by Peter Damon
The mainstream news channels hadn’t bothered to cover the other story Michael had hoped to see, but the social media carriers were full of them; hoax satellite launchings. It had caught the imagination of students of all ages, and there were dozens of incidents across the UK and European mainland, some as far afield as Australia and New Zealand.
The most ingenious of these had used a high altitude meteorological balloon to get close to a height of 40 kilometres, and then begun transmitting in an effort to mimic the earlier satellite reported in the Guardian Newspaper some four weeks previously.
Something else had made the news too, Michael noted. It was a short piece on page three of the Cambridge Chronicle, a well researched and sparingly written piece that informed readers of an upsurge in visitors to Cambridge from the Chinese Republic. It went on to provide some advice on courtesy and greeting from that country.
Michael nodded to himself and hoped Rolle and the others had seen the same piece.
+++++++++++++++++
Stan Charway sat at his monitor, his second hour at that monitor, while he used the CTASS system to follow Michael Bennett from camera to camera throughout Cambridge, watching his every move and wondering if God ever grew as bored as he.
May 28th
Michael shared a breakfast with Jake and Matt, talking of inconsequential matters while they left their phones on the table for Michael to read the texts from the twins.
The Howards spoke of having to study hard, but they had made friends and they were helping them to overcome some of the hurdles of studying in a foreign country. They anticipated returning on time.
So Allan Blake had arrived, he surmised. Buoyed by their successes, Michael departed to walk into town to catch the bus to Milton Keynes from where he could then catch the shuttle to the Cranfield University campus. There, he had an appointment to interview Professor Munford.
To the two British Secret Service gentlemen following him, and to others using the CCTV camera system, Michael was going about his business as a journalist, interviewing people as he followed up on stories, doing research to establish the facts behind recent events and obtaining background information. He hoped his watchers would find it extremely boring. He would need their lack of attention one day, he was sure.
His interview with Professor Munford was likely to be contentious, as the professor’s interview with the BBC been. The interviewer had suggested to the professor that, with the lack of any plausible confirmation that the project had indeed been launched, his data could have been totally manufactured. The Guardian newspaper, meanwhile, was continuing their tirade against the USA and suggesting that America’s silence on the subject was a clear indication of subterfuge. It suggested they themselves had lifted the Cranfield solar probe.
Perhaps, because of that, the Vice-Chancellor of Cranfield University, Professor Sir John Stone, was also to be at today’s interview. They clearly didn’t want any more embarrassing media stories surfacing. At least, Michael hoped that would stand as the reason.
Michael shook their hands and gratefully accepted a coffee while he took out his tablet and brought up the interview App, a facility that allowed him to make notes, even as it recorded the meeting. Further taps on the screen would highlight what had just been said making it easier to retrieve key pieces of information from lengthy interviews.
Michael questioned them regarding their article in the Science Journal and their claim to have had their project lifted by a group they did not wish to discuss.
As any good journalist would have done, he probed and he pressed, he even joked in an attempt to lower their guard, but when he’d exhausted all avenues and knew he was not going to achieve much more, he turned off his tablet and courteously thanked them both for their time. He then reached into his pocket to bring out his small black box, and pressed the button on its top watching his tablet loose connection to the Web.
“So?” Michael asked.
“We had to publish,” Sir John told him, a powerful looking man in his early sixties with a gravel voice to match. “Our links with the American universities were in jeopardy, and we were in danger of losing millions of US Dollars in funding had we not come clean and admitted to owning that probe.”
“Well, it pretty much negates everything we’ve been doing in Germany. I don’t think anyone can be persuaded to think the technology originated from anywhere other than the UK now,” Michael pointed out.
“Is that such a bad thing?” Professor Munford asked.
“Not ultimately, no,” Michael conceded. “But we were hoping to keep the authorities muddled as to location as long as possible. If we give them geographically distant locations then they have to spread their resources. Cross-border investigations are that much harder because of poor communication between different nationalities, whatever more senior people in Europe would like you to think. It just makes everything that little bit more difficult for them. I have no doubt that the Americans and Russians have asked the German authorities for all manner of details concerning Bonn at the time of our launch, just as I have every faith that the Germans are taking their time in responding.”
“Well, we’re genuinely sorry Michael, but we really had little choice in the matter. What about the big project?” Sir John asked.
“Yes, we don’t receive a lot of details, but we believe everything is on schedule,” Michael told them.
“We did wonder, after Bonn,” Sir John murmured. “Fernsehen Zentral did well, getting the Russians to say what they did,” he chuckled.
“What about that introduction I provided Rolle with, to the President of the Busan University in South Korea?” he asked.
“That has gone very well, thank you. We now know we can rely on the South Koreans helping us when needed,” Michael agreed.
“Have details of the Bonn launch affected your recruitment drive?” Michael asked.
“Not that you’d notice,” Professor Munford told him. “Three professors and fifteen students are getting prepared. They’ve already visited Long, Bridge & Sons for their diving suits,” he said, smiling with humour.
“Good. Give Cambridge the details, just as if they were normal exchange students, and ensure they’re in Cambridge during the last week of the term,” Michael stressed.
“As soon as that!” Sir John looked shocked.
Michael nodded. “I would do it sooner if I could,” he admitted sourly.
They shook hands and Michael turned off the little black box before making his way to the bus stop for his return trip to Cambridge. The two British Secret Service gentlemen had reappeared he noted.
+++++++++++++++++
Sir Richard Phillips, Vice Chancellor of Cambridge University, spent most of his days meeting with foreign businessmen and their politicians. He and his staff were therefore well versed in these processes.
Places at the many university colleges were frequently sought after and it wasn’t unusual for senior foreign embassy officials, some of whom had attended Cambridge themselves, to visit and offer inducements to take more students, or particular and promising individuals as students.
In many cases, his staff were able to compile a précis of the visitor’s status, their accomplishments and position in their country or organisation. It not only helped verify their purpose, but helped to ease tensions, when the Vice Chancellor was able to show a thorough knowledge of his guests.
However, there was little known about the two Americans who were shown in to his office that afternoon, other than a letter from the US Ambassador to the United Kingdom, requesting the meeting on their behalf.
Of a similar height, six feet, and with cropped hair and smart suits, they could have been members of the Church of the Latter Day Saints come to convert him, and the thought made Sir Richard smile as he shook their hands, offered them seats at the table and refreshments from the tray of cold drinks. If there was anything an American would accept over a cup of coffee, it was a can of cold Coke.
“So, what ca
n I do for you?” he asked, once they had settled down.
“Sir, it’s what we can do for you,” Mitch Butler said. “You see, we represent the American Government, and we know that Cambridge University is at the centre of a new technology capable of launching objects into low and high earth orbits,” he told Sir Richard.
“What we propose, Sir, is to make a fund of $200 million US Dollars available to the university to continue its research in this field,” said Chad Hollander.
“All we ask in return Sir, is that the university allow us to assist you, by integrating some our space engineers and particle physicists into that new programme,” Mitch finished.
“Well, I must say; this all sounds quite incredible!” Sir Richard gasped, even managing to laugh slightly.
“No Sir. The United States of America has always been a friend to the United Kingdom, and we believe this partnership is just one example of how we can move together from strength to strength,” Mitch told him.
“Yes, well, there is just one problem,” Sir Richard said, holding up a single finger.
“I’m sure we can overcome that, sir,” Mitch told him.
“I don’t think so, you see, Cambridge University is not engaged in the development of space travel,” he told them.
The Americans glanced at each other, and returned their now hostile expressions towards the Vice Chancellor.
“Are you denying that Cambridge University has the capacity to lift items into space?” Mitch asked.
“I am,” Sir Richard told him.
“Do you deny that one of the university’s projects was lifted on November 26th of last year?” Chad asked.
“I don’t know of specifics,” Sir Richard shrugged. “I would need to look into it, but I suspect, as in the past, that we’ve used third party facilities to conduct the lift.”
“Sir, we really do recommend that you accept our proposal,” Mitch told him.
Sir Richard’s banal attitude slid away and his expression hardened as he looked towards the two young men in front of him.
“Listen, and listen very carefully,” he told them, his voice just little over a murmur. “I don’t care for your attitude, nor your honey-flavoured offers to come here and tell us what and how to run our research programs,” he told them, his voice low but sharp, his angry eyes holding the Americans still. “I have told you our position, and I am not going to change my mind because two young pups have been let off their leads and think Cambridge is the ideal place to play. So go back to your masters and tell them; Cambridge does not hold the ball, and we’d be unlikely to throw it to you if we had. Do you understand?” he asked.
The Americans reddened as they rose from the desk and left. Sir Richard chuckled, shook his head and wandered to the door to tell his secretary to get the editor of the Cambridge Chronicle on the phone. “Tell him I have a story worthy of Mr Bennett’s creative hand,” he told her.
++++++++++++
Stan Charway finished listening to Sir Richard’s conversation with the two Americans and put the headphones down. So the Americans were trying to make Cambridge University a financial offer in return for a seat at the development table. Stan wondered how far behind the Russians and Chinese were, though he privately suspected the Chinese would never make an offer. They were far more likely to use force, and that made them a completely different type of problem.
“Have the American’s returned to their embassy in London?” he asked one of his team.
“No Sir. They have a house just outside Cambridge. They arrived just over a week ago, four of them, Sir, and the house is on a three month rental term.”
“I see,” San murmured, cursing himself for not having known that. “Well, raid the place. I want all four arrested and put on-board the next flight to USA. Make sure it’s an American airline too. Let them foot the bill!” he chuckled.
“Any particular reason for the extradition, Sir?” he was asked.
Stan grinned. “Make it drug related. Cannabis,” he suggested.
“Make an inventory of everything you find and place it in storage for now. We’ll work out later if we want to give any of it back. But for now, make sure those boys are gone before Bennett tracks them down,” he warned. “I don’t want that journalist talking to them.”
Stan had no reason to suspect that Bennett would trade the new technology for cash, but otherwise, what was the connection to Japan? You couldn’t be too careful in this game.
May 29th
“That’s the lot,” Gary Clarke told Cheryl Hall as he straightened from having put the last of the helmets into the large plastic crate standing in the middle of the garage. The lid was to one side, and Gary picked it up to put it in place before turning the plastic seals to secure it to the base.
Cheryl nodded and finished calculating the complete gross weight before entering it into the form on her tablet.
“Will it take long?” he asked.
She shook her head, still concentrating on the UPS App on the tablet. “Three, four days, perhaps less,” she explained. She pressed the print key. The small printer she had brought with her woke up and began printing four copies of the Commercial Invoice and two of the packing slip.
“When do you have to go back?” he asked.
Cheryl checked her watch. “Late this afternoon,” she told him. “I have an evening meeting with one of our clients, making sure they’re going to be ready when they say they are,” she explained.
“Good,” Gary said and smiled. “Fancy lunch?” he asked.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Cheryl quipped, smiling with relief at the tall and broad shouldered young man.
+++++++++++++++++
Rolle used the public phone in the foyer of the new Particle Physics Laboratory to, once again, try to get through to the Rising Moon restaurant on Regent Street. He listened to it ring and ring, tapping his foot in frustration while repeating his urgent message to Robert Hwang, the owner of the restaurant, in his mind.
It was such a simple solution, Rolle didn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of it before. He would just ask Robert to tell the police about the four Chinese men, and include the name of Xu Dain.
The phone was picked up and Rolle sighed with relief before hearing an automated reply. He groaned inwardly but left a message nonetheless.
May 30th
“Frankie!” Leanne Adler called from across the warehouse as she arrived to work that day. Matt and Jake followed her in, their heads turning this way and that as they attempted to interpret all the activity on the many vehicles inside.
There was a lot happening in the warehouse. All the vehicles showed the marks of heavy-duty work to their bodies, while one still needed tyres and another had its bonnet raised and coloured cables leaking out from its sides.
“This is Matt and Jake,” Leanne told the lean, weasel-like gypsy as he came over to greet them.
“A pleasure,” Frankie murmured, looking sharply at the two boys.
“We were wondering if we could help,” the boys told him.
“Any experience with vehicles?” he asked.
“We’ve driven a few,” Matt said earnestly.
Frankie smiled and turned to face the long line of vehicles to explain what was happening. “Leanne’s done the electrics and we’ve created a new inner cell that makes them all airtight. Body work is being finished off on a couple of them, and then we can begin painting them,” he explained. “The interiors are mostly done, but the new control yoke’s are taking some time to fabricate,” he admitted.
“Cool. Can we get to paint our van?” Jake asked, pointing to the smallest of all the vehicles, a van parked right in the far corner.
“Sure. Go for it,” Frankie grinned. “You can paint it black, black, or black. What’s your choice, lads?” he asked.
+++++++++++++++++
Michael had only to walk a few paces along Sidgwick Road to know that a car was tailing him. He had been in the Museum of Classical Archaeology to interv
iew staff about their latest acquisition and had planned to have lunch at Queen’s College, just round the corner, before making his way to the Vice Chancellor’s office for his afternoon appointment, when he felt a need to stop and look at the vehicle inching its way along the curb-side behind him.
They were Russian, he decided, watching one of them get out of the back of the vehicle to nod pleasantly towards him. The man was large, not like an American football player, but like a Russian gone to seed for a year. “Come, there are things we need to discuss,” the man said, his smile fixed on Michael’s face while his accent confirmed his origin.
Michael got into the car without fuss. “I hope you guys know what you’re doing,” he murmured as the man returned to his seat beside him and closed the door. He took a moment to peer out of the window towards the nearest of the CCTV cameras, smiling towards it as they drove through its vision range.
“What’s this in aid of?” he asked politely.
“Cambridge, Cranfield and Aalto Universities have all had pet projects magically delivered into space, a little company in Germany get their exceedingly heavy satellite lifted into GEO, and all shortly after a former British Intelligence officer comes back to Cambridge as a journalist,” the Russian said. “Is it a leap of faith to believe that you were involved in this?” he was asked.
Michael nodded. “The same had crossed my mind. I personally believe someone has set me up,” Michael admitted.
The Russian laughed and said something in Russian to his colleagues.
“No, seriously,” Michael told him. “This isn’t a senior man dumping on his subordinate; this is something different.”
The man’s grin left his face as he stared angrily towards Michael. “We want to know how this thing works. We need to know, Mr Bennett. This technology cannot be kept from others. It must be spread to maintain the equilibrium. Surely, you of all people must see this,” he was asked.
