"And the Dolgoprudnensky agents in the Operations Room couldn't stop the first one from coming in either," Victor said.
"Right."
It had to be Reiger in the first spaceplane. But he still couldn't imagine what was in the Dolgoprudnensky spaceplane. "Get your people to evacuate the entire southern crater docking complex," he told Sean. "I don't want anyone in the way of those bastards when they come in."
"Absolutely," Sean said.
"Lloyd, your teams and the police are going to have to keep people clear of the tekmercs. We'll monitor their progress from here, and update as we go."
"Right."
What Victor actually wanted to do was concentrate on snuffing Reiger. He could almost justify the risk of exposing the snipers; kill the brain and the body becomes irrelevant. But he had the residents and tourists to consider. That was what security was about. And now, when it came down to it, he found he was just too dedicated to the ideal.
The crash team would have to take out Reiger. Suzi would get her chance after all.
"Sir." One of the desk jockeys at a communication station was waving for Victor's attention.
"What is it?"
"There's a call for you from Listoel, coming over the company secure link. Priority rating."
"Put them through." Victor pulled his cybofax out of his pocket. The face that formed on the screen was familiar, one of the crash team hardliners.
"What is it, Bailey? And be quick," Victor said. The man seemed very edgy.
"Sorry, sir, but it's Fabian Whitehurst. The boy's just found out about New London being unplugged from the commercial communications circuits. Quite upset about it, he is; says he needs to talk to you or the boss. Says there's a spaceplane en route for New London you should know about."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Greg could feel his skin cooling slowly. The energy-dissipater suit he wore was made from thermal-shunt fibres intended to absorb and deflect maser and laser energy, and they continually pumped out the heat his body generated. It was a one-way flow through the suit's inner insulation layer, making sure he didn't cook in his own juices. But it could get uncomfortably chilly when he wasn't moving.
The hood, with its gas filters and integral photon amp, was slung over his shoulder. A cap with a throat mike and earpiece plugged him into the suit's 'ware and communication circuits.
He watched the biolum strips on the subway tunnel wall slide by, throwing pulses of pink-tinged light through the coach's windows. Sinclair was always the first to get caught, sitting up in the front, his pale face suddenly printed with deep shadows, like an undertaker's doll.
Julia was next, lines of exhaustion brought into unkind relief. She was also wearing one of the black form-fitting energy-dissipater suits, its hood hanging down her back. Her eyes were open, showing her adrift in her own thoughts.
Rick was twitching continually, unused to the cloying grip of the dissipater suit's fabric. Tension pulled his expression down into doubt, a big contrast to the anticipation shining in his eyes.
After that, the fans of light swept along the row of motionless muscle-armour suits standing in the aisle. There were nine of them, dull black metalloceramic humanoids. The background hum of their internal systems sounded bleakly oppressive in the small coach, an ominous reminder of how much power each of them contained.
The only one Greg could recognize for sure was Suzi. The smallest, standing at the head of the line, with a Honeywell carbine and a Konica rip gun clipped to the waist of the suit, four Loral missiles in slim launch tubes attached behind her shoulders.
The other twelve members of the crash team were riding in a second coach, directly behind them.
Sinclair hadn't liked that. "I'll not be having these demon heathens in the caves, Captain Greg. They'll be frightening the children for sure," he'd complained when the muscle-armour suits had marched into the security centre train station.
"Tough," Greg had said. "We need them. Besides, you might wind up being glad of them. We've no idea how the alien is going to respond to our contact."
"Oh, come on now, Captain Greg, all I said was I'd show you where I was given the flower. You never said nothing about this invading army."
"They won't lay a finger on any of your followers," Julia had said. "You have my word on that."
Sinclair had gaped, features twisting into delighted astonishment. "By all that's holy. 'Tis really you."
"Yes, it's me."
"Well now, me darling, I can hardly doubt your word, now can I?" He had bowed as far as his portly frame allowed him.
The train drew into Moorgate station, just behind the foot of the northern endcap. Greg stepped out of the coach, finding himself in a large oblong rock chamber, with six platforms laid out in parallel. It was obviously a staging area for the crews digging the second chamber. Rails disappeared up four smaller tunnels in the north wall. Beyond the last platform there was a collection of heavy machinery laid out like a small town; lorry-sized electrical transformers, big spherical tanks, and the ribbed cylinders of turbo-pump casings. A crisscross grid of two-metre pipes, heavy-duty plastic tubes, and thick power cables led away from them into eight service tunnels.
Moorgate station was deserted except for Bernard Kemp and a youngish WPC who were standing waiting on the platform.
Bernard Kemp's mood hadn't improved, Greg observed. The sergeant gave Sinclair a look of undisguised contempt, then started when Julia emerged from the coach. The WPC came to attention.
Julia lifted her hand in an airy gesture. "There's no need for that," she told the woman.
"We've secured the station, sir," Bernard Kemp told Greg as the crash team piled out of the coach. "And the transport controller has shut down this line's traffic: there'll be no more coaches in. All the construction and mining crews in the second chamber will use the Lancaster Gate station when they come off shift." He watched the coach carrying the remainder of the crash team glide to a halt. "Exactly what is going on, sir, ma'am?"
"Just like the Governor says, a biohazard alert," Greg said.
"A biohazard?"
"Yeah. But not a biology we know much about. OK?" Greg didn't even want to tell him that, God alone knew what kind of rumours it would start, but he felt he owed the sergeant something for all the inconvenience.
"Yes, sir," Bernard Kemp said reluctantly. His eyes kept wandering back to Julia.
"Right, now you two take one of our coaches, and report back to your headquarters," Greg told the sergeant. He waited until the door slid shut behind them, then turned to Sinclair. "OK. Where now?"
Sinclair looked at the crash team and sighed. "The Celestial Apostles, we had something… good. Nothing grand, I do declare, no utopia, but we got along fine. The only quarrels were the quarrels that people should have, little things by the by. We all believed together, you see; that was enough to bind us."
"But that was all due to change tomorrow anyway, right?" Greg asked.
"Ah, now, Captain Greg, there you go again. Spoiling me rhythm, just when I was working up a fine head of indignation. You're a hard man, you are. No respect." He gave Julia a mocking smile. "I'm surprised at you, a lady with a vision past mine. You shouldn't be associating with the likes of him. Terribly bad for you, it is."
"No, it isn't," Julia said. "Greg's one of my real friends."
"Oh, Holy Mary, and I'm to deliver us into your tender hands, am I? Lord forgive me." He dropped over the side of the platform with surprising ease, and started walking down the rail towards the north wall.