The Insulators (10 page)

He finished, and placed his hands on the arms of his chair.

It was quite impossible to judge how Wetherall was reacting, for he sat as relaxed and still silent as ever.

The silence seemed to last for a long time – interminably. Palfrey retained his pose, even to a point of nonchalance, but his heart was thumping. Minutes could make a difference; an hour could make the difference between success and utter failure. And with the time limit Wetherall had set, there was no time for offering proof or for argument.

Quietly, the Prime Minister said: “Will you answer two questions, Palfrey?”

“Of course.”

“When did you know for certain that this emergency was upon us?”

“Last night about eleven o’clock was the first positive intimation,” Palfrey answered. “I knew the plant existed but had not been able to locate the key places, because most of it was underground. I’m still not absolutely sure, but I can now show the general area the underground part is in but there may have been extensive tunnelling and the key areas may be miles from the place I know for certain. If there is a map handy—”

“Tell me,” interrupted Wetherall.

“It is within the area of Wolverhampton, Eccleshall and Stafford,” answered Palfrey. “I’ve already alerted the police to barricade all roads in the area, and have asked for all trains on all lines to be checked by my agents and the police. I’ve also alerted the Royal Air Force and asked them to arrange for an umbrella over the whole area with reconnaissance flights at low level, and I’ve indicated certain objectives – such as a river, small industrial buildings, some apartment houses, and chemical waste in streams and canals. Further, I’ve asked the Army authorities to help the police place a cordon round the whole district, a cordon roughly seventy-five miles long. It can only be done with emergency plans – Lieutenant Colonel Orbis, with whom I normally work, says that it is like asking to put plans against invasion by paratroops in hand. Too many different authorities are involved for me to cope, sir. But word from you to the various ministers involved would cut all the red tape.”

“And many units are already poised?”

“Alerted, anyhow. The police are poised.”

“Thank you.” Wetherall stretched out for his brandy glass and sniffed, as if the bouquet would help to clear his head and help him think. “My second question, Palfrey. Are we in Great Britain to carry the whole cost of this operation?”

“The Z5 funds can meet a substantial proportion, sir.”

Wetherall sipped, then put his glass down, and pressed a button. The door opened at once by an alert-looking young man with smooth, glossy, black hair.

“Sir?” He glanced quickly at Palfrey, then away.

“Get me in quick succession the Minister of Defence, the Home Secretary and the Minister of Transport.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man bobbed out, as Palfrey, feeling tremendous gratitude, got to his feet.

“I’m enormously relieved, sir,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Your reputation is such that I am sure you would not make such a request unless you were absolutely convinced the measures were essential. I shall give the necessary instructions and ask all the Ministers to make sure you have instant cooperation. And I will hold my breath until I hear the result,” Wetherall finished drily.

“I’ll keep in close touch,” Palfrey promised, and as they went to the door, he asked with even more than his usual diffidence: “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course. I’ll answer if I can.”

“Oh, you can,” Palfrey assured him. “If I’d said that Great Britain would have to bear all the cost, what would you have done?”

“Complained bitterly,” answered the Prime Minister, “and probably recommended that part of the cost be deducted from our next annual contribution to Z5!” He paused at the door, and he put his fingers on the handle, but did not open it at once. “Palfrey,” he said, “I don’t know how long I shall be in office. We have a very slender majority and some of our own party members may defect. You are aware of that. I want you also to know that I am with you absolutely in your search for a world at peace – for world unity. And while I am in this position of authority you can rely on me for all the help I can possibly give you.”

Palfrey, taken entirely by surprise, actually coloured, but his voice was very firm when he said: “That will give me and everyone in Z5 tremendous encouragement, sir. Thank you.”

They shook hands; and he went out.

Once he was in the car again he picked up the radio-telephone which was on a wavelength used only by his headquarters and his agents, and when Joyce Morgan answered, he said: “We’re getting one hundred per cent support.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Joyce said.

And in the background Stefan’s voice sounded with a fervent “Thank God.”

One after another, the operations began.

First, fighter planes and helicopters as well as reconnaissance planes of the Royal Air Force flew over the area, and photographs were taken by still and cine cameras.

Second, Army units and the Midlands Police barricaded all main roads and byroads.

Third, police boarded all trains from main line stations and carried out an identity check on each train – with some passengers protesting vigorously. On the Nuneaton to Euston run two men tried to escape from a train, were caught, and proved to have the haul from major jewel robberies from Birmingham in their luggage.

Just south of Warwick, a car tried to crash the barrier, overturned and burst into flames. The police and soldiers dragged the two youths in the car clear, and found over twenty pounds of heroin in belts and waistcoats on their bodies; twenty times as much was consumed by the flames.

South of Coventry, a boy of no more than sixteen and a girl who looked much younger, scrambled out of a train and scrambled up a siding; when caught, they burst into tears. Both had fled from their homes to get married, without their parents’ permission.

There were a dozen other little conspiracies, including a man of sixty eloping with a girl not yet eighteen.

But as far as they could tell there was not a single arrest of anyone involved in The Project. As the reports came through to Palfrey and Stefan in the London headquarters of Z5 it seemed as if the whole operation would prove a failure. No unusual movements were spotted from the air.

By half-past three troops and police had spread a cordon throughout the whole area, over meadowland, and uneven countryside, in woods, in villages, at small bridges over narrow streams, and began to close in. At vantage points on high land spotters were stationed, and it was virtually impossible for anyone to break through.

Palfrey, in the operations room at Z5, with a lighted relief map of England on the wall, saw the outline of the cordon, knew that it could not be broken in daylight, and turned wearily to Stefan Andromovitch. The large room was circular in shape, and maps of any part of the world could be projected onto the walls. Across one wall was an operations panel in front of which sat four operators, receiving messages from all over the world. At times, the four could be increased to ten, but this being a comparatively small operation, only four were needed.

At Number 1, Romain Square, Philip Carr slept.

Palfrey, called to his own rooms, an apartment built deep underground beneath the new luxury Elite Hotel in Piccadilly, opposite Green Park, flicked on the loudspeaker over which the call was relayed, then recognised the Prime Minister’s voice.

“Have you had any results yet, Palfrey?”

“No, sir. None at all.”

“Have you done everything you set out to do?”

“We’ve had the fullest cooperation,” Palfrey reported. “The cordon is likely to be one hundred per cent effective in daylight, but groups from The Project could break out during darkness.”

“Is there anything at all I can do?” asked Wetherall.

“Not at present, sir,” Palfrey replied.

“Call on me at any time,” said Wetherall, and rang off.

That was at four forty-one.

At four forty-three, the observer in an RAF helicopter sweeping along the length of a river which disappeared into some hills, going underground, saw several small motorboats and a little pleasure marina in a place where the river had obviously been artificially widened to make a yachting basin. Within sight, close to the riverbank, were some buildings which looked like well-situated homes and small apartment houses. On the sunny day, there was something idyllic about the scene.

“Probably a country club, with river facilities for fishing and boating. There are some outdoor swimming pools.” The observer spoke into a microphone and the comments were passed on to the operations room at Midlands RAF Headquarters. His voice was quiet and unflurried, holding a slight north-country accent. Suddenly, it rose, and he exclaimed: “My God!” There was a split-second’s pause. His pilot turned to look at him, and he pointed downwards. Where there had appeared grass and meadows sweeping down to the river, six ‘holes’ appeared, and on the instant the observer and the pilot saw that the very earth was being rolled back. In each of the holes was an aircraft with folded wings. Each had jet engines. Each took off as the holes were still widening.

The observer, speechless for a moment, began to speak on the radio again, when out of the blue a rocket came from one of the aircraft, too sudden for the pilot to take the slightest evasive action. There was a thud, as the rocket struck, and on the instant the helicopter disintegrated. Another, close enough to see the aircraft explode, drew closer still; and another rocket struck it, and the second craft burst into flames.

A third aircraft, flying much higher, took photographs and radioed to base, reporting everything as it happened. Only minutes later, Palfrey was listening to a replay on a tape taken by the Operations Room, with Stefan standing very still and listening, other agents in the doorways or at their desks, mesmerised by the news.

The record went on, the pilot’s voice touched with excitement as he said: “All six aircraft are now at about eight thousand feet, flying west . . . They are bloody fast.” There was another pause before he went on: “Six more are coming out of the open sites . . . They’re in vertical take-off jets which straighten out and start flying at about four thousand feet. My
God.
There are six more . . . All flying west, but the first six are out of sight, they must be flying at a thousand miles an hour . . . There don’t seem to be any more.”

At that moment he drew in a hissing breath.

And at that moment, down on earth, villagers and people in small towns heard crash after crash as the aircraft from The Project broke the sound barrier. Experienced pilots and other air crews who saw them from the ground marvelled at their speed.

All the booms had faded, the skies were clear except for the reconnaissance aircraft, conventional and helicopters, when there came another boom. This was frighteningly louder, and a series of explosions followed, each as loud. Horses and cows and sheep stampeded. People rushed out of doors as windows shattered, mothers clutching frightened children, old people struggling to get downstairs or out of doors. Within the cordon flung round The Project by Palfrey, cottages and houses collapsed with the blast, sheds were hurled hundreds of feet into the air, people were thrown about like feathers.

One village, which had been standing calm and peaceful for five hundred years, collapsed literally like a pack of cards. One cottage crumpled onto another and added its weight to the effect of the blast which had already weakened the roofs and walls. All over the area similar disasters struck. It was as if the whole district had suffered an earthquake the effect of which spread wider and wider. It seemed an age before silence fell.

At Z5, Palfrey and Stefan listened, taut-faced, to the relay of the pilot’s report. The hissing breath had been the only sound for several seconds. Palfrey waited for the explosion which he thought bound to follow, convinced that the aircraft had been hit. Instead, the observer began to speak again but in a strained voice. He used short sentences, as if he couldn’t hold breath long enough to string more than a few words together.

“It’s—unbelievable . . . The whole earth’s rising . . . Huge buildings are—collapsing. Great holes are appearing . . . buildings are falling into them . . . The river—the river’s disappeared . . . Now there’s smoke—and flame! . . . Everything’s burning, the whole of the earth down there seems to be burning . . . There’s another explosion . . . And another . . . There must have been a whole arsenal . . . And—and houses miles away are—are collapsing . . . The very earth seems to be caving in . . . And the fire’s white hot . . . White hot.”

Palfrey moved slowly away from the Operations Room, beckoning Joyce, who seemed unable to hurry. Stefan stayed where he was. Palfrey turned into his own office and lifted a telephone. “Get me the Prime Minister,” he said, and as he waited, looked at Joyce, dark-haired, pale-faced Joyce Morgan. “We want a transcript of that report sent to all our headquarters and main agents,” he said. “At once.” She looked at him for a moment with great compassion, for he was like a man struck with horror. Then, she turned away. “I don’t care where he is, he must be interrupted.” Palfrey went on with restrained savagery in his voice. As he waited, his right hand strayed to his hair and he began to twist a few strands round his finger. He stopped when he heard Wetherall’s voice, and spoke with great precision. “The whole area around The Project has been blown up, sir. Virtually disintegrated. The full extent of the damage isn’t yet known but the force of the explosion was very great indeed . . . My chief concern is that it is probably an underground nuclear explosion. If it is, the whole area is contaminated by radioactive dust. With the wind from the west, the dust could be over the big Midland cities at any time. Birmingham, Coventry, Wolverhampton—”

The Prime Minister interrupted. “I can see the urgency, Palfrey. If anything can be done we will get it done.”

The wind from the west carried the radioactive dust slowly towards the great Midland cities, to the huge car factories and the engineering works, to the main plants of every kind of product from cheap beads and costume jewellery to glass, to steel, to massive machines which, when transported by road, had a police escort because they were so huge.

People saw the cloud; it was like a pall.

Military observers saw it, too, and traced its path, and watched the places where it drifted low, first over the fields and the browsing cattle, then touching the roofs of timbered cottages, the spires of ancient churches, the highways.

There were no other outward signs of disaster.

Palfrey, in the operations room at Z5 headquarters, watched the scene on television relayed from a Royal Air Force reconnaissance aircraft, and listened to the commentary which was channelled through an RAF base. Reports from different centres and different villages and towns integrated so he, Palfrey, and dozens of others in different places of vantage, could understand the general picture.

Except in the immediate area of devastation, still covered by a cloud of greyish-white smoke, there was nothing but the surprise and interest created by the cloud. Those places which had been shattered by the blast looked, already, as if they were derelict. Ambulances crawled through the rubble-littered streets and highways, but found few signs of life. Villages lay waste, too. But overall pictures of the scene showed how the damaged area was restricted; it was contained within a circular area ten miles across, with the main damage, presumably The Project, in the centre. Beyond the perimeter there was some glass damage, broken windows, slates and thatch off roofs, and sheds, fences and greenhouses down; but here the people seemed unhurt, more bemused than frightened.

One television reporter visited a small town, inviting comments from the people.

“It must have been a tornado,”
was a common guess.

“It could have been an army dump blown up.”

“It was much louder than an ordinary bomb.”

“It was like an earthquake!”

“It was like a nuclear explosion . . .”

The scene switched to the sky and drifting cloud, and Palfrey saw the fear on the faces of the people; fear heightened when an attractive girl, her long shapely legs exposed by a brief miniskirt, said very slowly:
“The clouds are turning green.”

And they were.

As the camera focused on the heart of the clouds a faintly luminous green showed, as if the sun itself had turned green and was bombarding the sky with tiny particles of fluorescence. The colour shade remained the same but grew deeper. There was no green on the houses or in the clear sky, only reflected from the drifting smoke.

Now, people in the cities noticed it. The cameras swept over them and Palfrey and Andromovitch watched the upturned faces. Around the statue of Lady Godiva in Coventry, from the shell of the bombed old cathedral and the steps of the new one built in such hope, people stared and pointed; and as the close-up pictures were shown, fear touched many more faces, and the green was reflected in a thousand eyes.

Near the great new Bull Ring area at Birmingham, it was the same.

At Warwick and Kenilworth, too, the green haze shone on sightseers within the castle walls, and at Stratford-upon-Avon on the windows of the timbered houses and the tourist-crammed streets, and as the camera moved it became obvious that while there was some reflection, most of the green was actual dust, falling on the buildings as well as on the heads and bodies of the people.

In Z5 headquarters, Stefan said huskily: “If that dust is radioactive, the disaster is unparalleled.”

Palfrey nodded, saying: “There’s no confirmation, yet.”

“It must have fallen on millions of people,” Joyce Morgan observed. She moved from the corner of a desk and drew closer to Palfrey. “How long does it take for the symptoms of radioactive contamination to show?”

“A few might die quickly,” Palfrey answered. “Nearly everyone who gets a powerful dose of gamma rays will be incapacitated within a few hours.”

“If that is over eight hundred rontgens, then nearly everyone who gets the dose will die within six weeks. With smaller doses death can take a long time to come.” Stefan spoke in a voice which revealed his horror. “Leukaemia and cancer may not show themselves for a long time.”

For a few moments there was silence in the Operations Room; everyone in there was touched by the same horror as Palfrey and Stefan. A light glowed at a telephone near Palfrey, and he picked up the receiver.

“Palfrey,” he said.

“Individuals are being taken at random from the affected places,” a man at the central Control Panel told him. “Radioactivity is in the centre of the damaged area but none appears to have fallen yet. The people are being checked and tested. The first reports should come within the hour.”

“Good,” Palfrey said. “I’ll be in my office.” He put the telephone down sharply, and stood up. “Time we made a move,” he said over his shoulder, and the others followed him, Andromovitch towering over Joyce, although she was not small for a woman. Palfrey held the door of his office open for them and then went across to a crescent-shaped desk. Behind him on the wall was a projection of the world so that the hemispheres and the main continents were shown. Here he could receive messages from Z5 agents everywhere, and could also send messages to all agents. The main control was in the Operations Room, this was a kind of extension of that.

Palfrey said: “Should you telephone Moscow, Stefan?”

“Yes, at once.”

“I’ll take Washington first, you take Moscow,” said Palfrey. “All we need give them are brief reports. Joyce, love – while I’m talking to Washington will you take it down? We’ll use it as a basis for a general call.”

Joyce came to the desk, with a notebook and ballpoint pen, and at the same time switched on a tape recorder attached to the telephone. Palfrey leaned forward and pressed a button, and a tiny green light showed on the spot where Washington appeared on the map. Almost at once he was talking to Jonathan Keller, Z5’s chief agent in Washington, whose office was only a hundred yards from the White House.

“Jonathan,” Palfrey said. “There’s a red alert.”

“I was afraid this call might mean trouble,” said Keller. “The Pentagon was on to me only ten minutes ago asking if I knew anything about a nuclear blast in Britain. Have you had a major disaster?”

“We don’t know for certain what it is,” Palfrey replied. “We do know that there was an explosion below ground at The Project. We’ve some reason to believe there are other Projects in the United States and elsewhere. We also know that eighteen silver-grey vertical take-off jets left the area before the explosion, and some might be headed your way. There’s at least a chance they could change colour
en route,
so anything unusual wants watching closely. Can you have an alert at every airport, and from as many possible landing places as practicable?”

“Yes, of course,” Keller said.

“Fine. Call me if there’s word.”

“Yes,” Keller said again. “Sap—”

“Well?”

“Is the radioactive dust over your Midlands area?”

“In places, yes.”

“Then millions might be contaminated already,” Keller caught his breath.

“We’ll soon find out,” replied Palfrey, grimly. He put down the receiver, and immediately pressed for his chief agent in Calcutta, and gave the report. By the time he had finished, Joyce pushed a slip of paper in front of him. It read:

“Suggested red alert to each divisional headquarters and all senior agents, to read: “Refer all previous reports related to The Project. Stop. Eighteen vertical take-off jets coloured silver-grey without marking left The Project in Midland area of England around 4.40 p.m. Keep close watch for arrival of any such aircraft or any strange and unidentified aircraft and trace to final destination which may be another major or possibly a secondary Project. Stop. Immediately after take-off a major subterranean explosion occurred and caused extreme damage up to five miles from the explosion source. Explosion could be nuclear leading to severe radioactive fallout over a conurbation covering millions of people. Stop. Your military authorities and all who are connected with the treatment of such fallout should be alerted at once since there could be other explosions. Stop. Radioactive dust could by now have reached Manchester and London airports and jet transatlantic aircraft as well as aircraft to all parts of the world could be contaminated. All arriving from London Heathrow or Ringwood Manchester should be quarantined and checked.”

Palfrey read this slowly, transposed the word ‘jet’ so that it followed the word ‘transatlantic’ put the word ‘secretly’ after the word ‘trace’ and then handed it back. Joyce went immediately to the Operations Room, and within seconds the message was going out to thousands of agents. By the time Palfrey had finished Stefan came off the Moscow call.

“Problems?” Palfrey asked.

“They want to know if we have any reason to believe there is a Project in Russia,” Stefan replied. He was smiling faintly; and that curious saintlike expression was more marked than ever. “Sap, these crises have one good effect: they give all the big nations a common cause.”

“Through common fears,” said Palfrey drily. “Is that so good?” He began to play with a few strands of hair again as he went on: “If this dust
is
fully radioactive, then—” he broke off, as if he could not face the simple truth.

“Then a huge area of Britain will be wiped out,” Stefan observed in a curiously flat voice.

“If not more,” Palfrey said in an expressionless voice. He moved to a television set and was immediately switched on to a scene in Coventry. A small ambulance was in the main square, and a woman with two children, one in a pushchair, one standing by it, was looking down at the child in the pram. She looked shocked.

“He—he’s turning green,” she said hoarsely. “He—” then she looked up into a sky coloured green, instead of pale blue.

Palfrey said gruffly: “I must talk to Philip,” and lifted the telephone.

Her name was Adamson – Gloria Adamson.

She was a sunny-natured woman, and much much happier than most. She was married to a shop steward at one of the big car factories, and still in love with him. She had the two children: George, named after her husband, and Lucy, named after her mother. In a welfare society she needed nothing and even had money over for extras and special pleasures. Since her marriage, seven years ago, she had known no great tragedy or unhappiness, and she suffered less than most mothers from the problems of baby and childcare because both the children had her own even temperament. Except when teething or when physically hurt, George had seldom cried and Lucy had only occasional fits of crying.

Now, Gloria Adamson was scared.

“He—he’s turning green,” she said, and looked up towards the sky.

It was green, too.

An ambulance drew up alongside her, and she noticed it but was still marvelling – awestruck. Other people nearby had a dusting of green on their clothes and even on their hands and faces. The driver of the ambulance and one attendant came from the car, wearing shiny-looking suits which might be of white oilskin, and masks; gas masks.

Gloria Adamson gasped: “It’s gas!”

“No need to worry,” the driver reassured her. “But we’ll get you to the hospital quickly.” He helped them in, the other man lifted the pushchair in beside them, and almost at once the ambulance was driven off, tyres going over a faint green powdering of dust.

“It’s like green snow,” a man remarked.

“I heard that woman say it was
gas.”

Another woman cried out: “Is it poisonous? Is it?”

“Mummy, don’t—” a child with her began.

“It is, it’s poison gas!” the woman gasped.

An old man said in a quavering voice: “It’s phosgene, that’s what it is. A killer. Phosgene’s green.”

Almost on the instant there was a rush for the shops, and in a few seconds the rush became a stampede. Men and women were pushing each other, two children fell and were trampled underfoot, their mothers screaming as they tried in vain to help them. The words: “Poison gas – phosgene – a killer; poison gas – phosgene – a killer,” floated above the heads of the crowds as the green dust floated gently down.

“Philip,” Palfrey said into the telephone, “are you sure there was radioactivity at The Project?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Philip answered. “It was undoubtedly the main source of power.”

“There couldn’t be any mistake?”

“Not the slightest chance. Why—” Philip broke off, and in a moment his voice rose. “What’s happened?”

Palfrey hesitated, but only for a moment. Philip had to be told sooner or later, and delay might make him feel even worse about Jane Wylie. So Palfrey said: “They’ve blown the place up.”

“They’ve done—” Philip broke off again, and after what seemed a long time, he breathed: “Oh, God. Janey!”

“No shadow of doubt,” said one of the research workers close to the great hole where The Project had been. “It is radioactive. We must warn the VIPs.”

The geiger counters rattled away as if they were trying to cackle a warning to the men who used them.