‘Are you suggesting this thing is some sort of gigantic vegetableV asked Napier incredulously.
‘No, I’m not. It’s neither vegetable nor animal. It’s something else. And more primitive than either.’ it’s best to think of it as a large, one-celled organism like a giant amoeba,’ said Thomas. ‘And these tentacles are its pseudopods. They appear to be multi-cellular but they’re not real cells, they’re quasi-cells. And they’re also expendable. The main body of the creature - the nucleus - is where its DNA, or its equivalent, is stored. And that’s what we should be aiming to attack, and as soon as possible.’
‘You think Renton’s plan for flooding the tunnels with phosgene and sarin is ill-advised?’ asked Napier.
‘Yes, I do,’ answered Thomas firmly. ‘For one thing it’s going to take a hell of a lot of gas to completely fill every cavity under London, and very difficult to make sure it gets everywhere. I doubt if you even have sufficient stocks of gas for the job.’
‘No,’ admitted Napier. ‘We’ll have to get extra supplies flown in from the States . . .’
‘Which means you won't be able to begin pumping in the gas today?’
Napier nodded. ‘Not until late tomorrow at the earliest.’
‘By that time it may be too late. If we allow this thing to grow much bigger it will become impossible to destroy. The gas may kill off the tentacles but it will simply use the dead tissue to block off the tunnels and pipes and remain safe behind its barriers.’
‘What do you suggest?’ asked Napier.
‘We have to hit it dead centre. We have to get down to whatever nest it’s burrowed under London and inject poison directly into its nucleus. And we have to do it today, or tonight at the latest.’
Napier ran a hand worriedly through his greying hair. ‘But how do we get to the centre? The army units this morning couldn’t get very far at all.’
‘I think the creature’s main sensory system operates by infrared. The tentacles are attracted by the heat of human and animal bodies. If a small team of men went down wearing insulated suits that didn’t leak any heat they might have a good chance of making it through without being attacked . . .’
Napier looked at him with new respect. ‘Yes, by God, you’re right!’
‘Well, I could be wrong,’ admitted Thomas. He indicated the elephant-trunk-like tentacle. ‘That eye thing may be capable of seeing in wavelengths other than infrared. Let’s hope there aren’t too many of them around down there.’
it’s a chance we’ll have to take,’ said Napier excitedly, i’ll get onto this right away. It’ll mean going over Renton’s head but that can’t be helped. I’ll speak to the Minister directly. Suggest we put together a team of SAS volunteers . . .’
‘Fine,’ said Thomas, interrupting him. ‘But there’s another problem. I’m not sure if either phosgene or sarin • are the ideal choices for the job. I’d prefer something even more toxic. We can’t afford to screw up on this - it may be the only opportunity we get.’
‘What do you suggest?’
Thomas shook his head, i’m not sure. If there was still any in existence I’d say boxine, but all stocks of that were destroyed in 1979.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of boxine,’ said Fletcher, with a frown. ‘What was it?’
‘Developed by accident at the Queensland University in Australia. The US navy was paying the university to try and come up with an antidote to the toxin produced by the box jellyfish, otherwise known as the seawasp. One sting from a seawasp is invariably fatal. Very nasty stuff, but a scientist working on the project accidentally synthesized a version of the toxin which was a hundredfold more toxic. Naturally the US Navy knew what it had in its hands and stockpiles of boxine were produced. But they were destroyed by international agreement in 1979.’ Napier gave an embarrassed cough. ‘Well, not completely . . .’
They looked at him. He reddened and said, ‘A small amount was kept for the purpose of developing an antidote against it in case the Soviets ever used it against us.’ ‘I see,’ said Thomas blandly, is there any in this country?’
‘Yes. We have some stored at Porton Down. I’ll arrange to have it flown in immediately.’ He turned to leave . . .
‘Wait!’ said Thomas. ‘One last thing.’
Napier turned back. ‘What is it?’
Thomas was just as surprised as the others in the room to hear his next words: ‘Your team of SAS volunteers are going to need someone with our knowledge and expertise accompanying them to make sure they administer the Boxine in the best possible target area within the creature . . and that someone is going to be me.’
20
I still say you’re crazy!’
“ Thomas sighed. ‘I wish you’d stop arguing. It’s a waste of time. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going.’
Robin and he were in his small office. He was stretched out on his couch, trying to get some rest before what he knew was going to be a physically exhausting experience. Robin, however, was pacing up and down in an agitated manner - and had been for almost the last hour.
‘But why you? Why don’t you let someone else play the hero? You know there’s a very good chance you won’t come back, don’t you?’
‘Robin, you’re not helping me at all. I’m well aware my chances of surviving are around the nil mark. And I’m scared shitless. I don’t want to go but I have to!’
She stopped her pacing and stood over him, hands on hips. ‘You keep saying that!’ she accused him, ‘but you won’t say why you have to go.’
‘I can’t explain.’
She stared at him for a time then said, in a softer tone, ‘Look, doctor, I know how you feel about me. We made love last night, true, but your feelings towards me haven’t really changed much. You don’t like me, right?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Okay,’ she said, i understand why. But I’m going to throw away my pride - which is, I’ve been told, quite considerable - and tell you that I like you a lot. More than a lot. I don’t want to lose you. So I’m going to beg you not to go . . . look, I’m even going down on my knees.’ She dropped to her knees beside the sofa. She was smiling but there were tears in her eyes. She gripped
his arm and squeezed it. ‘So come on, hey, don’t let all this humiliation go to waste; humour me and tell me you won't go.’
He shook his head helplessly. ‘It’s no good. You don’t understand. I have to go. It’s because of Anne, you
see . . .’
‘Anne?’
‘I’ve got to do something to shift this load of guilt I have about her. Because I acted like a shit I made her walk right into the arms of that creature. If I hadn’t been so spiteful and childish I would have got down off my juvenile high horse, accepted her apology and then told her about what was happening at Harpenden. She would never have gone there that night. She’d still be alive. But no, I was angry and hurt and wanted to hurt someone else in turn. Well, I sure succeeded in that. I not only hurt Anne, I fucking killed her . . .’
‘No, no!’ protested Robin. ‘You didn’t. You weren’t to know. You can’t blame yourself!’
‘But I do. Which is why I have to try and help kill that thing. I’ll never have any peace of mind otherwise . . .’ She slowly stood up. ‘And nothing I can say or do will change your mind, will it?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. But look at it this way, if I succeed it may make things different between us. What I mean is . . . if I can unload some of this guilt about Anne I’m probably going to feel differently about you when I get back.’
‘Oh, thanks a heap,’ she said sarcastically. ‘But please don't bother to do me any favours . . .’ She turned and strode angrily to the door. ‘. . . if you get back,’ she added just before she slammed the door behind her.
He sighed. ‘Great. Just what I needed to hear.’
The hours passed slowly. He was too nervous to sleep so finally he got up and went to see if the canteen was open. It was, barely. But the few staff members
who’d made it in were succeeding in producing hot meals, thanks to the Laboratory’s emergency generator.
He wasn’t hungry but he forced himself to eat the plate of stew. He knew he was going to need every extra calorie he could store away. As he ate he wondered if he had the necessary courage to go through with it. It was not too late to pull out . . .
He pushed such thoughts from his mind and thought instead about Robin. Would he really feel differently about her when he got back? If he got back . . .? But then he wasn’t sure how he felt about her now. She was too scrambled up with his memories of Anne.
He thought of the previous night’s lovemaking with Robin and felt a stirring of desire as he remembered the way her naked, sweating body had looked on top of him . . . It’s true, he reflected wryly. Imminent death makes you horny. He wondered if he could find Robin and persuade her to come back to his office for a quick one before he left. But he decided against it. Even if she was willing, which he doubted, he knew he couldn’t afford to waste his energy that way. He would have to wait until he got back.
If he got back . . .
He was just finishing his meal when he heard himself being paged over the PA system. He was to go to the conference room at once. The marines have arrived, he told himself as he got up and hurried from the canteen. His heart had already begun to race in an alarming manner and he hadn’t even left the Laboratory. What was he going to be like going down into the tunnels, he wondered.
Napier was waiting for him in the conference room, along with two very senior-looking army officers and eight young men. The latter, Thomas guessed, were the SAS team, though they didn’t look like the macho supermen of popular legend. In fact they looked even less like soldiers than ordinary soldiers did. Their hair was of fashionable length rather than in the short-back-and-sides style and there was nothing particularly military about their demeanour. Even the fatigues they were wearing seemed more like casual clothes than army issue.
Napier introduced him to the two older men who, in direct contrast to the others, exuded military correctness from every pore. One of them was actually a field marshal, the other a mere general. Then he was introduced to one of the SAS men. ‘This is Lieutenant Lindsay Cox-Hayward,’ said Napier. ‘He’s in charge of the mission.’
As Thomas shook hands with Cox-Hayward, who was in his late twenties, he noticed an expression of doubt creep into the other man’s eyes as they surreptitiously scanned him. ‘Forgive me for saying so, Dr Thomas,’ said the Lieutenant, ‘but you appear rather, well, out of condition. Are you sure you feel up to it, sir? It’s going to be a hard slog and the suits we’ll be wearing are apparently quite heavy affairs.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Thomas with a breezy confidence he didn’t feel, i’m fitter than I look. I won’t hold you up.’
Still looking doubtful, Cox-Hayward nodded. ‘Very well, sir.’
‘And now, gentlemen,’ said Napier urgently. ‘Let’s decide on your plan of action, and quickly. It’s already 7.00 p.m. which gives us only another two hours of daylight to go . . .’
They gathered round the big, oval-shaped table on which a large map of underground London had been spread out. It included all the tube tunnels and main sewer tunnels as well as several other subterranean features that Thomas didn’t recognize.
The field marshal took charge. He tapped the map with a white pointer, indicating a red circle that had been drawn around an area encompassing Oxford Circus, Piccadilly Circus, Tottenham Court Road, Leicester Square and Holborn tube stations. ‘This is the area where the outbreaks started yesterday,’ he said crisply. ‘So it’s logical to assume that the centre of the disturbance lies somewhere beneath it . . .’
Thomas noticed that the field marshal was reluctant to refer to it as a living creature. Like Renton, he had his own way of coping with the incomprehensible ... He wondered where Renton was. Sulking somewhere, he hoped, with his nose terminally out of joint.
‘That’s a hell of a big area to cover, sir,’ said Cox-Hayward, frowning at the map. ‘Take us at least twelve hours to check out every tunnel, and we don’t have that long.’
‘I agree, but there is a possibility that the best place to start searching is the Bakerloo tunnel between Piccadilly Circus and Oxford Circus.’ He indicated a spot almost halfway along the tunnel with his pointer, it was here that the first major incident occurred. A massive subsidence that took an entire tube train with it. That might just serve as a convenient route down to . . . down to where . . .’He was suddenly at a loss for words. He turned to Thomas. ‘What exactly do you think is down there, Doctor?’
its nest,’ said Thomas, putting the emphasis on its. ‘I believe it has fashioned out a kind of sanctuary within the layers of clay and limestone below London. Probably level with the water table. It needs a lot of water, it seems . . .’ The field marshal flinched. ‘Yes, well, if you say so.’ He turned back to Cox-Hayward. ‘Well, Lieutenant?’
The SAS man nodded slowly. ‘Fine. We’ll have the chopper drop us down in Piccadilly Circus and enter the Bakerloo tunnel there . . .
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Napier said, ‘Come in,’ and two of his staff from Porton Down entered. One of them was carrying a metal case the size of a portable typewriter. ‘The boxine, sir,’ he told Napier. ‘May I . . .?’
Napier made an affirmative gesture. The white-coated man placed the metal case on the table and began to release a series of catches, it’s quite safe,’ he announced unnecessarily. He opened the case to reveal a row of six metal vials beside a device that looked like a toy gun
attached to a bicycle pump. He glanced round question-
ingly. ‘Who will be in charge of this?’ he asked.
‘Me,’ said Thomas, moving closer.
‘Right then, here’s how it works.’ He extracted one of the vials, gingerly opened it and carefully extracted a thick dart by its feathery tail. The needle on the other end was long and looked very sharp. ‘Each dart contains 50 cc of boxine. We’ve been assured that these darts, usually used for the anaesthetizing of large animals, can penetrate the hides of elephants. The gun itself is the most powerful we could locate . . .’
Cox-Hayward said dubiously, is there enough of that stuff in there to kill something so enormous?’
‘Boxine is probably the most toxic substance that has ever existed,’ Thomas told him. ‘One microscopic drop on your skin would kill you in seconds. Moves incredibly fast through the body shutting off all intracellular activity as it goes. All your metabolic functions would cease almost simultaneously.’
‘Yes, quite so,’ said the Porton Down man approvingly. ‘Show me how to load the gun,’ said Thomas.
The man did so. Then he removed the dart and handed both it and the gun to Thomas. Concealing his nervousness, Thomas repeated his actions.
When he’d successfully loaded the thing Cox-Hayward said brightly, ‘Well then, let’s get this big-game hunt on the road.’
21
The large SAS helicopter squatted ominously in the Laboratory car park. Painted green and grey, it resembled some kind of giant primeval animal that had come down to prey upon the puny-looking vehicles that surrounded it.
Thomas’s stomach did a slow forward roll when he saw it. He’d been so concerned about what was going to happen when they went down into the tunnel he’d forgotten his fear of flying. Travelling in commercial airliners was a big enough ordeal for him and he dreaded the idea of going up in a helicopter which, as far as he was concerned, was the unsafest form of air transport ever devised.
‘Good luck, Thomas. No need to tell you how much depends on the success of your mission.’ It was Napier. He was holding out his hand to him.
‘Uh, no sir. No need at all.’ Thomas was about to shake hands when he realized his palms were sweating badly. He tightened his grip on the handle of the metal case, then wiped the palm of his right hand quickly on his trousers. As he shook hands with Napier he glanced at the crowd of Lab perso
nnel who’d gathered in the car park to see them take off. There was no sign of Robin, which disappointed him. She could have at least come to say goodbye . . .
He turned back to the helicopter. The SAS squad had already clambered on board. The engines were making a high-pitched whine and the rotors were beginning to turn. He gritted his teeth and ran towards it, making sure he kept his head low. Cox-Hayward gave him an assist into the cabin then guided him to an unpadded bucket seat and showed him how to use the seat belt. No sooner had Thomas pulled the belt tight than the helicopter rose rapidly into the air with a roar of its engines.
Thomas sat there with his knees jammed against a big crate and the metal case containing the boxine on his lap. As he worked hard to maintain the fixed grin on his face, which he hoped was at least partly fooling the SAS men, he wondered what the hell he was doing in a flying death trap clutching a box full of the most dangerous poison in the world.
Robin had her problems too, though not on the same scale as Thomas’s. After leaving his office all those hours ago she had encountered an agitated young man wearing a white coat who’d come running up to her in the corridor and said breathlessly, ‘Quick, Miss, what blood type are you?’
‘Er, type O, I think. Why?’
‘Good! Go over to the hospital right away. Tell one of the nurses in reception that Dr Bresnihan sent you. She’ll show you where to go . . .’ And then he’d carried on down the corridor. As she stood there wondering what to do she saw him pounce on someone else in the distance.
Despite him having missed out the vital part of the message she guessed that the young doctor was on the hunt for blood donors. The hospital he’d referred to could only be the Colindale Hospital, the Victorian pile adjacent to the Laboratory. She’d never given blood before and wasn’t too keen on the idea now but after a few moments’ reflection decided she should make herself useful. She certainly had nothing else to do . . .
Simon Ian Childer Page 15
