"O'Malley?"
"O'Malley! That was it! How can I get in touch with him?"
"Aircrew," the adjutant pronounced solemnly. "I'll put yer through to the Ops Room." The screen blanked out for a moment, and then came alive again to present the face of a good-looking, red-haired WAAF, smartly attired in an air-force-blue shirt and dark tie.
Cartland repeated his request, this time in a far more agreeable and less formal tone of voice. From behind Cartland and just outside the viewing angle of the camera, Murdoch watched intrigued, with no real idea of what was going on. Elizabeth was leaning forward with an elbow propped on the desk, and looking equally mystified. The WAAF turned sideways to interrogate a terminal just visible at the edge of the screen, and then swung back to present a full-face view.
"Flying Officer O'Malley is away on a forty-eight-hour leave," she crooned in a sultry, slightly husky, voice. "You should be able to reach him at his home. I'll give you the number." As she spoke, a Gravesend code appeared in a box at the bottom of the screen. Cartland touched a pad to lock the number into the vi-set's local memory.
"Thanks a lot, lovely," he acknowledged. "You've been a big help."
"Tell him that Monica sends her regards. He'll know who you mean." The WAAF winked saucily and vanished.
Cartland blinked in surprise at the blank screen, then turned his head to look at Murdoch. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "Did you see that? How extraordinary! It's enough to make a chap want to join up again."
He was already hammering in a rapid-fire command sequence to place a call to the number that he had stored. The screen lit up again and revealed a stout, middle-aged woman wearing a stained pinafore over a flower-patterned dress. Her expression changed to what could have been belligerence as she recognized Cartland's distinctly military appearance and bearing.
"Yes?" she demanded.
"Ah, good afternoon, madam. Do you have somebody called O'Malley there—a Flying Officer O'Malley of the RAF?"
"And who would be wanting him?" the woman asked, in a broad Irish brogue.
"My name is Cartland."
The woman sniffed suspiciously and turned her head to call back to somewhere over her shoulder. "Bill ... " A short pause followed, then, "You've a gentleman to talk to you on the line here." Another voice, indistinct and unintelligible, called something in reply from the background. "A Mr. Cartwheel or something, I think he said," the woman answered.
"I don't know any Cartwheels," the other voice said, becoming louder and clearer.
"Well, it's yourself he's asking for. You'd better come in here and talk to him."
" 'Arf a minute."
"He's coming to talk to you now, Mr. Cartwheel," the woman said out of the screen.
"Thank you," Cartland acknowledged. A few seconds later the woman moved out of view and was replaced by the face that Cartland had last seen two months previously in the library at Storbannon. O'Malley's shoulders were bare, and he was wiping shaving lather from his face with a towel. It took him a moment to recognize who was calling.
"Strewth! I remember you… from that big 'ouse up in Scotland. Fancy seein' you again! What can I do for you, sir?"
"Good to see you," Cartland replied. "I'm sorry to come busting in on your forty-eight and all that, but I think you may be able to help me with a little problem I'm having."
"If I can, sir. What's up?"
Cartland's tone became more serious. "Look, I hate to drag this up again, but it could be important. Do you remember when we were talking a couple of months ago? You mentioned a pal of yours who got killed… came from Southampton."
"Yes, I remember." O'Malley looked suddenly apprehensive. "What about him?"
"When you mentioned him, you said that it happened on something called Centurion. I'm trying to find out what Centurion was. It's an extremely urgent matter."
O'Malley's face dropped. "I should never have said that, sir," he protested. "I can't talk about that. They'll 'ave me shot." He squared his shoulders visibly and recited, "I'm sorry, but that is security-restricted information. I am not permitted to say anything." Then he relaxed and peered suspiciously out at Cartland. "Besides, 'ow do I know you're not from friggin' Air Force Security, tryin' to catch me out?"
"I can assure you that I'm nothing of the sort," Cartland began, then realized the futility of it and sighed resignedly. "Oh damn!" He had half-expected as much. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the vi-set while O'Malley watched woodenly. Then Cartland looked up at him again. "Look, I appreciate your situation, and I don't want to put you on the spot, old boy. But can you tell me who this chap was and which unit he was with? That much can't be classified information. After all, I could be simply an old friend trying to trace him, couldn't I? You don't even have to know that anything's happened to him at all."
O'Malley considered the proposition, then nodded. His voice dropped instinctively to a lower note. "His name was Pilot Officer Barry Lewis from Communications. He was with Six Twenty-sixth Squadron, Orbital Command. Copped it about eight or nine months ago. I can't say more than that."
While O'Malley was speaking, Cartland had entered a code into the vi-set to record the audio channel. He nodded his head in satisfaction. "Thanks a lot, old boy," he said. "Enjoy your leave. Oh… there was one other thing: Monica sends her love from Northolt. Just thought you'd like to know."
O'Malley's face fell in sudden alarm and dismay. "Quieten it down, for Christ's sake, sir," he hissed. "I've got me bird in the next room 'ere."
"Oh, good heavens! Err… sorry about that," Cartland mumbled. Then he raised his voice to a louder level. "Well… thanks again. Keep working on those nav exams. We'll see you in orbit by next year, eh?"
"I hope so, sir." O'Malley grinned. "Good luck with your problem."
Cartland cleared down and replayed the audio that he had recorded, at the same time keying the important details onto a scratchpad area of the screen. Then he recalled the directory and located the section for Buckinghamshire.
"Ted, would you mind telling us what on Earth you're doing?" Elizabeth asked.
"I've seen that guy before," Murdoch said. "He was the pilot who flew the plane when Cuthrie and the others came up to see Grandpa's machine for the first time. How did you know that he knew about Centurion?"
"It'd take too long to explain now," Cartland muttered, scanning down a screen of entries and then switching it for the next. "I'll tell you all about it when I've made this call."
"Who to this time?" Murdoch asked.
"It's time to wheel in the old pals," Cartland told him. Murdoch glanced at Elizabeth. She shrugged. "Ah! Here we are," Cartland said suddenly. "RAF Orbital Command Headquarters, High Wycombe." He selected the number with a movable cursor and flagged it for automatic calling. A short silence descended while he waited.
When the call was accepted, Cartland asked for a Wing Commander Wallace of Communications. After a couple of transfers of the call, the screen stabillzed to show a bull-necked, broad-shouldered, but jovial-looking officer in his fifties, sporting the nearest real-life approximation to the much-caricatured RAF handlebar moustache that Murdoch had ever seen. The officer squinted for a moment, then his face broke into a smile of incredulity and evident delight.
"Teddy Cartland!" he roared. "Ted, old boy, how are things these days? Talk about a face from the past"'
"Hello, Wally. Oh, not so bad, you know. How's the old firm?"
"Same as ever. What is it then, social or business?"
"Social, actually. I'm thinking of throwing a party. Thought you might like to come along," Cartland told him.
Wallace leaned away and appeared to reach an arm out to somewhere below and to one side of the view being shown on the screen. Then he moved back into full view. "That's strange," he said matter-of-factly. "Our recorders here seem to have packed up all of a sudden. I don't know—can't trust anything these days." His expression at once became more serious. "Okay, Ted. What business?"
"Well," Cartland repli
ed. "The truth is I'm in a bit of a pickle over something, and you're the only person I can think of who might be able to help sort it out. Do you want to hear more?"
"Of course. Shoot."
"I'm trying to track down an OC type from your mob. Name's Pilot Officer Barry Lewis, Six Twenty-sixth Squadron."
"Mmm, Six twenty-sixth Squadron… based at Greenham Common." Wallace frowned and looked at Cartland quizzically. "That sounds fairly routine, Ted. Why didn't you go through Adastral House?"
"I think it might be a bit delicate," Cartland said. "He bought it about eight or nine months ago. I need to know where and how. I don't want you to go into it now. Could you call me back later tonight if I give you a number?"
"Oh, I see. It's like that, is it." Wallace looked slightly dubious. "It might be a better idea if I met you somewhere instead for a drink," he suggested. "That would be better if there's a lot to talk about."
"Oh, come on, Wally, I'm right up the other end of bloody Scotland!" Cartland protested, his voice rising. "What do you want me to do, hop on a bike? We've known each other too long to start playing silly buggers. The number's a private one and there's no chance of any wires."
Wallace thought for a moment, then nodded. "Very well," he said. "I'll see what I can do. Give me the number. I probably won't be able to get back to you until late though."
Cartland became very quiet for a while in the car when he and Murdoch were about halfway back to Storbannon later that evening. Murdoch drove for a few miles in silence, and then began giving Cartland increasingly frequent curious looks.
"What's on your mind?" he asked at last.
"Err… what, old boy?" Cartland asked, coming back suddenly from his reverie.
"What are you so deep in thought about?" Murdoch asked.
"Oh… it's nothing really."
"Come on. Give."
Cartland pondered for some time. At last he said, "I think I know now what Centurion was."
Murdoch waited for a moment expectantly, then shot across a look of surprise and bemusement. "Well, don't just sit there, Ted. Tell me. What was it? How did you figure it out?"
"It was when O'Malley said it happened eight or nine months ago," Cartland said. "I've been thinking about it, and there's only one thing it could have been. It all fits."
Silence.
"Well, what, for Christ's sake?"
Cartland shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. "It's a rather delicate issue," he said, sounding somewhat awkward. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not go into it now in case I'm wrong. I'd rather wait and see what Wally has to say when he calls tonight. Sorry to sound a bit melodramatic and all that, but there are good reasons."
Murdoch gave him another long, puzzled look, shook his head in resignation, and flipped the car into manual mode to exit from the Kingussie bypass onto the Glenmoroch road.
Chapter 34
It was almost ten o'clock that night when Wallace called. Murdoch and Cartland were together in the sitting room when Charles put the call through from the study. Cartland took it.
"Are you alone?" Wallace asked.
"There's one other person with me, but you needn't worry about him," Cartland replied. "What have you got for us?"
"Pilot Officer Barry Lewis, Six twenty-sixth Squadron, Greenham Common," Wallace recited. "Killed on active duty, August 12 last year. He was—"
"Ah hah!" Cartland breathed, nodding slowly. "Was he killed while actually engaged in orbital duties?"
"Err… yes, as a matter of fact." Wallace looked surprised.
"Then I'm not sure that you need say any more, Wally," Cartland said. "He was on QX-37, wasn't he?" Behind Cartland and to one side, Murdoch's eyes widened in sudden surprise. QX-37 had been in the news the previous August. It was the designation of an orbiting observatory that had been destroyed by the billions-to-one-against chance event of being hit by a sizable meteor during the annual Perseids shower. On the screen, Wallace's expression changed from surprise to mild indignation.
"Do you mean to say that after all this, you knew all the time? Are you playing games with me, Ted?"
"Not for certain," Cartland said. "I had an inspired guess after we spoke this afternoon, but I still needed the confirmation. There's just one other thing I need to know now: After QX-37 was hit, did they blanket the whole thing with a new codename—classified?"
"How on Earth did you know that?" Wallace asked, now looking completely taken aback. "That's a top-security classification."
"Never mind," Cartland replied. "They did, didn't they. Was that codename Centurion?" Wallace hesitated visibly for a moment, then nodded once. Cartland relaxed and emitted a long, satisfied sigh. "Thanks, Wally," he said. "I can fill in everything else I need myself now. Believe me, you may have done a lot of people a lot of good."
"I'm glad to hear it. Well, you know me—no questions, eh? Is that all you want?"
"That's fine."
"Good. Well, drop in for a drink when you're back this side of the wall, won't you."
"I will, Wally. And thanks again."
Murdoch was looking strangely at Cartland as Ted cut the call and turned away from the screen. Cartland looked up at him and stood waiting for him to say something.
Murdoch shrugged and threw out his hands. "Okay," he said. "I know what QX-37 was, but I still don't get it. Why couldn't you have told me that earlier? And why should an astronomical satellite have anything to do with it?"
"You heard the public version of it," Cartland said. "But there was more to QX-37 than ever got into the news or the documentaries. Sit down and I'll tell you the full story." Looking puzzled, Murdoch moved over to one of the armchairs and sat down on the edge of the seat. Cartland noticed that the door had been left ajar, ambled across the room to close it, then turned and began pacing slowly toward the window.
"QX-37 was a joint Anglo-U.S. project," he said. "I worked on parts of the design study when I was at Cornell, which is why I know something about it. There were a few astronomers up on it with a few telescopes and things, but that was really a cover. Primarily it was built as a biological research lab for conducting experiments that were considered by some people to be too dangerous to be performed anywhere down here. That was what QX-37 was really all about."
Murdoch's mouth fell open in surprise as he listened. Cartland reached the window, stared out for a moment, and then pivoted abruptly and stood looking at where Murdoch was sitting, and waited for a response.
"Too dangerous?" Murdoch's face knotted into a bemused frown. "What kind of experiments?" Then his expression changed to one of disbelief as the implication dawned on him. "Not… not virus research, or something like that?"
"Exactly," Cartland confirmed. His tone was ominous. "In particular, a lot of the work was connected with finding out more about certain extremely virulent and difficult-to-handle strains… such as those responsible for multiple sclerosis and poliomyelitis." He paused to allow Murdoch time to complete making the connection, and then continued, "I don't know if you remember, but a few years ago there was a lot of fuss about proposals to conduct research into possible ways of curing things like that by engineering enzymes that would neutralize such viruses by mutating their DNA. The experiments involved would hinge on mutating viral strains in all kinds of ways, and a lot of people weren't happy about the idea. They weren't convinced that fail-proof containment measures could be guaranteed, and stirred up a huge, neurotic lobby over it. In the end they got their way, and the project was dropped—at least publicly, anyway."
"But not behind the scenes, huh?" Murdoch completed.
"Quite." Cartland clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing again. "The work had to be done. The potential benefits were enormous, not just because of the hope of being able to control a few diseases but for all kinds of other things to do with DNA manipulation… such as eliminating permanently a whole range of congenital defects. Anyhow, to cut a long story short, a decision was taken to move the whole show up into a specially co
nstructed space lab, away from the Earth's surface completely. It seemed to be the ultimate in isolation. The project was approved secretly, and a small astronomical observatory and lab were included to make it look legitimate. That was the only part of it that the public heard about, and they knew it as QX-37." Cartland shrugged and stopped pacing to stare moodily into the hearth. "You know the rest."
"The Perseids or something, wasn't it?" Murdoch said.
"Yes. It's a meteor stream that intersects the Earth's orbit every year just before the middle of August… probably the remains of a broken-up comet. The chances of anything as small as QX-37 being hit by anything at all were too small to imagine, let alone being hit by anything big. But… they were finite nevertheless." Cartland shook his head and sighed. "You know, Murdoch, it's bloody ironic. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the containment measures that had been proposed in the first place. Why do these damned government people always give in to a handful of crackpots who know nothing except how to make a lot of noise? It was the same with nuclear power thirty years ago. I don't know… "
"If you knew that much all along, you must have been pretty worried when QX-37 broke up and reentered," Murdoch said. "So must the other people who knew about it. I guess that explains why Fennimore and his bunch have been on the lookout for something."
"I was, naturally," Cartland agreed. "But I didn't really think that anything viral would have survived the burnup. I talked to a few people I knew on the inside, and they didn't think so either. Evidently we were wrong."
"What do you figure happened?" Murdoch asked.
"It's impossible to say for sure. No doubt some of the cultures were kept frozen in storage. The container they were in could have been protected from the burnup heat by the shell of the structure, and disintegrated later when the whole thing had slowed down at lower altitudes. The viruses must have been released into the atmosphere below ten miles, I'd say; anything that small released higher up in the stratosphere would stay up there for years. If you remember, the debris of QX-37 reentered over the Pacific just east of Japan. From there it would take wind-borne viruses something like… oh, two or three weeks maybe, to reach the West Coast of the U.S.A."
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