief of the police, is with me now. Mr Malone, do you share Father Roscoe's view that the death of Roger Dayton is the result of God's retribution?" The microphone was thrust under Malone's nose.
"Of course it is!" a woman demonstrator yelled. There was a loud chorus of agreement from her companions.
"What happened here is that there was a tragic accident that resulted in Roger Dayton's death," Malone replied, knowing that he sounded ineffectual but unable to think of anything more positive off the cuff.
His comment provoked a storm of catcalls.
"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!" the woman shouted. "It's God's command in Exodus and we are paying the price for ignoring it!"
The hell of it was that a tiny but vociferous group of demonstrators would sound like a large crowd on the radio. Malone knew that attempts to reason with them would be futile.
"So what would you say in answer to Father Roscoe's assertions, Mr Malone?"
"I would say," said Malone, getting into the Range Rover and starting the engine, "that Mr Roscoe is prone to jumping to conclusions that don't fit the facts. The best thing is for everyone to listen to Bob Harding on the radio later today. He'll be making a full statement as to the likely cause of the explosion."
He drove away leaving Ted Savage's follow-up question unanswered. His black mood was not alleviated when he passed another knot of demonstrators heading towards the lake. From their placards, they weren't Roscoe supporters but those who liked the new life and resented attempts to interfere with the Visitors and their Wall.
Rather than use his radio, he found a public telephone and alerted the police station that a small crowd was gathering at the lake which required the cover of two officers. Diverting police on the one day when they were all being assigned was a damned nuisance.
The next problem was to get in touch with Vikki during the hours of daylight. The best thing would be to do it openly. Surreptitious behaviour was more likely to be noticed. Anne Taylor had warned him that her neighbours were incredibly nosey.
He parked outside her front door and rapped sharply, knowing that his knocking was probably stopping a few hearts inside. Anne opened the door. Before she could speak, Malone gathered her into his arms and gave her a net curtain-twitching passionate kiss. To his relief, she made no attempt to repulse him but returned his investment with interest.
"That's my reputation buggered," was Anne's rueful comment when Malone pushed her into the hall and closed the front door behind him. "Although it was pretty well wrecked by your leaving early this morning. Vikki was quite mortified. And I'm certain that nosey old Mrs Johnson across the lane saw you leave."
"The woman who thinks Himmler is her cat?"
"That's the one. She misses nothing. You're not due for several hours."
"You've heard the news on the radio?"
"About the yachtsman? Yes -- it upset Vikki."
"I need to talk to her." With that Malone went up the narrow stairs, two at a time and climbed the second flight to Vikki's attic bedroom.
Ellen, Claire and Vikki had heard his voice and were looking up expectantly when he entered the tiny bedroom. All three were sitting on Vikki's bed playing cards -- in compliance with Malone's strict instructions that they should not move about the house unnecessarily and risk being seen. The women had willingly accepted the restriction, knowing that the hour of their freedom was now close. The soulful eyes of Dario in his Zulu finery followed Malone from the life-size wall po
ster.
"Vikki," said Malone without preamble. "A word with you in your mother's bedroom, please."
"Of course, you know where it is, don't you, Mr Malone?" said Vikki tartly, following Malone down the stairs.
Malone sat the girl on Anne's double bed. He ignored the reproachful look in her green eyes and sat beside her. "Your mother says you've heard the news about the explosion at the lake?"
Vikki nodded. "That man who sailed around the world with his wife was killed."
"We think it may have been an unexploded World War II bomb."
"Well it's exploded now."
"We don't know what effect it may have had on the Visitors or how they may react. Vikki -- it's imperative that you get in touch with them and tell them it was an accident."
"Why?"
"In case they decide that it was a hostile act and react accordingly.
"They won't. I've already told you that they can't harm people."
"I have to be certain of that. So I want you to tell them that it was an accident."
"How?"
"Well I don't know. How do you normally get in touch with them?"
"I never have. They've always made contact with me."
"Well try."
"How?"
Malone checked an impulse to get angry with the girl. "I don't know, Vikki. Perhaps if you tried concentrating on them, they might hear you. Just try -- please."
Vikki closed her eyes tightly and screwed up her face. She opened them again after a minute and shook her head. "Nothing, Mr Malone. Perhaps the explosion killed them all?"
"Don't say that. We could be stuck with the Wall for ever."
"I've usually heard them clearly when the spyder's been near. And they've always been clear at the lake."
"Then we'll go to the lake," Malone decided.
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