As the camera swung full left onto the House of Parliament, Marshall saw heavy waves breaking among the ruins of the Lords. Driven into the estuary by the wind, powerful seas were flooding into the Thames and being carried up as far as Windsor, sweeping away the locks and spilling over the banks, where they completed the task of destruction started by the wind. The time-familiar river façade of Westminster had vanished, and high seas washed across the ragged lines of foundation stones, spilling over the supine remains of Big Ben, stripping the clock faces as they lay among the rubble in Palace Yard.
Suddenly the corporal jumped forward, pointing to the set receiving the Hammersmith picture.
“Sir! Quickly! They’re trying to come out!”
They crowded around the set, watching the screen. The camera was mounted over Hammersmith Broadway. Directly below in the street, a hundred feet away from them, was the entrance to Hammersmith Underground. The tall office buildings in the street were down to their first stories, walls poking up through piles of rubble, but the entrance to the station had been fortified with a heavy concrete breastwork that jutted out into the roadway, three circular doors fitted into its domed roof.
These were open now, and emerging from them was a press of struggling people, fighting and pulling past each other in a frantic effort to escape from the station. The doorways were packed with them, some peering out hesitantly when they reached the entrance, then being propelled out into the open street by the pressure of the mob behind them.
Like petals torn from a wind-blown flower they detached themselves from the doorways, took a few helpless steps out into the street and were whipped off their feet and hurled across the road, bouncing head over heels like sacks of feathers that burst and disintegrated as they ripped into the ragged teeth of reinforcing bars protruding from the debris.
The camera swung away from the scene and pointed eastward into the face of the storm, the panorama obscured by the clouds of flying stones that poured into the face of the camera like countless machine-gun tracers in a heavy bombardment.
Symington was sitting limply in his chair, grimly watching the screen. On the other side of the table Crighton and the Wren typist watched silently, their faces gray and pinched. Above them the light bulbs shook spasmodically as the bunker trembled, illuminating the thin dust falling from the ceiling. It drifted slowly across the room to the mouth of the ventilator shaft, where it swirled away.
The camera returned to the Underground station. The stream of people were still trying to get out, but somehow they had realized the futility of stepping straight into the wind and were trying to make their way along the protecting wall of the concrete breastwork. But no sooner had they gone 10 or 15 feet when they again felt the full undiminished force of the wind stream and were twisted helplessly from their hand holds and spun away into the air.
Marshall slammed one fist into the other. “What are they trying to do?” he shouted in exasperation. “Why don’t the fools stay where they are, for God’s sake?”
Symington shook his head slowly. “The tunnels must be flooded. The river’s only half a mile away and water’s probably pumping in under enormous pressure.” He glanced up at Marshall, smiled bleakly. “Or maybe they’re just worn out, terrified to the point where escape is the only possible solution, even if it’s just escape to death.”
Marshall nodded, then glanced at his watch. He looked around the room for a moment, taking in each of his three companions, nodded to them and began to move for the door where banks of teletypes stood against the wall.
“Not much coming through,” he said to Symington. “Looks as if we ought to start pulling out. Might take anything up to a couple of days to reach the U.S. base at Brandon Hall. No point in trying to be heroes. Get in touch with them and see if traffic there can pick us up today. I’ll look in again in half an hour.”
He made his way quickly along the darkened corridor to the small stairway at the end of the floor, then hurried up it to the level above. His office was halfway down, backing onto the elevator shaft and emergency exit.
Unlocking the door, he let himself in. Deborah Mason, a heavy trench coat belted around her trim waist, was sitting on the sofa next to her suitcase. She stood up as he came in, put her arms on Marshall’s shoulders.
“Are you ready now, Simon?” she asked anxiously. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
Marshall held her close to him and smiled into her smooth face, touching her lips lightly with his own. “Don’t worry, darling. All set now.”
The small room was stacked with gear. A carton of gas masks and an R⁄T set cluttered the desk, crates and suitcases stood against the walls. First testing the door to make certain it was locked, Marshall sat down at his desk and dialed the transport shelter above.
“Kroll?” he asked in a low voice. “Marshall here. Get ready to pull out in about ten minutes.” He paused, looking away from Deborah and dropping his voice. “Meanwhile, can you come down to my office? Take the rear stairway by the elevator shaft. I’ll need your help with something.”
Slipping the phone back into its cradle, Marshall glanced up at Deborah, who was watching him suspiciously, her mouth fretting slightly.
“Simon, why do you want Kroll to come down here?”
Marshall began to shrug, but Deborah cut in: “Symington and the other two are coming with us, aren’t they? You’re not going to leave them behind?”
“Symington? Of course not, darling. He’s invaluable to us. But we’ll need Kroll to help persuade him to come along.”
He stood up and walked over to one of the suitcases, but Deborah stopped him.
“What about Crighton and the girl?” she pressed. “You’re not going to leave them, or try anything—”
Marshall hesitated, looking Deborah in the face, his eyes motionless.
“Simon!” Deborah seized his arms. “They’ve worked for you for months; both of them trust you completely. You can’t just throw their lives away. Hardoon can use them somewhere.”
Marshall clenched his teeth, pushed Deborah away. “For heaven’s sake, Deborah, don’t start sentimentalizing. I hate to do it, but these are tough times. People are dying out there by the million. Are you willing to swap places with one of them?”
“No, I’m not,” Deborah said firmly, “but that’s not the point, is it? You’ve got a place for them.”
“In the Titan, yes. But at the Tower—I can’t be sure. Hardoon is unpredictable; I’ve no real authority with him. I’d leave them here, but they’ll put out an alert within five minutes and we’d be picked up before we’d gone ten miles.” He looked down at Deborah, her mouth clenched determinedly, then burst out in a growl of irritation:
“All right then, I’ll take a chance. It’s a hell of a risk, though.”
He picked up the suitcase, carried it over to the sofa. The case was of medium size, with heavy metal ribs that appeared to have been mounted at a date later than its original manufacture.
Taking a keychain from his pocket, Marshall opened the two locks and carefully raised the lid. Inside was a small vhf radio transceiver, equipped with a powerful scrambler.
Marshall switched on the scrambler, then reached down to the floor behind the sofa and picked up a long piece of loose wire. The end had been fitted with a plug and he clipped this into the aerial socket of the transceiver. Following the wire behind the sofa to the corner, he traced it along the skirting board behind his desk to the emergency door, where it disappeared through a small aperture.
Satisfied, he returned to the set, unwound a power lead and plugged it into his desk light. As he switched on he listened to the set hum into life, then quietly adjusted the tuning dial until the red fixed-beam answering bulb lit up. Then he pulled on the headphones and picked up the miniature microphone.
“Hardoon Tower, this is Black Admiral calling Hardoon Tower,” he began to repeat rapidly. Deborah came and stood at his shoulder, and he put his free arm around her.
As the
answering call came through, the narrow door behind Marshall’s desk opened slowly. A tall, heavily built man in black plastic storm suit and fiberglass helmet stepped softly into the room. His face was hidden by the deep visor of the helmet and the broad metal chinstrap, but between them were a tight scarred mouth, a sharp nose and cheekbones, hard eyes. The man’s hands were gloveless, rubber seals at the sleeves of the suit clasping his thick wrists. In the center of his helmet was a single large white triangle, like a pyramid in profile.
Marshall waved him into the room, gesturing him to lock the door behind him, then crouched over the set.
“…tell R.H. we’re leaving in about five minutes, estimated time of arrival at the Tower—” he glanced at his watch “—04:00 hours. Everything here is closing down, all government agencies pulled out yesterday. The Titan will carry U.S. Navy insignia—it’s too dangerous to move around now without any markings and the only other big tractors are American, so no one will try to stop us. What’s that?”
Marshall paused, watching the tall figure of Kroll standing beside him as the question was repeated. “I’ll be bringing them along. They’re top communications people; they’ll be useful to us. What? There are only three of them. Don’t worry, I’ll see R.H. personally about it.” Marshall’s face began to knot, his deep jaw lengthening as he listened impatiently to the voice in his earphones. He started to say: “Listen, I don’t care what orders R.H. made—” then abruptly uncupped his headphones and switched the set off.
“Bloody fool!” he snapped. “Who does that operator think he is?” His face clouded with anger, then slowly relaxed. He pulled out the aerial, then folded away the earphones and hand microphone and closed the case.
“Have to watch R.H.,” he said reflectively to Kroll. “He’s a tough nut, all right. Just because Communications are taking second place to Construction now the boys at the Tower are starting to get cocky.”
Kroll nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if well used to a maximum conversational economy. “There’s been a lot of reorganization,” he said tersely. “Big changes, cutting down. Construction’s taking a back seat now. Security is head department.”
Marshall said nothing, pensively considering this. “Who’s in charge?” he asked.
Kroll shook his head. His hard face flickered bonily; something reminiscent of a chuckle rasped out. “R.H., the boss himself.” He was eying Deborah up and down with interest, and she backed away from him slightly. Kroll broke off and glanced around the office. “Let’s get a move on, eh?” he added curtly.
Marshall carried the suitcase over to the desk, noting the change in Kroll’s manner. “Good idea,” he agreed. “Thanks for all the news. By the way, what department are you in now? Security? I take it you’ve been promoted.”
Kroll nodded, watching Marshall without a hint of deference. He moved toward the outer door, jerked a thumb in the direction of the corridor. “Where do the others hang out? Down on the bottom level?”
“Hold on.” Marshall turned to Deborah, took her by the arm and steered her toward the emergency door. “Darling, there’s bound to be a little rough stuff here. You go ahead upstairs. Everything will have quieted down by the time we reach you.”
The girl hesitated, but Marshall smiled at her. “Believe me, Deborah, I give you my word they’ll come with us. See you in a moment.”
As she stepped through the doorway, apparently satisfied by his assurance, Marshall turned back to Kroll.
“You stay here. I’ll bring them up.”
Kroll held his hand on the doorknob, looking over his shoulder at Marshall. The two big men seemed to fill the tiny office.
Kroll raised one shoulder slightly, listening to the sounds of Deborah’s feet disappear up the stairway. “Why bother?” he asked laconically. “Fix them down there. Don’t want to leave a lot of mess around your office. Somebody might stumble in and find them.”
Marshall reached past Kroll, pressed his elbow firmly against Kroil’s arm and edged his hand off the knob.
“I’m taking them with me,” he said quietly. “We’re not fixing them up here or anywhere else.” He opened the door, to find it lodged almost immediately against Kroll’s black leather boot. Marshall looked down at the steel toecap, placed squarely in his path, then straightened his shoulders and peered hard at Kroll, dull anger pounding in his temples.
“Get away from that door!” he snapped. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
He started to lean his shoulder against Kroll’s, but Kroll suddenly swung around with his back to the door and slammed it shut with a sharp kick of the other heel.
He eyed Marshall carefully. “Hold it, Marshall. You got your orders from the Tower two minutes ago. R.H. isn’t fooling around.”
Marshall shook his head. “Listen, Kroll, just shut up and take your orders from me. I’ll deal with R.H. when I reach the Tower. Meanwhile I don’t want you telling me what to do. I’m taking these three people back with us.”
“What for? You’ll never get them in. R.H. just sealed out two hundred workers in Construction who’ve been on the Tower right from the beginning.”
Marshall ignored him, was about to seize Kroll’s shoulder and wrench him away from the door when there was a tap on the far side of the frosted glass. Kroll dived back, his right hand sliding swiftly into the center vent of his jacket and emerging a fraction of a second later with a heavy ·45 automatic, a toy in his enormous fist.
Marshall waved him into the corner behind the door, then opened it to find Symington standing there, blinking in the bright light, dust streaks on his bald domed head.
“Hello, Andrew. What’s the problem?” Marshall backed sideways into the office, drawing Symington after him. Kroll was behind the door.
“Sorry to bother you, chief,” Symington began to explain. “Crighton heard someone come down the emergency exit and went up to the transport bay. Apparently there’s one of those big American—” He broke off, noticing the huge figure of Kroll poised behind him. “What’s going—” he began to say, then tried helplessly to back into the corridor as Kroll grabbed him by the shoulder with his left hand and wrenched him back off his feet, his right hand swinging the heavy barrel of the automatic at his head.
The blow had the full lethal power of Kroll’s powerful physique behind it. Marshall dived for the gun hand, at the same time seizing Symington by the back of the neck and forcing him to the floor. He and Kroll locked arms and grappled with each other, as Symington struggled at their feet between them. Suddenly they sprang apart. Symington darted quickly through the doorway before the two big men could collect themselves, and slammed it in front of them.
Before Marshall could stop him, Kroll had fired through the frosted glass at the blurring image moving down the corridor. The sound of the shot roared out like an exploding bomb in the confined office. Shattered glass spat against the walls of the corridor. Through the aperture Marshall saw Symington kicked headlong by the force of the bullet, then slammed crookedly onto his face as if flung from a speeding car.
Kroll pulled back the door and dived out into the corridor. With Marshall following him, he raced across to where Symington was lying, glanced cursorily at the figure at his feet, then started move down the corridor, the automatic raised steadily in front of him.
Marshall knelt down beside Symington. In the dim light he felt the warm wet patch spreading from the wound just below his left shoulder blade. He turned Symington over, saw that he was breathing in short exhausted pants. Fortunately the bullet had struck him obliquely, channeling out a three-inch-long furrow without penetrating the rib cage. Marshall sat Symington up, dragged him back into the office and propped him against the sofa.
Behind him the emergency door opened and Deborah peered around, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Simon, what’s happening?” She gaped down at Symington uncomprehendingly. “You promised—”
Marshall pulled her down to the sofa.
“Stay with hi
m, see what you can do. I think he’s all right. Kroll’s going crazy. I’ve got to stop him before he kills the other two.”
As he re-entered the corridor Kroll was stepping cautiously down the stairway. Marshall pulled the short-barreled ·38 from his shoulder holster. Thumbing off the safety catch, he moved forward after Kroll.
Kroll’s helmeted head had just disappeared down the short stairway when a second shot roared out from the floor below. Crighton and the Wren typist were both armed, like Marshall, with COE ·38’s issued to protect them from hunger-maddened intruders.
He heard Kroll’s ·45 fire once, followed by two sharper reports from the communications room at the far end. He slid carefully down the steps, searching for Kroll’s form among the shadows and angles of the corridor, then heard the soft pad of his rubber soles moving toward the service corridor which ringed the offices and provided a rear entrance to the emergency elevator.
Through the open doorway of the communications room Marshall caught a glimpse of Crighton’s brown uniform crouched behind the line of teletypes. He ducked back as the ·38 flashed out.
The service corridor led off immediately at his left, turning at right angles around the offices. Marshall edged the revolver forward, barrel pointed at the ceiling. He fired twice in quick succession, then dived across the exposed interval into the shelter of the service corridor.
As he caught his breath he heard Crighton fire again at the staircase and then shout something at the girl, his words lost in the roaring echoes.
Following Kroll, Marshall moved quickly down the darkened service corridor, peering briefly into the first of the offices, a clutter of desks under the dim glow of the single storm bulb over the doorway.
A second empty office and the elevator shaft separated him from the communications room at the far end. He edged carefully around the blind corners of the shaft. Fortunately the emergency doorway into the service corridor was blocked by the TV transmitters. As soon as they saw Kroll open it Crighton and the girl would empty their guns through the thin plywood.
The Wind From Nowhere Page 12