Stephen Baxter: Project Hades

“And until the test?”

“The detonation’s scheduled for midnight,” Buck said.

Jones checked his watch. “Good, we’ve got time. Winston, why don’t you show me this instability of yours?”

“Are you serious? You’ll listen to what I have to say?”

“Never more serious in my life. We are specifically here to investigate the out-of-the-ordinary.”

Thelma said, “I think I’d rather stay in the warm, if you don’t mind, Jones.”

Buck said, “In that case I would be delighted to buy you a drink.”

“I was hoping somebody would say that.”

Buried deep beneath the huts, training fields and runways of Aldmoor base, the Project Hades command centre was, tonight, a noisy place. Overlaid on the hum of fans and pumps and the echoes from the steel walls were the bleeps of oscilloscopes, the clatter of teletypes and static-laden radio voices. Aged fifty-seven, in his worn tweeds, John Tremayne knew he looked quite out of place in this pit of humming military tension, the rows of consoles manned by very young, very intelligent soldiers. And yet all this activity was a fulfilment of his dream, his design.

Air Commodore Alfred Godwin had to lean close to the monitor to hear what was being relayed by the hidden cameras in the pub. Godwin was tall, stiff, his handsome face severe, his black hair slicked back; he was a little younger than Tremayne. He said, “The picture’s clear enough, at least. Look at that clown in the trenchcoat, coming out of the pub.”

Tremayne said, “They’re only protesters, Commodore Godwin. People have a right to be concerned, you know. And is it legal for you to be spying on a British pub?”

“This may be an American base, but I’m the senior RAF officer here, and under the NATO command structures I’m in overall control. To ensure the safety of this base I can do what I like, Tremayne.”

Joseph Crowne walked in, a clipboard under his arm. “The protesters won’t get far, Commodore Godwin.” A US army major aged around thirty, Crowne was Godwin’s key liaison to the American command.

Godwin said, “But your troops aren’t patrolling beyond the fence, are they, Major?”

“No, sir. But we have a regular British army unit manning an outer perimeter. And there’s a civil police presence too.”

“I’ve seen the ‘civil police presence.’ A slip of a girl! Well, I’ve spoken to the British detachment’s captain, Phillips he’s called, young chap but sound. He’ll handle it.”

Tremayne said, “ ‘Handle it?’ Godwin, I didn’t get into this business for anybody to get harmed. If those protesters can’t be removed without resorting to force—”

“Then what? Postponement tonight would set us back months. This is your baby, Tremayne. Project Hades will end the Cold War and deliver vast new capabilities into human hands. So you said! I’m just trying to get the job done.”

Crowne said, “I’m sure nobody will come to any harm, gentlemen.”

Godwin pointed at the monitor. “Maybe not. But Trenchcoat is heading straight for Lucifer’s Tomb—and the bomb.”

The moorland ground was rough underfoot, and Jones was glad of Winston’s torch. They were walking west, towards a glow of sodium lights that must mark the position of the Aldmoor base, but there was a cluster of floods in the foreground that Jones assumed was Lucifer’s Tomb.

Jones essayed, “PC Baines seems fond of you. She stuck up for you, back there.”

“Clare? We grew up together. She’s a bonny lass. But we’re on opposite sides now, aren’t we?”

“I wouldn’t say that. You’re both trying to stop any harm being done, as far as I can see. You’re just coming at it from different directions. Tell me about this ‘Lucifer’s Tomb.’ ”

“See the floodlights? The American implanted their bomb right inside the Tomb, in an old mineshaft. The Tomb itself is a deep-cut valley full of broken rocks. The local legend is that it’s where Lucifer fell from heaven.”

“Hmmph. Sounds more like an Ice Age relic to me.”

“Exactly. And the basement geology is a junction between Scottish basalts and Northumbrian sandstones.”

“You know your stuff. A place of great geological violence, then, where Scotland once crashed into England. But what makes you think it’s unstable?”

“Seismology. I’ve been taking traces for years.”

Jones looked at him. “Years? But you’re only—what, twenty?”

“Nineteen. Geology’s been a sort of hobby since I was first took down the mine by my uncle, at fourteen.”

“Not your father.”

“Never knew my father.”

“And where did you get a seismometer from?”

“I made it.”

“You made it?”

“It wasn’t hard. A piezoelectric crystal to pick up the vibrations, an old alarm clock mechanism to drive the drum. I use toilet roll for the recording paper. I made a few, trying to get them more sensitive, like. And I had a go at setting them up in a network.”

“All this in between shifts down the mine.”

“My mum thinks I’m tapped. I mean I haven’t even got any O-levels.” He glanced at Jones uncertainly. “Are you laughing at me, Doctor Jones?”

“On the contrary. I’m starting to think you’re a very remarkable young man indeed. But what about Lucifer’s Tomb?”

“I found patterns in the seismic traces. All centered on this spot, the Tomb. Something’s stirring. But I don’t know what.”

“But you do think it would be wise to find out before setting off a ruddy great bomb in the middle of it.”

“Spot on, Doctor Jones.”

They reached the valley and stepped into the light of the floods—and a torch, even brighter, glared in their faces. “Halt!”

Jones shielded his eyes with a raised hand. “Who are you? Could you please get that light out of my eyes? And why is that squaddie pointing a gun at me?”

“I think you could probably risk putting aside the automatic, Sergeant. Sorry about that, sir. I’m Captain Robert Phillips, Coldstream Guards. The question is, who are you?”

In the Reiver’s Arms, the protesters were getting more raucous than ever.

Buck grinned. “Looks as if everybody’s oiled enough to get moving.”

Clare said, “So now we all walk to the base and sing ‘Blaydon Races’ to an H-Bomb.”

Thelma smiled. “I’m sure you’ll cope, PC Baines. Can I walk with you?”

“Please. It’ll be a pleasure not to have beery breath in my face and a miner’s big fat grubby hand on my bum.”

Once they had left the pub and were out in the unseasonably cold autumn air, the group calmed down, pulled on coats and hats, and formed up into a loose column. Their talk became a murmur as they began their walk, their breath steaming in the cool air.

Out on the moor, Jones could hear a tannoy sounding from the base’s distant cluster of lights.

Winston stirred, anxious. “It’s nearly time for the test. We need to—”

Captain Phillips blocked his way. “Thus far and no further, I’m afraid, gentlemen…” He looked up, distracted.

There was a wail, like the wind in the telegraph wires, and a shape like a human eye sketched in pale mist hovered overhead.

Winston breathed, “Doctor Jones. Can you see that?”

“I can indeed. I saw this before, you know. And heard it too. It seems to be hovering over the valley, doesn’t it? This is why I’m here, in fact. We had a cluster of reports of such things.” From members of the public—not specialists or cranks, ordinary folk, often reluctant and feeling foolish, describing strange visions to police stations or local papers because they thought it was their duty, reports then filtered through to Jones’s desk in Whitehall, to be plotted and correlated. “Can’t you see it too, Captain Bob?”