THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY Read online

  “What now, Sergeant?” Bill asked.

  Chuck looked about him and pointed to a second PC sitting on the spare desk. “Bring that up and see if there’s any difference,” he told the Corporal.

  The two men waited again while the second PC, older than the first, took its time to load. When it did, a few seconds passed before the red light appeared, once again blinking serenely on the screen.

  “Ok, let’s get the captain involved,” Chuck told the Corporal.

  “Now?” Bill asked nervously.

  The other important element to the location of USSTRATCOM was the three golf courses that skirted the western side of the facility. Even with three, you had to book well in advance to get onto the course during the day. Captain Reynolds was not going to be happy if he was interrupted on the green for no good reason.

  Despite the game of golf, within two hours analysts were searching through images from reconnaissance satellites, looking for the tell-tale image of a rocket firing a satellite into space. At the same time, optical telescopes from the Canaries to Hawaii were being diverted from their programs in order to identify the red blip.

  December 12th

  The day started with the particularly blue and clear sky not unusual for Nebraska at that time of year.

  Three large limousines drove off the Fort Cook Road and onto the Offutt Air force Base. Once on Nelson Drive, their vehicle registration numbers were automatically checked by monitors at the roadside, and before the cars had driven a further fifty yards, Military Police knew they had General Pat Mears and his staff as visitors to USSTRATCOM.

  A few minutes later, the General was stepping into the small office of Captain Jim Reynolds to take the salute from the three men who had snapped to attention on his arrival.

  Although not tall, Pat Mears exuded force and leadership. His blond hair was cropped close to his skull while pale blue eyes assessed the world from under jutting eyebrows, a long mouth as ready to frown as to smile beneath a beak of a nose. His square jaw had been compared to an all-American Shit House, whatever that was, while the rest of his body suggested he’d played American Football for a few years. Aides hurried after him, their uniforms as pristine as the General’s own.

  “Gentlemen,” he told the room while his own staff were still entering the office, filling it with people. “We have a situation here,” he told them all, his eyes scanning the faces of all those in the room, and in particular those he didn’t know.

  An aide placed a small pile of photographs on the table and the general stabbed one of the images with his finger; a 10” by 12” photo of the new object orbiting them in a Low Earth Orbit.

  “Techies tell me it’s not harmful. They tell me it’s crude. It’s talking, but not making sense. It certainly can’t hurt us. That’s the good news,” the General told them, and paused for effect.

  His finger moved to drag a series of other photos to the top where everyone could see them. “These are photos taken from our reconnaissance satellites. They’re photos of all the launch sites we know of from around the world and, guess what? None show any recent use. That gentlemen, is the bad news.

  “This is now top priority, Gentlemen. You are now all part of Operation Demeter and you have the authority to use any resource needed to find out where that god-damn satellite came from. We need to find it now!”

  December 20th

  The weather had turned colder and it was snowing further north. The Cranfield University’s payload lay in the back of the van discretely covered in a tarpaulin while the twins let loose a legitimate weather balloon and watched it disappear in the low grey clouds before then checking the results on their tablets.

  Michael stood outside with his hands deep in his overcoat pockets, stamping his feet and thinking of all the nice pubs he knew, those with big log fires and an even larger menu. His thoughts didn’t stop him from scanning the visible area around him. Some habits just don’t die. He winced, an image of Wendy springing to his mind and fracturing the cold with the heat of self misery.

  “We should be alright,” one of the twins shouted towards him.

  Michael nodded and went to the back of the van to help pull the payload out. Thankfully they were in a completely desolate place; Clacton on Sea in December, immediately before a snow storm. There wasn’t a young couple holding hands or a dog walker throwing a ball in sight.

  Thomas sat at the controls inside the van, rubbing his hands to keep them warm while David helped Michael uncover the device that Cranfield University wanted pushed towards the sun.

  Barrel shaped, its solar panels were concertinaed to either side, ready to unfurl once it sensed the vacuum of space. It weighed nearly seventy kilos, more than any of the three main launch providers were willing to support for free. To launch normally, the university would have had to pay a minimum of $700,000. Luckily, professor Munford of Cranford University was a good friend of Professor Rolle and they had agreed a fee of just $200,000 between them, in return for an introduction to the President of the Busan University of Foreign Studies.

  “Are you ready yet?” Michael asked, stamping his feet in an effort to get them warm.

  Thomas at the control panel nodded, pressed a key, and the heavy barrel rose three metres off the ground to hover in the air a moment, before it headed out into the broad estuary of the Thames. It rose yet again to ensure it wouldn’t hit any shipping before its final accent fifteen miles off the coast would take it up and away, into space and aimed towards the sun.

  As soon as the payload had disappeared into the poor weather, Michael was back behind the wheel of the van, the engine turned on to get the benefit of the heater. In the back, the twins monitored the payload’s progress, murmuring numbers between themselves and making adjustments on the tablet until they whooped and turned towards Michael, signalling to take them all home.

  +++++++++++++++++

  “I don’t believe this!” Graham Ware breathed from his desk at ROLID, watching his screen where a second un-tagged line joined the first.

  He’d been about to tag the first as a weather balloon. Viewed on its own, there was no reason to suppose it was anything different, and it wasn’t strictly an invading object, having originated on UK shores, just. Yet, only minutes after it, a second un-tagged trace was appearing, this one off shore, rising just a little too rapidly for a normal balloon, its angle of climb seemingly unaffected by the wind.

  “He’s got to believe me this time!” he murmured, unaware of the worried glances the others were sharing as they watched him print details from the two entries, then quickly put it all together and walk rapidly towards Paul Preston’s office.

  Paul was on the phone to one of his wife’s friends when he saw Graham arrive at his door and knock urgently on the wooden frame. He sighed and suppressed his anger, calmly telling Denise that something urgent had come up, and perhaps he could call back, and then they could talk some more and perhaps arrange an evening out, or something.

  Graham marched in. “Sir, it’s happened again!” he told his manager while, on the phone, Denise was giggling and saying that the ‘or something’ sounded interesting.

  “Got to go, bye now,” Paul finished and put the phone down, all the while wondering what he could say to the young man standing in front of him that would make him understand that he should never interrupt his manager while he was making important phone calls.

  “Do you see Sir? Two of them, one right after another,” Graham told him, pushing the sheets under his manager’s eyes.

  Paul looked at the first and saw a typical trace for a weather balloon. He glanced at the second and noted that it had risen faster than the first, but then it was fifteen miles out to sea, and with a cold front driving southward bringing heavy snow.

  “Weather balloons Mister Ware. Two weather balloons, one showing distress after being released into an impending snow storm!”

  “Sir! It’s like the last one. It’s different!”

  “It’s bloody broken is
what it is!” Paul shouted.

  Paul took control of himself and breathed deeply before he began again. “If it’s not a weather balloon, what is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Sir,” Graham told him. “But it might be something dangerous!”

  “Something dangerous? Like what exactly? Has anything untoward happened after that first one, over a month ago now, as I recall? Well?”

  “No Sir,” Graham admitted.

  “No, Sir. Nothing has happened,” Paul held the sheets of paper towards Graham so he could take them away with him. “I know the job is boring, Graham. You need to come to terms with that, or find another job,” he suggested. “You may go,” he told him.

  Hopefully Denise would still be at home, a bored housewife looking eagerly for someone like himself; a professional man, successful, considerate, loving. Most of all, loving.

  January 7th

  The cafeteria of the Cambridge Particle Physics Laboratory was on the second floor, a jumble of small tables and utility seating placed at the edge of the exit from the large theatre and auditorium hall. The seating was close to the outer glass wall which leant precariously outward, like a huge shard of glass that had either landed from space to bury itself in the ground at their feet, or had escaped the earth and was poised to send a beam of particles heavenward; depending upon your viewpoint.

  David and Thomas Howard had moved there from the library, expelled for making too much noise, and now they worked in short fits, shaking their heads in misery as their programming failed to get them the results they wanted.

  Allan Blake, studying for his PhD in Mathematics happened to be passing and noticed the twins at work. Their paths had occasionally crossed, Particle Physics and Astrophysics both requiring a high degree of mathematical skills, but the twins tended to keep to themselves, and few if any could say they knew them. So Allan was surprised to find them with an apparent problem, their expressions shouting their frustration.

  “What gives? Can I help?” he asked them as he went over to stand to one side of them, politely out of the visible angle of their tablets.

  Thomas and David stopped and looked up at their visitor. Allan was rare for a student in that he was both tanned and bald. His favourite pastime was surfing, and if he couldn’t surf, he would be found snorkelling or diving.

  The twins exchanged a look and nodded, a hand outstretched to offer Allan a seat.

  “We want to track an object through a three dimensional space that has a diminishing gravitational pull, and calculate the power requirements necessary to move it from one position to another,” Thomas explained while David nodded.

  Allan sat down and looked at what the twins had so far achieved, nodding his understanding as he saw their logic. “This is a model for launching space vehicles, though I don’t see you obtaining an escape velocity,” he noted, using his finger to move through the code. The more he looked, the more his brow furrowed.

  “We don’t need the velocity, just the energy,” Thomas elaborated while David helped Allan find the code.

  Allan nodded. “Yes, I see. Can I take a copy? I’ll have it sorted in a couple of days,” he told them.

  “You, er, appreciate this is sensitive,” David remarked.

  Allan smiled and spoke with dry humour. “Like that space project that has mysteriously appeared in orbit?” he asked. “Sure, not a word,” he promised. “But if you’re interested, I can develop a whole set of interfaces for management and tracking of self powered vehicles moving through various orbits,” he told them.

  Thomas grinned, he and his brother holding out their hands. “Welcome on board,” they chorused.

  January 10th

  The builders of the Cambridge Mall named it The Grand Arcade; so someone, somewhere, had thought it Grand. Thankfully, it stood in the heart of Cambridge, where the surrounding tall buildings helped mask it from the nearby colleges such as Corpus Christi, Emmanuel, Pembroke, Kings and Trinity. Clearly, the designers of one set of buildings were not inspired by the other.

  In warmer weather, Michael might have enjoyed the walk along Kings Parade before turning into the lanes and passages that would take him into the modern Mall. As it was; there was a northerly wind that blew the rain into his face, and swept away those who attempted to put up a brolly.

  Entering the spacious Mall, Michael sighed with relief to be out of the wind and wiped his face as he walked along the broad concourse, ignoring the enticingly displayed clothing in the shops he passed, looked for the woman he was scheduled to meet.

  In the middle of the concourse were tables surrounding a coffee outlet with a display of fresh sandwiches and Danish pastries. It was a new outlet, and the CCTV cameras covering the concourse had yet to have their programmed sweeps changed to record activity at the tables.

  Most of the tables were taken, all but one with more than one person. Michael went to the lone figure sitting near the small fountain and smiled down at the oval face and deep blue eyes, framed by a bob of blond hair.

  “Hello. Would you be Cheryl?” he asked.

  “I would,” she told him, a smile lighting her eyes. “You must be Michael Bennett,” she concluded, taking his hand to shake it before he sat and sighed. “Lousy weather, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Michael nodded and pointed to her empty cup. “Another? Tea?”

  He got a pot for two and rejoined her, letting her pour while he got rid of the tray, then took off his sodden waxed jacket before sitting with his back to the one camera that gave him some concern. He sighed as he took the first sip of the hot brew and smiled at she laughed at him.

  “That bad?” she asked in humour.

  He shrugged and reached inside the jacket for his tablet. “So what has Rolle told you?” he asked, his eyes on the tablet while he fingered a button on a small box in his pocket. With the pressing of the stud, his access to the net disappeared. All communication devices in the immediate area would suffer the same problem with communication, or so Michael fervently hoped.

  “Only that you need someone to move some kit from Finland to here,” she told him. “He suggested that this may lead onto some other work; Business Development type of work,” she said.

  Michael nodded. “Rolle tells me you have a First in History and Politics.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “I was a student political firebrand; wanted to change the world,” she confessed.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “You probably know better than others,” she told him, her eyes fixed on his expression as she sipped her tea. “I was sorry to hear of Wendy’s death. I don’t agree with making omelettes with people as the eggs,” she explained.

  “Not many know the details behind that,” he murmured.

  Cheryl shrugged. “I was working at Party Headquarters when that particular piece of shit hit the fan. I resigned a few months later, and I’ve been working in the logistics business ever since.”

  “That can’t be that exciting,” he observed.

  “Oh, you’d be amazed,” she told him. “You probably need more political skill in this trade than in any other, short of politics of course,” she laughed.

  “So you can bring these goods over quite quickly, with no questions asked?”

  “I can,” she agreed. “The best way would be to go and get them myself, put them in the back of a van and drive them back on the ferry.”

  “Via Sweden,” he told her.

  Her eyes grew shrewd as she recognised Michael’s unwillingness for the goods to touch Estonia and Latvia, two independent states that still had close ties with their big brother; Russia.

  “Via Sweden,” she agreed. “And the Business Development role? Similarly clandestine?”

  Michael grinned. “Very. A very small group wish to provide launch facilities to any European communications company wanting their privately-built satellite put into orbit,” he told her, his cup held close to his mouth, just in case lip readers were around.

 
“Jesus!” Cheryl breathed.

  “We’re in the testing phase at the moment, but when we move to commercial transactions, we’ll want to move quickly. That will mean getting the business and ensuring everything is tied up well beforehand. Do you think that’s a role you could fulfil?”

  “Oh yes, very much so,” she murmured, clearly excited by the prospect.

  February 15th

  Cheryl Hall brought the payload from the Aalto University by land from Finland, crossing to Sweden and on down to Denmark for the ferry to Harwich.

  A garage was rented in Cambridge, nominally for the preparation of the set for a student production of Macbeth, while actually providing enough space to prepare the satellite for launch. It was then transported in the back of Matt and Jake’s van to Dartmoor National Park where they planned to release it.

  Michael hoped the launch site was sufficiently different and distant from the previous launch sites so as not to be noticed. He used his binoculars to scan the area about him, wondering how many eyes were hidden in the undergrowth and wishing these launches would get easier on his nerves. The uneven ground was covered by short grass and thick bands of gorse, each slight rise of ground able to hide at least one man behind it, each thicket of shrubs at least two others.

  The students in Aalto had elected to build a rectangular box-shaped satellite, which Michael thought rather conservative of them, given all the shapes they could have used. However, they were a ‘new’ university, having only been established in 2011, so you could pass over their conservatism in view of their achievement in having made such a device in such a short time.