Coldbrook (Hammer)(26)

She worked at her shoulders, left and right, and soon she would be able to rise, shower and dress. Sunday was her favourite day.





2


It was vital that Jonah should alert the surface about what was happening. He was berating himself for not having done so sooner. Those afflicted – or infected, which was how he was viewing them now – were secure down here with Coldbrook closed down, but the news must be broken.

The project’s influence spread across the globe. Two thick tentacles reached out to the US and UK governments, their funding for Coldbrook hidden away through complex paths of finance and banking, two-decade-old signatures on yellowing sheets of paper in files in locked storerooms, and his call would reach those countries’ security agencies in a matter of minutes. And then there were links that were less substantial finance-wise though perhaps stronger in their commitment. These led to private individuals and organisations, ranging from billionaire entrepreneurs who gifted their money to fund their appetite for amazing things to oil barons and shareholding companies with high-risk portfolios, their real object hidden from bond holders by an almost insanely intricate web of investments.

Jonah’s call would cause a huge splash, and that splash would make waves. By the time he hung up, people across the world would be woken, called out of meetings or interrupted on their yachting holidays to be told that Coldbrook’s recent astounding success had been followed by catastrophic failure. Jonah knew of the safeguards in place down here because he had insisted on many of them himself. But he had no idea what measures had been set up beyond these walls and a thousand miles away. His call might piss off investors or start an avalanche of military intervention, and he would have influence over neither outcome.

I’m going to die and stay down here for ever, he thought. But, right now, for ever did not concern him unduly.

Satphone in hand, he swivelled in his chair and briefly examined the schematic on the wall behind him. Yellow lights indicated where internal lockdown measures had taken place, and the light over Control’s door was blinking. Failure. But Satpal’s escape was no longer important. What was important were the red lights, showing Coldbrook’s outer containment. All remained steady but one: a ventilation duct.

That one also blinked.

Jonah stood up from his chair and walked closer. His eyes weren’t what they used to be and perhaps they were watering, causing the image to flicker. But no: the light was flashing. He tapped the vent reference code into his laptop and read the information presented there. All three dampers had been closed and their mechanisms destroyed, as expected.

‘Malfunction,’ he muttered looking back at the light. ‘Melting caused a short. Has to be.’ But he had not seen Vic Pearson on any screen, in any room, dead or alive – or walking the line between.

‘Vic, I hope you haven’t done something stupid,’ Jonah said, and he dialled Coldbrook’s above-ground administration and guard block. The call rang several times before it was answered.

‘Asleep on the job?’ Jonah asked as soon as he heard the click of connection.

‘Not at all, no,’ a voice said, flustered. ‘Who is this?’

‘Jonah Jones. Is that Rick Summerfield?’

‘Yes, professor. Er . . . it’s early.’ Jonah felt a shred of relief. Summerfield was a manager rather than a scientist, but he and Jonah had always seen eye to eye, and he possessed that spark of imagination and wonder that made him a true part of Coldbrook like many others. He saw not just an experiment but something more meaningful. Jonah closed his eyes.

‘You haven’t seen that we’re in lockdown?’ he asked.

‘What? Why? There’s nothing . . . hold on.’ Jonah heard keyboard keys being tapped and the rustle of Summerfield pulling on headphones. ‘We’re showing nothing. All boards clear up here.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Jonah said. He knew that the small surface compound – four buildings, a car park and a perimeter fence – was linked into Coldbrook’s network, but something must have gone wrong. He didn’t know how recently the systems up there had been checked, and the ongoing endless modernisation of the facility’s IT equipment often favoured the subterranean area where the real work was done.

Unsettled, Jonah watched the three flashing LEDs as he continued. ‘Rick, something came through.’

‘What something?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Patch in to email and I’ll send you what you need to see. But . . . we have to sound the alarm. You have the protocols, a list of who to contact.’