by Glenn Cooper
“Good God!” Smithwick exclaimed, momentarily burying her face in her hands.
“Rovers for sure,” John said. “Any sign of them?”
“None,” Ben said. “We initially established a perimeter with local police now supplemented with units of the 16th Air Assault Brigade from the Colchester Garrison but the horses may have been out of the barn before the perimeter became non-porous.”
“Have there been no sightings in the general area?” Trotter asked.
“Nothing definitive,” Ben said. “The Essex police have responded to scattered reports within a five-mile radius of the estate of suspicious activity in people’s gardens, wheelie bins disturbed, that sort of thing. But no sightings.”
“Like I said, they’re nocturnal,” John said. “They own the night.”
“Have we no idea how many of them are extant?” Trotter asked.
John rolled his eyes at the word. Who uses words like extant, he thought?
Emily must have been on the same wavelength because she matched his gesture with her own, an upward curl of her lips.
Ben opened his portfolio. “The best handle on that is the number of people missing from the estate, assuming the previous principal of a one-for-one exchange is still in effect. That task is made difficult by our lack of information on who was present and who was absent from their houses yesterday morning at ten o’clock. We are holding the evacuees, nearly three hundred residents of the estate, in a pavilion at the Colchester Garrison and interviews are in progress but we still do not have an account of the number of missing. Undoubtedly, this will become clearer as the day progresses and I will circulate an update this afternoon.”
Trotter began tapping his fingertips together repeatedly. Whether it was a nervous tic or an expression of urgency was unclear to John. “Control of the press will be vital. The previous breach was well disguised, so well in fact that MI6 was kept in the dark, which, I must say, we do not appreciate. This breach is very much larger and less well contained so our challenges will be legion. Who is the press officer?”
Stuart Binford tentatively raised his hand and identified himself.
“Very well, Mr. Binford. Please enlighten us on how you plan to communicate the resolution of breach number one and your approach to breach number two.”
Binford sounded hesitant, as if speaking on these matters was above his pay grade. He essentially degraded himself as merely a press flack accustomed to taking his orders from Henry Quint, before giving it the old college try. Breach number one, as Trotter dubbed it, had been described as an armed intruder gaining access to MAAC who kidnapped and killed a journalist and subsequently several members of the public. Clearly, they could not invoke Brandon Woodbourne as the culprit since inconveniently, he’d been dead for almost fifty years. Binford suggested inventing a suspect out of whole cloth and declaring his apprehension and death at the hands of the security services. Could this be accomplished, Binford asked rhetorically?
Trotter shrugged and suggested that, while not a routine matter, he was certain his colleagues at MI6 could manage something like this.
On the larger issue of breach number two, Binford continued, “It seems to me that ascribing the South Ockendon incident to a terror plot involving biological weapons production on a residential housing estate, has been the best possible strategy. The press is, and will continue to be in a feeding frenzy, but I should think we would be able to stonewall them on national security grounds. Small, steady drips of misinformation ought to keep them at bay.”
“For how long?” Smithwick asked.
“It’s hard for me to say,” Binford said. “Undoubtedly the longer it goes on the harder it will be.”
“Right,” Trotter said, addressing the table. “It seems we have the outlines of a press strategy. I’ll have someone at my shop call Mr. Binford and begin working on a detailed implementation plan. Which leads us to the next agenda item. To put it rather unscientifically I’d call it plugging the hole.”
Emily bristled visibly. Her voice cracking, she said, “I don’t think that plugging the hole, as you call it, is the next item at all. The next item must be organizing a rescue effort for the people who’ve been transported to a very dangerous and terrifying place.”
Bitterman was about to answer her but Trotter cut him off. “I appreciate that you’ve been through the ringer, Dr. Loughty, and I also appreciate that your sister, niece, and nephew have been caught up in this business, and for that very reason, I think you need to recuse yourself from this discussion.”
She flew out of her chair in a rage. “I beg your pardon?”
John also tried to stand but caught himself and slumped back down in pain. “Are you out of your mind?” he said, pointing a finger at Trotter. “Dr. Loughty is the most qualified person in the room—no scratch that, on the planet—to understand the things these people are going through and the scientific issues involved in bringing them home and making MAAC safe.”
Bitterman raised his hands in an effort to tamp down emotions. “Please, everyone, I’m sure Mr. Trotter isn’t suggesting that a rescue effort is a low priority.”
“I’m sorry,” Trotter said coldly, “that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. As I’ve said, I’m not a scientist but I am blessed with an abundance of common sense. And that has led me to the conclusion that this channel, or passageway to this other dimension has widened. Initially it encompassed Dartford only. Now South Ockendon is involved. With every restart of the collider it seems that the risk only increases. Therefore I believe our foremost priority must be to plug the hole and my unscientific mind tells me the best way to do that is to shut down MAAC once and for all.”
Emily shouted back, “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this nonsense and furthermore …”
John gently jumped in. “Emily, let me. Please. They’re just going to keep invoking your so-called conflict of interests. So let me say this. In war, you don’t leave one of your men behind on the battlefield. Make no mistake of it. This is a war. And the people who are lost on the battlefield are innocent men, women and children. I’ve volunteered to go back. Emily has volunteered. Trevor Jones has volunteered. We’re willing to put our lives on the line and you people should have the courage to back us to the hilt.”
“That’s very well said, Mr. Camp,” Bitterman said. “You have my backing and you have the backing of the US government.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Secretary,” Trotter said, “it is British soil that has been invaded by these beings and it is British citizens who’ve been killed. If this were happening in Washington or New York, I venture to say your position would be the same as mine.”
Bitterman leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “All right, fair point. Let me put it to the experts then. Do you agree that each restart of MAAC increases the instability of the connection between our universe and this parallel universe?”
John watched Emily silently struggle with the question and shift in her chair but Quint jumped the queue and answered before her.
“The answer is undoubtedly yes,” Quint said. “The intense collision energy we’re achieving at our maximum power of 30 TeV is producing gravitons and strangelets in abundance. These particles are combining in some undetermined way to pierce the veil of our universe and create a connection across the multiverse to another dimensional state. That seems clear. While we don’t understand the phenomenon yet, successive high-energy collisions seem to be causing these graviton-strangelet complexes to propagate and now we have two nodes of connectivity along the MAAC tunnel. Each additional restart would, in my estimation, increase the risk of additional nodes forming at any place along the track of the tunnels, that is, at any place encircling greater London.”
Bitterman pointed to Matthew Coppens and asked for his opinion. Avoiding Emily’s hard stare, Matthew reluctantly agreed with Quint. David Laurence was next and he also concurred.
“I don’t want to put you on the spot, Dr. Loughty,”
Bitterman said, “but you are the scientific director and you are in charge of the Hercules project. Your objective assessment carries a lot of weight with me.”
She sighed heavily and said, “I’d like to study the data further but I don’t necessarily disagree with my colleagues. That said, I believe we have to approach the problem at hand with a risk-mitigation strategy.”
“What would that look like?” Bitterman asked.
“Over the past six weeks, there were six power-ups of the collider. The first was when I was transported, the second transported John, three through five were fruitless and the sixth, yesterday, returned us but transported others at two locales or nodes, to use Dr. Quint’s terminology. The rationale for four weekly restarts during John’s mission to find me was sensible on the face of it. He didn’t know how long it would take to locate me and absent a way of communicating with the lab, he was given four weekly windows of opportunity. I would suggest that to mitigate against further field instabilities we limit ourselves to one restart as soon as practically possible to transport the rescue party and one and only one restart to return as many rescuers and victims as possible, trading them for all the Hellers you’ve been able to capture.”
Bates, the FBI director asked, “How long would we give you to accomplish your mission?”
Emily asked John what he thought.
“I’d say a month,” he answered. “If all the missing are still in Britannia that’s one thing, but if some of them have been shipped off to Europa that’s something else again. We’re going to have to know the identities and backgrounds of the South Ockendon people to have any prayer of finding them.”
“And when would you propose to leave?” Smithwick asked.
“As soon as possible,” John said. “The longer we wait the greater the chance of dispersion of our people to the continent.”
Sir George Lawrence, the director general of MI5 asked, “Why the continent? Why can’t we assume they’ll stay put where they emerged?”
Emily answered, “It’s because the flesh peddlers prey upon new arrivals, assess their value, and sell them to the highest bidder. There is no more exotic and valuable arrival as a live person, particularly a live woman, and some of the highest bidders are in Europa, as they call it.”
“Good heavens,” Sir George gasped. “Ghastly.”
“I think we’re getting off topic,” Trotter said, trying to reassert himself.
“I don’t think we’re off topic at all,” Bitterman said, cutting him off with a time-out hand sign. “The ultimate decision on restarts will rest on the shoulders of two men who are not in the room, the president of the United States and the prime minister of Great Britain. Assuming we go with the very sensible risk-mitigation strategy that has been proposed, I know how I’ll be advising the president. I won’t presume how Secretary Smithwick will be advising the prime minister. But I’d challenge Mr. Camp on the one-week timetable for the departure of the rescue team. There is much to do. We have to compile a dossier on the South Ockendon missing. We have to do a comprehensive debrief of Mr. Camp and Dr. Loughty so we can better understand the capabilities of our adversaries. We need to plan how to best equip our rescue team to deal with the challenges they'll be facing. And last and by far not the least, we need to give Mr. Camp time to recover from his surgery and for Dr. Loughty to weigh in on Mr. Trotter’s hole-plugging scenarios.”
John insisted he’d be well enough recovered in a week and Emily said she’d also be prepared to go in a week’s time.
“I’m ready when they’re ready,” Trevor said.
Ben politely raised his hand to speak. “How are the three of you planning on handling the geographical challenges of two groups of innocents, one in Dartford, the other in South Ockendon, or whatever it’s called in Hell?”
John said it was a going to be a tough challenge and he’d been giving it some thought. “Best case scenario, we find Arabel, her children, and Delia May quickly, stash them in a safe house with one of us as a guard. Then the other two would make their way to the South Ockendon location, find the missing and bring them back to Dartford for the extraction.”
“I can’t begin to tell you how many things could go wrong,” Ben said.
“I hear you and I don’t disagree. It’s going to be a fly by the seat of your pants operation.”
“Have you considered a larger rescue party?” Ben asked.
John smiled. “Volunteering?”
Ben looked down sheepishly. “Not exactly.”
“Given the time frame to departure, the dangers involved, the secrecy, the operational skills needed, I think we’re lucky to have three ready and able volunteers.”
Bitterman thanked them for the discussion and said, “Hearing no objections to the plan put forward by Dr. Loughty and Mr. Camp, I believe we’re ready to seek the approval for a MAAC restart in one week’s time.”
Trotter muttered loudly enough for some in the room to hear, “And here I thought I was in charge.”
“The only ones in charge, as you put it, are the president and the prime minister,” Bitterman said considerably louder. “The rest of us are but humble advisors. Now one last thing. I’m quite sure that you will ignore me, Mr. Camp, so I’d like to suggest that Dr. Loughty pull rank and order you to get back to the hospital to get well enough for the challenges you’ll be facing next week.”
“Thank you, Dr. Bitterman,” Emily said, smiling at John. “That is precisely what I shall do.”
3
The men in the middle of the road stopped what they were doing, stared at the open door, then began pointing at Arabel and shouting excitedly.
“Look! A woman!” one of them yelled.
“In Albert’s house,” said another.
“What’s happened to Albert and his lot?” yet another said.
Arabel disappeared back inside the house, the door slamming behind her.
The men surged toward the house and Delia, watching from the window, cast about for something to fend them off. Her eyes settled on a firewood axe by the hearth and she seized it. She stepped out, holding the axe in both hands as one might hold a rifle.
“Stay back!” she warned.
The group of men pulled up short. “She’s a plump ’un,” one of them said.
“Looks good enough for me,” a man said with a leer.
Another replied, “I likes the young ’un better.”
Then the nearest to Delia sniffed the air. “It’s another live one, ain’t it? What the devil is going on ’round here?”
A voice rang out from behind the men. “Delia? Is that you?”
She loudly replied, “I’m afraid it is, Duck.”
The young man, absent his red nylon Liverpool tracksuit, ran past the others and threw his arms around her waist.
“Naked as the day you were born,” she sighed. Clad mainly in her sensible cotton and cashmere, Delia’s clothes had come through largely intact.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said. “You weren’t in the big room when I left. Made me sad but now I’m ’appy.”
“I wish I could say the same. Are these men going to hurt me and my friends?”
“Not with old Duck around. Not a chance.” He let go of her and turned to the villagers. “This ’ere’s my Delia. She was right good to me on Earth and I’m fixin’ to be right good to ’er in Down. So back away and go about your business.”
Dirk came forward and stared.
Delia looked him over and said, “You must be Dirk. Your brother’s told me so much about you.”
“Thanks for looking after ’im,” Dirk said, “but I confess, me ’ead’s swimming. First John and Emily disappearing like, then Duck coming ‘ome, now more live ’uns. I believe I need a strong brew.”
Duck said. “Who’s the moll who stuck ’er ’ead out—she’s a rum-doxy, all right.”
“Rum-doxy?” Delia asked, finally letting the heavy axe drag against the ground. “I swear I can’t understand half the things
you say.”
“Pretty,” Duck said. “Pretty and fair.”
“Did you say that John Camp and Emily Loughty were just here?” Delia asked Dirk.
“They was and now they’re not,” Dirk said. “This ‘ere village must be under a spell.”
Arabel was listening from inside the house. She told the children not to move and took a few steps out. Her mouth was bone dry. “Emily was here? Jesus, I don’t even know where here is.”
“She was ’ere in Down, all right,” Dirk said.
“Down?”
“It’s what we call it,” Duck said. “Delia’ll tell you.”
“I’ll explain it all to you soon,” Delia said.
“Is she all right? Is Emily all right?” Arabel asked.
“Right as rain, she was,” Dirk said. “You know of her?”
“She’s my sister.”
Dirk scrutinized her. “There’s a resemblance. Pleased to make your acquaintance though I don’t believe you’ll be pleased to make mine. Duck’s my brother. I can’t say that John Camp was right as rain. He was poorly from a gash.”
“Well, thank God they made it back,” Delia said.
Dirk took a step toward the house. “You said you ’ad friends. Is there more of you?”
“There are two others,” Delia said, “and you must promise me you will treat them very, very gently.”
“Yeah, all right. Delicate creatures, are they?”
“Yes they are. They’re young children. A boy and a girl.”
“Little ’uns?” Dirk said. “’Ere?”
“I’m afraid so. Now, I’ll go back inside and prepare them the best I can but in the meanwhile I would very much appreciate it, Duck, if you could find some clothes.”
