The Thinktank That Leaked

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  World wars that only last seven minutes may, for all I know, be waiting for us around the next corner of Time. Certainly the possibility of the neutron bomb becoming a tactical reality is a short route to just that sort of phenomenon. But so far such a fate has — more through chance than good judgement — been warded off, for us.

  Not so the mosaics. For the very fact that they had so very nearly won, and therefore were very highly developed as an integrated species with a central mind, the impact of an implanted conspiracy that ripped it open had an astonishingly destructive effect.

  In the light of my own inadequacy at hinting about the extraordinary level of internal mutilation, I have gained permission to quote from the Official Report which has been in preparation for some time. Though the following extract is only a draft, I think it reveals material stark enough to fill in at least part of the picture. I find its language rather stilted but there is no changing the monumental prose of the highest paid of the Civil Service. Here is the extract from pages 405/6 of the White Paper now in preparation:

  ‘In criticism of Dr. Joseph Richter it must, of course, be said that in concealing from those in authority the extent of the crisis he took risks that proved totally unjustified and, through negligence, permitted a rift in communications to occur which was highly deleterious to the overall threat of nuclear war which was incipient because Rear-Admiral Hartford, Commander of the Sixth Fleet of the United States of America, had no means of knowing either what Richter proposed to do or what the effects on world communications would be.’

  I find this rich. If Nesta’s own father — Lee Crabtree himself — were to be held up as a pillar of authority it is immediately clear just how likely it would have been for the proper authorities to recognize the extent of the threat and act in time. A Royal Commission, sitting for several years before making up its mind would hardly have been the answer. Quite apart from this, one of the mosaic’s principal weapons, used from a very early stage, was to selectively infect the minds of the ‘proper authorities’ so that they could neither know what was going on nor take any action to prevent it. Since this very point is raised in other sections of the draft White Paper it seems odd to me that its authors can’t make up their minds on the point. However, a glance — say — at the Board of Trade’s enquiry into the relatively smallscale disaster of the Titanic is more than enough to provide the clues for the facing-both-ways factor within any government document of this sort.

  I continue to quote from the draft White Paper:

  ‘The breakdown of world communications was almost instantaneous (see Appendix C herein). However, the main factors should be listed at this juncture in the White Paper because each in turn will be extrapolated upon in the paragraphs to follow:

  1. Although Satellite Y.33 was the only orbiting communications channel to break down, the means of accessing all other satellites was aborted because all ground equipment (with isolated exceptions such as a number of amateur shortwave stations) was destroyed. In fact, it can be stated categorically that Mr. R. Kepter knew that many installations (e.g. the radio telescope at Jodrell Bank and several transmitters operated by shipping lines and even the BBC) could and should have been totally isolated prior to the extreme measures he and Dr. Richter decided to implement without reference to expert opinion.

  2. The enforced diversion of a Concorde aircraft to an area where no airfield even existed was an exceedingly dangerous measure in every sense. Had it not been for the restraint of certain foreign powers (see Section 71, Political Considerations) this Concorde would almost certainly have been shot down as a result of flying through reserved airspace belonging by treaty and by International Law to the governments concerned. It was only because until that episode no Concorde had previously been involved in any unauthorized or military role that it was allowed to proceed. Furthermore, had it not been for total breakdown of world communications, brought about in the manner already stated, Mr. Kepter would not have able to use the deceptive means he adopted for fraudulently purchasing fuel from foreign powers through by inference involving the bogus intentions ascribed to the United Nations. For this and other reasons the draft White Paper will of course be forwarded to the Director of Public Prosecutions and experts elsewhere on International Law. For the purpose of allowing Mr. Kepter an opportunity for preparing his defence, specific extracts of this report have been passed to them and it may be agreed among the lawyers concerned for Mr. Kepter to publish these extracts along with his own account of the spread of Electronic Cancer. Such an account cannot, of course, be ignored, despite strong protests from the President of the United States of America regarding its potential publication or use as a serious comment on the facts.

  The extract I have so far seen goes on to whitewash almost every individual and official body that could have taken action long before a chance meeting between the late Dr. Spender and myself alerted me to what had happened. In point of fact there had been so many unexplained phenomena which the ‘proper authorities’ chose to ignore, or minimize, or simply conceal that it seems to me a miracle that the mosaic disaster was — at least in the greater sense — averted. No one denies what followed upon our flight in Concorde Sierra-Zebra and both Richter and I took full responsibility. One does rather wonder, however, what would have happened had we attempted to consult the government at that or any other stage. The milk was all over the kitchen floor; it is a little late for the government of the day to sob over their failure to employ the Lazy-Daisy at the time of the milkman’s misadventure with the hidden banana-skin.

  *

  “… I want you people to be perfectly clear about the risks involved in this operation. Equally you should be informed about the stakes facing others if we don’t achieve a successful ditching … You can hear me quite clearly?”

  All too clearly.

  We were at five thousand feet now and well within view of the U.S. Sixth Fleet. The Captain, who had not allowed us on the flight deck at any time, was someone we’d only fleetingly met prior to take-off. What had happened at Heathrow was quite simple: Nesta had come back out of the Customs Area to tell us that the transatlantic flight had been cancelled in any case due to the total breakdown of communications. The Captain had then deigned to join us at the gate and discuss the crisis for under three minutes. We’d thought that was the end of it. Then a police car had driven up and we were left with them under guard for a precious half hour.

  I can’t say that I took to this Captain, who shall remain nameless. His large face was aggressive and overbearing and the set of his mouth almost permanently sardonic. But later we were told that he had, in fact, heard of the troubles of the 747 I’d had a hand in flying and knew of the near-collision with the DC-10. Consequently he was alerted to the situation at least on that level.

  On one of the few circuits still operating he had put through a call to Bristol, where, by then, their entire radar and communications systems were looking like something out of a cross between a vulgar-looking fungus and a major accident in Frankenstein’s laboratory. From there the trail had led him to some extraordinary measures being taken both by the RAF and by U.S. Air Force bases in Britain. By that time, one of the bases had established relayed communication with a destroyer that had broken away from the main body of the Sixth Fleet. As communications slowly improved, so the situation seemed the more grim.

  All the same, this Captain couldn’t hope to get permission from his employers — United European Airlines — literally to demolish a Concorde by giving it a back-breaking encounter with the Pacific Ocean. By this time, though, we had a lucky break. A certain government minister, who knew Richter personally and wasn’t quite as paranoid as most people on the subject of the USSR, put two and two together because he had received a call from Richter on the night we saw him at Standard Electric Computers. Guessing that Richter was involved, he checked this with the pilot concerned, married it with the information from the rebel destroyer — and went into top gear. Phoning Rolls Royce
at Filton, he found that a Concorde had been sent up to Heathrow after overhaul and was designated for a VIP flight to Tel Aviv. The flight was instantly cancelled but because it had been scheduled for the next day the Concorde (this was the one designated Sierra-Zebra) had been fuelled-up and checked out for the flight.

  It is interesting to quote once again from the draft White Paper on what this Minister of the Crown actually said to the examining commission. It being reasonable to assume that he’d guessed my real intentions anyway, I find the official prose intriguing. It’s printed on page 496 of the draft and reads thus:

  7. There is no question in my own mind (states the Minister) that these people were acting out of pure hysteria and even from a desire to gain some notoriety. My orders on the telephone were quite clear: the Aircraft concerned had been reserved for a special flight but I was prepared to postpone this flight for some twenty-four hours. During that period they were authorized by me, as an emergency measure, to fly radar and other guidance equipment down to Filton in order to replace the damaged installation at Air Traffic Control. (No mention of this had been made to me at any time. Roger Kepter.)

  8. Through some form of trickery Dr. Richter and Mr. R. Kepter managed to convince the pilot and aircrew concerned that the ‘orders’ they passed onto him came from me. It goes without saying that had I had the slightest suspicion either of their intention to ditch Concorde Sierra-Zebra in the Pacific or to refuel under false pretenses at hostile air ports en route I would have not only refused them permission to use the aircraft but would have had them placed under arrest.

  — This from a man who had known Richter for over ten years and had frequently taken his advice on the organization of top secret government computer installations. He had subsequently had a crash-emergency meeting with Richter the very night we visited Standard Electric Computers on the subject of both crystal mosaic and the disposition and location of the U.S. Sixth Fleet! Although I don’t blame people for attempting to save their own skins I thought in my innocence that someone would at some time reveal the horror and extent of the crisis and explain to a ponderous if distinguished committee that Rear Admiral Hartford had less autonomy and capability for decision-making than a new-born babe that couldn’t tell the difference between its mother’s nipple and a bottle-and-teat.

  I shall reserve further comment on this for my Defence, other than by stating that on the whole I had more sympathy for our Captain who, though he scraped the timeworn tune from his violin over having a wife and children to support, if not precisely in those words, at least undertook an extremely dangerous mission. Of course, his wife and children might not have been alive very much longer had he not made the flight, as huge bursts of neutrons followed by saturation radiation-counts of gamma rays within a mushroom cloud are not entirely conducive to people’s health.

  To be fair, however, nothing terrifies a captain quite like the revoking of his commercial pilots’ licence — and therefore his living — so it certainly wouldn’t have been fair to expect this man to take our word for it that in demolishing an extremely beautiful aeroplane we were hoping to avert a world catastrophe.

  *

  “… We are at five thousand feet and descending. Luckily the ocean beneath us is in a state of almost dead calm and there is a visible oil slick coming from one of the cruisers which might help us.

  “However, we are in an SST not primarily designed to land on anything except a properly-treated runway. The turbines are beneath us which means they have to be entirely shut off before the final stall onto the sea. At the speed we shall be alighting, water is harder than concrete but is, at the same time, not a solid. An additional problem is that we cannot keep the droop-snoop lowered for the actual ditching as, should it foul the surface of the water, we’ve had it. In view of the steep angle of attack needed it will consequently be very difficult for me to judge height, and therefore judge the instant to cut the power, if an engine explosion is to be avoided.

  “Finally, I have to add this. The only fuel they could let us have at Delhi is JP4. This is highly inflammable and unless you carry out the drills exactly as I have already detailed, should we burst or fracture a tank you will instantly be burned alive. It is not for me to comment on the advisability of allowing a woman to take the same risks as yourselves; but I am of course totally relying on your calm conduct — however the ditching goes — in seeing that Miss Crabtree stands the best possible chance of survival.

  “You will now make the final preparations for emergency ditching. Your cigarettes — if any — should not only be extinguished, but immersed in water. The cartons of orange squash with which you were issued contain very little else. That is all I have to say.”

  Not for him the exhortation to enjoy good luck. But we can’t love everybody.

  *

  Perhaps a species like the crystal mosaic might have thought that by this time we were all three of us — Richter, Nesta and myself — incapable of experiencing any greater fear than we had already. Their filthy circuits would probably have assumed that there is some kind of saturation point — a ‘cut-off’ in mosaic lingo — beyond which fear cannot go.

  But human beings who are still alive want to go on living. Moreover they are particular concerning the details of their death. Burning with clothes ablaze, in the choking stench of combustible flesh, in an air wreck, is one of the most appalling ways of dying known to man — which is why JP4 has been almost universally banned as a fuel suitable for jet aircraft.

  That was what was in our tanks as we slid gracefully through the sky toward the Pacific.

  I would hate it if I had to report that Nesta’s former courage held, as if she were some kind of impregnable machine with no sensitivities and no flaws. I could not hope to sustain a love affair with the ultimate in the perfect female — for reasons too obvious to put down here.

  She was mortally terrified, biting her lips desperately to try and avoid screaming, holding onto me as if I were any more courageous than she. I caught her eyes only once. We both looked away before the terror had a chance to completely deprive us of control.

  Richter, who though elderly was by no means ready to die, displayed more outward control than we did as the ocean came rushing up towards us. We weren’t far from the Command Ship — a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier that loomed enormous at this range — and Richter’s eyes were fixed on it. Aloud he said, “Think of what we are going to do; not what could happen to us if we don’t live to do it.”

  We tried. By the time we were a hundred and fifty feet above the water we had ceased to succeed. We were already in a steep, nose-up attitude and, for an SST, travelling perilously slowly. You could feel the buffeting as the Captain kept us just above the stall.

  It’s amazing how fast you are travelling when you think you’re going slowly. Rivulets of water, small waves which, if they caught us at the wrong moment could concertina that beautiful machine so that we were gummed to white hot engines, seethed past us; and our view of them was all too sharp, because we were in the forward part of the aircraft … well ahead of the leafed-out section of those lovely delta wings. How long would they remain lovely?

  It seemed to take an appreciable part of a lifetime to sink those last few feet. Time contrives to slow down as your terror rises, and everything except the pace of the water below you goes into slow motion.

  I remember Nesta crying out, “Oh God, save me!” before she doubled herself up into a crouched position, as we did.

  I remember realizing that the Captain had totally misjudged it and that we were all going to die because he had a large, unsympathetic face which I couldn’t see through the crew door and was incompetent; an insensitive idiot who could only fly by the book anyway.

  I remember that first tiny touch with the water, just after the Captain had cut power though the turbines still whined beneath us.

  I remember the second impact, too, much harder this time and a bit behind us, and it was curious how it didn’t throw us
straight over, nose first, on our back, considering what a lousy pilot we had up front.

  And then the real impact came. The engine intakes had suddenly swallowed a gigantic quantity of salt water and they liked it not. Everything around us was breaking apart, and the noise was unbelievable, and Nesta was frozen into a crouched little statue, something from Rodin around which I wrapped an arm, that — inexplicably — didn’t break.

  There were other inexplicable things; like the fact that some of the lights were still on, because it was beginning to get dark, so the cabin was illuminated, and was still illuminated, and although the roof above us had opened, a great crack slitting it down the middle, the seats were in much the same place as they had been before: that is to say, they were upright and very nearly in line.

  Then there was this strange lack of heat. How can you burst apart, all tanks blazing with deadly JP4, and yet feel no heat? The thing was ridiculous. It didn’t make sense. Obviously we were already dead. This was death, then. Not noticing that you were a corpse in an inferno.

  But the oddest thing of all was the loudspeaker system. The incompetent captain, with the large unkind face, was definitely saying something, quite calmly, over the loudspeakers; and for some obscure reason the loudspeakers, despite the fact that we were already dead, were nonetheless working, loud and clear.

  “Right! Scram! Don’t forget what I said. Rubber dinghies burn like hell if anything catches.”

  We’d stopped.

  That was the absurd part about it. We’d stopped in the ocean and the Captain was close on being a genius and though what we were in was not, strictly speaking, a Concorde any more, and although it was filling up with water and sinking rather fast, it was not alight, it was not yet burning, our tanks — if they had in fact been fractured — had not burst into roaring torches of travelling fire … fire which can roll down the wings at you so fast that you are transfixed just before you die looking at it.