THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY

by Peter Damon

  +++++++++++++

  It was still dark and quiet at the Edwards Air Force Base in California, just northeast of Lancaster.

  The doors to hanger 49 were open, despite the early hour, and a large and strange aeroplane was being pulled out, its matt black surface making it near invisible in the darkness. A team of men checked the vehicle while six heavily suited men walked the short distance from the adjoining office to climb slowly and cautiously into it.

  For 20 minutes, nothing seemed to happen, then a single light appeared from beneath the plane’s thick fuselage, lighting the tarmac just in front of its front wheel, and with a burst of sound from its engines, it moved slowly forward.

  The men left on the tarmac were silent as they stood together to watch the near invisible aircraft taxi to the end of the runway, and turning into the wind, open its throttles.

  The sound didn’t reach them until the aircraft had sped past, and then it was a deep roar that shook and buffeted them, making them grin towards one another before they ambled back to their vehicles to see if there was any chance of sleep before dawn.

  The aircraft headed upwards at a steep climb, every man on board checking details of the aircraft’s operation as they continued to climb.

  “How we doing, gentlemen?” the pilot asked, reaching a height of 30 kilometres before turning towards the southeast.

  “We’re good, Captain,” he was told.

  The captain looked out of the small window at his side and admired the view as the aircraft reached 40,000 metres. The sun was on the curved horizon while a vast sky curved above them, darkening towards the west.

  “Control, Edwards Base, this is X40-B ready for ignition of primary engines,” he told his controller back in California.

  “Thank you XB40-B, you are clear for launch,” he was told.

  “Hold tight folks,” the pilot chuckled, and pressed the app on his screen.

  A new roar filled the cabin as new engines ignited. The crew were thrust back into their seats as the aircraft surged forward, and upwards. A head-up display allowed the pilot to read off his speed and rate of climb, because he wouldn’t have been able to lower his head to view his instrument panel even had he tried. Outside, darkness turned to light as their speed took them across the USA and over the Atlantic, by which time they had climbed to over 100 kilometres, and were continuing to climb. The burn ceased and a silence fell. A stray pen floated serenely past the pilot to nudge the screen, and reverse on itself.

  He caught it, and gazed down at earth through the small side window. “Looking good, Edwards,” he murmured.

  “Well done, Captain. You rendezvous with the space-station in 20 minutes.”

  “Copy that, Edwards.”

  +++++++++++++

  Robert took the train to Cambridge, and the shuttle-bus to the Cambridge Airport. The Cambridge Annex building was still there, but the name over the door had been removed, and the offices and reception rooms were empty, derelict, a bare reminder of the days that had been, but were no more.

  Robert wasn’t sure what he was looking for, and so wandered around the small airport building, casting about and peering down corridors, waiting for someone to notice him and take action.

  It didn’t take long; a well dressed gentleman came to stand in front of him, showing him his identification before quietly asking him to accompany him to a security office. Robert offered no resistance.

  They took his press card and sat him in an interview room with no handle on the door, and he waited there for half an hour, only sipping the cold tea when he absolutely had to. Michael had been right about that too.

  He smiled when Stanley Charway arrived, shuffling on his chair at the memory of their last meeting when he’d been accused of knowing about the ARC months before it became public knowledge. How far he had come, he reflected.

  “What are you doing here?” Stan asked him with familiar bluntness.

  Robert glanced towards the CCTV unit in the corner of the room.

  “It’s not on,” he was told, and Stan sat down to watch him with a degree of boredom. “Well?” he asked.

  “I need to get into the States to see an American student involved in tracking Freedom One. I’m not going to get close to him as a British journalist,” he explained.

  Stanley shook his head and snorted. “And you think I’m somehow going to help you?” he asked.

  Robert grinned and nodded. “Michael told me I could trust you to do the right thing,” Robert told him quietly, one conspirator to another.

  Stanley snorted again and stood to walk round to the door and bang on it. When it opened, he spoke to the sergeant outside the door. “Throw him out,” he said, and grinned maliciously at Robert’s cry of indignation.

  “On second thoughts,” he called from half way down the corridor, just as the sergeant began to propel an angry Robert towards the emergency exit door at the other end of the corridor. Robert lost his worried look to look hopefully towards the stooped secret service man. “Escort him to the railway station and make sure he gets on the London Express. He has no business being here.”

  +++++++++++++

  Robert got back to his London apartment and kicked with frustration at his post lying on the doormat. The letters scattered across the hallway. One, a brown A5 envelope, skidded along the entrance-hall face up, the address label conspicuous for only having his name on it; no address or postage stamp.

  Stooping, he picked it up and tore it open, smiling with relief as he saw it held and American passport, his picture, but in the name of Robert Craig.

  July 4th.

  Paul and Gail sat side by side to share the same monitor, working from the same display rather than bring up their own; it was easier that way.

  “Larry’s cut?” Paul was asking.

  “Not deep. No stitches needed, and obtained in the garage, not in space,” she told him, saving him from having to read her notes.

  Paul sighed and shook his head. Most injuries were, in fact, the result of accidents on board the ship. Very few were caused while out in space, and if they were, as in Maddy’s case, then they tended to be bruises and sprains.

  Injuries of any nature limited the spacemen’s capabilities though, and the very first thing to be withdrawn, was their ability to go into space.

  “And Maddy?” he asked. Her knock had been taken five days before.

  “Nearly healed. Another couple of days,” Gail murmured, looking forward to another opportunity to check it out. She pulled her mind from the thought and showed Paul the Peak Activity chart; a vivid representation of the spacemen’s physical exertion while working in outer-space and a measure they routinely analysed.

  +++++++++++++

  Robert spent a couple of days checking out the University of Arizona campus, talking to the receptionists and support staff in several of the colleges, learning the places preferred by the Honours students and laughing at the shenanigans of the Cambridge students who had recently joined the university, assisting one of the up and coming students, James McMillan. It was always difficult for students who arrived from another university, irrespective of the university’s stature, and it sounded as though the two from Cambridge had come in for quite a lot of stick.

  July 4th was a national holiday in the USA, and the large university campus was full of events, some purely social, but most of them sports-related.

  Armed with transport, Robert attended a number of them, those he thought the British students might enjoy, and wandered around hoping that, if he didn’t notice them, they may notice him.

  By mid afternoon he was wilting under the strong Arizona sunshine, and still no sign of the students, or indeed, anyone who knew them, or of them.

  He was about to give up on the day when, leaving the football stadium at the end of the game, he noticed a large neon sign advertising The British Pub, a theme bar that was just round the corner, on Campbell Avenue and East 6th Street.

  Feeling thirsty anyway, Robert turned into
the car-park and made his way into the public bar, snorting at the American image of an old English bar.

  He’d only been standing at the bar for a few minutes, waiting to be served, when the sound of his name made him turn.

  “Robert? Is that you?” Derek Smyth cried from just a few paces away, a pint of real ale tucked against his side while, beside him, looking just as surprised, stood the short figure of Andrew Winn.

  Robert grinned with relief, just as the barman came forward to serve him. “Another?” he offered, not surprised when both students nodded energetically.

  “What you doing here?” they asked of him, gathering in a corner of the busy room, their fresh pints safely in front of them.

  “My surname is Craig, and I want a chat with your boss without too many people listening in,” he explained, breaking into a grin as the two of them looked towards one another in shock, and them whooped with glee.

  “This for the ARC?” they asked.

  “Something like that,” Robert agreed. “It’s about what’s happening now; the asteroids,” he told them.

  “He’s the one to talk to,” they agreed. “Did you know; he can see the ferry pushing the asteroids our way?” they asked him.

  “He’s good then?” Robert asked.

  “He’s brilliant. Really. Bit weird, but brilliant,” they agreed.

  July 5th.

  Robert had only just got back to his motel room when he heard his phone buzzing angrily from his jacket and retrieved it.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Robert Craig?” Sam Briton asked from his London office, suppressing all of his questions in case others were listening on the line.

  “It’s just after midnight here,” Robert answered, giving his location by time zone while struggling to get out of his jacket and turn up the air conditioning at the same time.

  “And it’s already mid afternoon in China,” Sam told him.

  Robert frowned, giving up on movement while he considered Sam’s statement. “Is something up?” he asked.

  “Best check out CNN. Looks like China has just spread its bamboo curtain right across the world,” he told him.

  Robert turned on the motel TV and searched through the sixty odd channels for a news program, sitting heavily on the corner of the bed as the presenter gave ominous warnings about the future. China had closed its borders. Flights en route to Chinese locations were being diverted while all foreigners already in China were being told to attend administrative centres for a review of their visas. Cross-border communication had been cut, with all telephony and internet access closed. Chinese outside China were being urged to return home.

  “What does it mean?” Robert asked, calling Sam back on his mobile number.

  “We don’t know. I forgot you were on holiday.” Sam told him, giving anyone listening a reason for Robert being there.

  “Ok, well, I’ll keep in touch and see you in a week,” he replied, and closed the link.

  The news channel continued to repeat what little it knew. With no communication with anyone inside China, they knew little of consequence. Robert trolled the media stations for a further hour, then went to bed to stare up at the ceiling, feeling very alone.

  +++++++++++++

  Frank had been enjoying a few moments with Juliet when the alarm rang inside his ear. She looked shocked when he sprang up, a problem with that form of communication being that no one else was aware of it.

  “Sorry, got to go,” he told her, tapping the side of his head to let her know he was hearing something. Allan was telling him injuries were only minor, which raised its own alarm bells in his head.

  Despite always telling his people never to run anywhere, he sprinted down the corridor, electing to take the stairs rather than the lift, if only to kill off some of the adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream.

  He reached the control-room and stopped, staring at the asteroid that tumbled along, the wreck of an SUV at one end of the rock, odd pieces of the SUV now tumbling with it, caught in its pocket of light gravity. Despite their distance from the sun, the pieces of freshly broken metal glinted as they spun out into space.

  “Who?” he asked while his mind automatically reviewed the remains to establish what could be salvaged.

  “Tony, Bic and Dave,” Allan told him. “They’ve been picked up and have already had a quick check-up by Paul over the wireless. Tony has a broken arm, the other two have concussion and bruises. They’ll arrive shortly and Paul is at the docking bay.”

  “Serves them right,” Frankie told him, thinking of the further reduction in spacemen, if only to stop him thinking of how much worse it could have been. Tony had a wife, Abigail, a small woman with a shrill voice that was instantly recognisable. The last thing he ever wanted to do was tell someone that their partner had just died, least of all Abigail.

  He keyed a channel on his suit. “Maddy?” he asked.

  “In the garage,” she told him, “organising a recovery team to go salvage what we can, and clean up the debris” she told him.

  “Good. I’ll leave that to you,” he told her, and went off to find the three crew members, wanting to kill them himself.

  +++++++++++++

  The US Today media group had stories from Americans arriving into Japan from China, thrown out without reason. Foreign organisations based in China were closing, losing key personnel from their workforce as China continued to deport all foreign nationals. CNN, BBC, Bloomberg, were once again repeating the small clips from interviews with Americans now in Japan, as if repetition could swell the pool of information.

  The markets reacted badly, with manufacturing companies losing between 10% and 50% of their value overnight. Retail outlets were clamouring for information from their suppliers, well aware that over 90% of the goods on their shelves had a Made in China label, all trying to determine the status of their next shipment. Along with clothing, the technology sector was being hit the hardest.

  Robert, seated at the breakfast bar of a small roadside cafe, sipped his chilled water while trying to put the Chinese actions into a broader context. There must have been a reason for their action; it appeared far too well coordinated to have been a rushed decision.

  He was still mulling over the situation when Derek and Andrew appeared, both looking like some strange parody of American youth, their skin still ghostly pale while they sported American cut-off trousers, baseball caps and University of Arizona sweat-shirts.

  “I was worried you two might have minders,” Robert admitted as he followed them out and into one of the new Ford electric pick-ups that made use of the latest battery technology.

  “No. They put us through a sort of de-brief; wanting to know everything we’d done and said, everyone we had met while on the ARC, but after that, we were fine,” Sam shrugged.

  “I don’t think we were the first to get de-briefed. I got the impression they seemed to already know we knew nothing about HYPORT,” Derek admitted.

  “And you’re now part of James McMillan’s team.”

  “Us and four others,” Sam nodded. “Have to admit though, we thought we were good, but James just leaves us standing,” he shook his head in awe.

  “To be fair, it’s not like he’s brilliant at everything. Just gravity. He seems to have some affinity with gravity,” Derek said, trying to explain it as he drove through campus on their way to their study rooms on the north end of the complex.

  Like most American universities, and completely different to nearly all UK universities, the University of Arizona was a massive campus covering over 3 square kilometres in the very heart of Tucson, southern Arizona. However, the roads were good; grid-like and broad, running north-south, east-west, and it didn’t take long for them to arrive at a three story building with air conditioning units hung from every window frame.

  Once again, Robert was surprised to find little evidence of security as they climbed to the top floor. Only there did one of the English students have to key in a security code befor
e the door would open and allow him into a large open space.

  Large desks had been grouped about the middle of the room, while the walls were filled with white-boards. In one corner was a comfortable seating area, leather couches that all appeared to need some repair, but were obviously well used and well loved. A coffee dispenser on top of a small fridge stood next to them, a half consumed jug of coffee sitting on the heating plate.

  James looked up from browsing the latest readings from the Asteroid Belt. Robert was struck by how slender and tall the young man was, his unruly sandy hair standing up on top of a long and slender face, but it was the eyes that held him; a deep and piercing blue.

  The introductions were awkward as Sam and Derek tried introducing Robert without mentioning how they knew each other.

  “So, what brings you to this part of the world?” James asked, discretely covering some of their work with one of the local newspapers, the news from China large on the front page.

  “Here, this might explain it better than I could,” Robert told him, taking out his cell-phone to open the text message he had received a week before. He showed it to the tall American.

  For a moment it seemed James didn’t recognise what it was, or understand its meaning. Then, with a sudden cry of exultation, he grabbed the phone and headed for one of the whiteboards. In a moment, pen in hand, he had added another line to his calculations, and was starting a new line, stepping back for a moment to view the whole before continuing to feverishly write.

  “What did you give him?” Derek asked in a whisper, watching James continue his frantic scribbling.

  “No idea,” Robert shrugged. “It was a few squiggles that Don Graves sent me, suggesting I use it to introduce myself to whoever it was that had figured out how to watch Freedom One,” he explained.

  “Well, you certainly got his attention,” Sam agreed as all three of them continued to watch James.