THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY Page 12

  +++++++++++++++++

  Frankie paced the room once again as Michael Bennett was helped past the dogs and back onto the road. He was still pacing when Bert came back in again.

  “What we going to do then, Frankie?” he asked.

  Frankie didn’t know. His senses were telling him to leave it well alone. From what Bennett had said, and what Bennett wanted him to do, the business sounded like it could bring a ton of grief down on them, and grief was something everyone on the estate tried to avoid.

  He was reminded of the article he had read recently, about satellites being launched without any tell-tale rocket signature, and the USA keeping it quiet, reasons unknown. It was the stuff of fiction, that what the most powerful nation on earth is desperately searching for, some man walks into your sitting room to offer you.

  “Find out how much of what he says is true,” Frankie told Bert and his wife. “Martha; get a hold of that bird who does the catering for the university and see what you can find out from her. Bert; go talking to the Pub landlords in the area. Don’t ask direct, but listen to all their gossip,” he told them. Meanwhile, he’d talk to a couple of his mates on the police force and see what a couple of fifty Euro notes would uncover.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Gary grinned into his laptop as Skype completed the connection and showed him a hesitant video image of the other student, some five hundred miles north in Edinburgh.

  “Hey Gary, G’Day, how you doing mate?” Jason asked, possibly the only Australian at Edinburgh University that year.

  “I’m good. Had any Barbis’ recently?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “Hey mate. It doesn’t stop raining here until June or July, you know?” Jason laughed. “I’m going to have to find another reason to travel down to Cambridge.

  “How’s the rowing coming along?”

  “Good, thank you.

  “I was wondering if you’re up for a bit of an inter-university competition,” Gary asked.

  “Hey, mate, we Scots are up for anything! What do we have to do?”

  “I’m inviting all UK universities to produce a short video of a home-made satellite being launched into space,” Gary explained.”The journalists at the Cambridge Chronicle will judge each entry for originality, and believability.”

  “A doddle! We’re already winners!” Jason cried, lifting his can of Castlemaine XXXX for Gary to see. “What’s the prize?”

  “A trip to our Space Lab!” Gary laughed. “Put your finished video on YouTube. I’ll send you details on a text,” he promised.

  April 26th

  Michael nodded his thanks as Dr Cannon passed him a cup of tea. Professor Lovell was talking, explaining in far too much detail how he had secreted their income in off-shore accounts and, while they were scrupulously compliant with all taxation laws, it would nonetheless take months of any auditor’s time to work out just who owned the money. By that time, everyone would know anyway.

  Professor Rolle was nodding, whether out of politeness or understanding, Michael was unsure. For his own part, he understood little of it.

  “How far does this help you?” Dr Cannon asked of them, sipping her tea and watching them shrewdly.

  “Well, not very far,” Professor Rolle admitted. “There is a viable spaceship on the market, but we will need to pay a substantial deposit on it before the current owners will allow us to begin making the many changes that we need to it. Those changes alone will cost a substantial amount of money.”

  “Then there is the problem with time frames,” Michael added. “We can’t do the refit until the deposit is paid, and some aspect of the refit will need payment in advance. So, because of our reliance on commercial money to achieve what we need to do, it means that we will be exposed on the ground for several weeks, perhaps months, before our craft will be ready.”

  “How much?” Professor Lovell asked.

  Michael and Rolle exchanged glances. “Ten million US Dollars,” Michael admitted.

  Dr Cannon let her breath out slowly while Professor Lovell shook his head. “We have funding for project contingencies, but not to that degree,” he pointed out.

  “The problem has always been how much noise we make, and for how long, while earning the income we need to make ourselves safe,” Michael admitted.

  He went on to explain. “We had planned on having our vehicle ready by the time it came to loudly proclaiming our presence by lifting all our commercial contracts at the same time. That income would pay for the craft and its fittings and we’d lift us into orbit practically immediately. It’s a low risk strategy.”

  “Any commercial lift prior to our being ready leaves us exposed on the ground and with nowhere to go” Rolle explained.

  “We understand that,” Dr Cannon agreed. “The problem is that we haven’t got ten million. The most I could offer you is four.”

  “Well, four would just about pay the deposit on the ships and help with the prepayment on the lifting and cutting tools we need,” Rolle calculated.

  “Ships?” Dr Cannon asked.

  “One as a decoy,” professor Rolle explained. “It’s older, smaller, and at a different location.”

  “We will still need to move one commercial launch forward, to give us the balance needed for the deposits on all the other equipment, but we won’t need the funds so early. That will help us shorten the time between that launch, and the final set of launches that would provide us with the balance,” Michael concluded.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Michael reached his Thoday street address as the street lights came on and, opening the door, heard music coming from the first floor rooms.

  “That you?” Jake’s voice drifted down the stairwell.

  “It is,” Michael agreed, fishing for the key to his door.

  “Hey, come on up. We got something to show you,” Jake called.

  Michael rubbed his forehead, dearly wishing for the oblivion of a bottle of Scotch, and climbed the stairs to find both Jake and Matt in the kitchen, the remains of an evening meal of beans on toast lying in the sink.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  Matt lifted a laptop from his knees and turned it to face him on the small kitchen table. YouTube was open and the short video showed two slender figures wearing black face-masks launching a box covered in silver-foil from the back of a small fishing boat. The box, released, sped swiftly upwards into the sky, sometimes caught by the cameraman who was clearly also on the boat and swaying with the slight swell.

  “Where’s that?” Michael asked with a bark of laughter.

  “The clip doesn’t say, but we happen to know that it’s a mile off Brighton beach,” Matt grinned.

  “There are others,” Jake told him, and he leant over to close the video, and open another. As with the first, disguised students released something cheaply resembling a satellite, presumably filled with helium or hydrogen. As with the first, the box, this one also sporting cardboard wings of ‘solar panels’, swiftly rose, the cameraman more able to follow it as it accelerated towards the low clouds.

  “There are four on YouTube so far,” Jake explained. “One of them is from Aalto,” he chuckled.

  “Europe too.” Michael was impressed.

  April 27th

  Stan Charway stood over the large table and studied each of the pieces of paper the staff at ROLID had produced. It had only taken a week, much of that due to the time and effort young Graham Ware had put into the research.

  Beside the three sheets of paper was a large map of England onto which Graham had penned three red lines and five red and white lines, all of various lengths. Each line carried a small circle at one end representing the map reference where the trace began, and an asterisk at the other end showing where the trace finished.

  The boy stood to one side like a faithful retriever eager for his master’s praise, and Stan found himself nodding towards him, even attempting to smile. “Yes, very good,” he told the boy. “Now, explain it to me. Why do these l
ines stop?”

  “The radar system used to track the weather balloons only tracks then to 20 kilometres high, Sir,” Graham explained.

  “And why the colours; the red, and the red and white?” Stan asked.

  “Well, Sir. They’re not all the same, you see,” Graham told him, proud of his analysis, and the fact that someone senior had noticed his findings and was taking them seriously.

  “The red ones, they’re the ones that seem to ignore the wind, as well as appearing to rise faster than a balloon. The red and white, they flow with the wind, but they’re still rising fast. See?” he asked, pointing to the speed and acceleration column on the sheets of paper.

  “All of these were accelerating far too quickly for a normal balloon. Now, that’s not to say they aren’t balloons, because they might be some new type of balloon, larger, with less load, but if they are, then they are being used at all these different places, because all have exactly the same characteristics,” Graham explained, shuffling through his papers to find those relevant to his findings.

  “I see. So, could there be more?” Stan asked. He looked at the map in the hope of finding a pattern. The fact that he could not find one was more telling than had he found one. He had to conclude that whoever was causing these, was trying to evade notice.

  “Well Sir, I think those eight are caused by a single source, and after the first three, they’ve noticed their error in their ascent going against the wind, so I think they’re being more cautious and have started to match the standard weather balloon.”

  “So three fit one pattern and five fit another pattern,” Stan surmised, studying the map still.

  “That’s correct, yes Sir.” Graham nodded excitedly.

  Stan looked towards him and waited.

  “So there could be more? How many more?”

  “Well Sir, I believe we may be talking about at least five others,” Graham told him, excitement racing through the young man as he thought of the future and the important part he would play in it. “And the volume is increasing, as if they think they’re safe; totally transparent.”

  “I see,” Stan said, only he didn’t. If there had been thirteen launches within the British Isles, just what were they, and where had they gone? Perhaps Paul Preston’s view of the young lad was correct and he was just looking for something that wasn’t there.

  “Let’s go over each one in detail,” he told the lad. “I want to know everything.”

  +++++++++++++++++

  The doctor’s surgery was a red-brick building with a small brass plaque beside the automatic doors that informed the visitor that it had been opened five years previously by the then Health Minister, MP Juliet Kendal. The interior, bright and modern when installed, had begun to fade and items like the chairs in the waiting room and the PCs the admin staff used had long since passed the date on which they should have been replaced. It was the face of the NHS, and as good an indicator of its health as the pallor on someone’s face.

  Michael gave his name at the reception desk and waited for the woman in the nurse’s uniform to check it against her screen before taking her advice to take a seat in the waiting room, where he picked up a three month old copy of OK Magazine, looking through it until he was called to Room Three. There was a notice above the door requesting all patients turn off their communication devices, and Michael wondered if anyone actually did so as he surreptitiously put his phone and tablet onto mute.

  He guessed Room Three looked exactly like rooms One, Two and Four, a functional doctor’s examination room with a desk, a PC, a sink and an examination table. There were some weighing scales on the floor, while another and different type of scale had been fixed to the back of the door to provide a measure of height.

  Doctor Paul Wright was a tanned and fit looking man, clean shaven and short haired. Laughter lines had begun to creep about his eyes, otherwise he could have been anywhere between his thirties or early forties. He smiled and invited Michael to sit down while he checked his details on the screen.

  “Just moved into the area, have you Mr Bennett?” he asked. “And you just want a check up before booking a trip to climb Kilimanjaro, yes?”

  “That’s right,” Michael agreed and looked towards the doctor with fresh interest. “You wouldn’t be the Doctor Wright who went up to the International Space Station a few years ago, would you?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s right. You’ve got a good memory,” the doctor told him with a rueful smile.

  “I’m a journalist,” Michael admitted.

  “Yes, I was up there for a month,” he recalled, rolling his chair closer to Michael so he could examine his eyes, his throat and ears.

  “Miss it?” Michael asked as his neck was prodded and his head turned from one side to the other.

  The doctor smiled sadly. “It was a good time,” he said, and asked Michael to open his shirt. “The view out of the windows,” he recalled. “You have the earth beneath you, sometimes over you, gently curved, and oh so blue,” he murmured, falling into a trance as his words brought back the memories.

  “I think you’d go back if you could,” Michael chuckled, breathing in and holding it when asked.

  “You have to have been there to know,” Paul told him, turning him so he could listen to his back.

  “You probably won’t believe me right now,” Michael told him, “but I plan to put a new lab into space shortly, and I need a good doctor to live on it,” he explained.

  “You’re right,” Paul told him. “I don’t believe you.”

  +++++++++++++++++

  Xu Dain stood in Professor Rolle’s small office and looked about him, his distaste barely visible in his face. Only those who knew him well would notice the slight clenching of his mouth and the hardening of his jaw-line.

  He disliked clutter, especially in people of authority. Professor Rolle’s office was more than cluttered. Shelves overflowed onto the floor where more books and magazines were stacked, none in any particular order as far as he could see.

  Rolle entered, giving a start as he saw Xu Dain waiting for him.

  “Good afternoon, Professor,” Dain greeted him, and watched the professor close his office door with a trembling hand.

  “Xu Dain. Hello. Can I help you with anything?” the older man asked.

  Dain nodded. “It has been over three weeks since we spoke, since we agreed to pay you for a sample of the chemical.”

  “Yes, well, there have been problems,” Rolle told him, shrugging his shoulders and sweeping his hair back with his free hand.

  “Our payment was a significant amount of money. We thought it enough to overcome any problems,” Dain pointed out.

  “That’s easier said than done. The chemical is very carefully produced and maintained. I have to wait for more to be produced,” he explained.

  “How long?” Dain asked, tension rising in him as the professor shuffled papers and opened and closed drawers, exacerbating the mess that was already there.

  “I don’t know. Two weeks, maybe three?”

  “That is not good enough, Professor,” Dain told him, and stepped forward to have the professor stop and look up at him. “You have two weeks, Professor. We will then consider using other means to obtain our goods. Do you understand?”

  “You don’t have to take that tone with me!” Rolle said indignantly.

  “Two weeks, Professor,” Dain repeated, and stepped out of the office. He took a deep breath and headed out of the observatory, pulling his phone from his coat pocket to make his report and warn the embassy that stronger tactics might be necessary.

  April 29th

  Gary knocked on the door and put his head around the corner to smile as he saw Professor Rolle was where he thought he would be, still in the conference room, despite his seminar having ended half an hour before.

  “My dear boy, how are you?” the professor asked, taking his hand to shake it vigorously up and down.

  Gary nodded. “I need to talk to you, privately,�
�� he said.

  Rolle nodded and picked up his tablet before leading him out of the room, along the corridor, and out to a broad stretch of grass behind the hall, bisected by the gravel path students used to get from one hall to the next by the shortest possible way.

  “What is it, then?” Rolle asked.

  “Well, I thought you should know; membership of CUSF has shot up recently. We’ve had five new entrants in midterm. Unheard of in the past,” Gary pointed out.

  “Any particular nationality?” Rolle asked.

  “Well, now that you mention it, quite a few are American.”

  Rolle digested the news in silence, and then nodded. “Thank you for bringing me this information,” he told the tall student. “I shall look into it further,” he promised.

  To look into it further, he would have Claire invite June Mumford over to Tea. June was part of the Admissions team, and if anyone loved a gossip, then it was June, and who better to listen to it all, than her dear friend Claire.

  He chuckled at his plan as he returned to the conference room for his books, his chuckle dying as he reviewed the progress they had made. More and more people were learning of their achievement and aspirations, and with that came an increased risk of their true goals becoming known.

  His biggest concern was what would happen when he told the team that he wouldn’t be going with them. Claire would hate being confined indoors, no matter how large a craft, and there was no way he would go without her.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Captain Jim Reynolds of USSTRATCOM stood easy in front of the large video conferencing screen at the Offutt Air Force Base, his eyes moving to each of the men displayed on the screen as they each spoke, but otherwise remaining silent unless spoken to.

  His commanding officer was on one of the screens, the President’s seal on the wall behind him, an indication, if one was needed, that General Mears was seated somewhere in the depths of the White House. He didn’t know the other men, other than two by their accents; one British, one Russian, and one man by his features; Chinese. All but the British man wore military uniforms, braids and ribbons boldly stating their seniority.