Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [122]
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23
‘Christ, it’s massive. It’s even bigger than the Channel Tunnel.’ Ace wiped at the window where her breath was fogging. The heating in the canteen building seemed to have been left on high for the weekend and the window misted again as soon as she wiped a portion clear. Through the filmy glass she could just about see the excavation in the early morning light.
‘Wider at the mouth, but not as long, of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s essentially just a large bunker built to protect the machinery inside. You could say it’s just one vast computer room built into the mountain.’ The Doctor was sitting at one of the big tables that filled the prefabricated hut. Justine was back at the door of the building, trying for the third time to make it stay shut. Ace wished she’d just give up. The constant rattling noise was beginning to get to her. She still felt a little airsick after the flight in the helicopter. And besides, the lock was broken beyond repair; Ace knew that because she had been the one who kicked the door in.
The helicopter had landed in the first light of dawn, settling expertly on to the landing circle in a cleared section of forest, the rotors sweeping frost off the grass and battering it to dew. There had been ground mist rising among the surrounding mountain trees. They walked through a thin fringe of forest before they reached the wide cleared zone of the project site. The helicopter pad was situated halfway between O’Hara’s house and the big excavation on the mountainside.
Mancuso had gone uphill to the house while the Doctor led the others down to the excavation.
‘Why do we have to wait in here?’ said Justine.
‘We don’t,’ said the Doctor. ‘But I wanted you to have a good look at the construction site. Our target.’
‘It’s like a ghost town. Where is everyone?’
‘Read the bulletin board,’ said Ace. ‘On Sunday all employees have the day off. They go into Albany for shopping or worship at the church of their choice.’
‘There’s still a skeleton maintenance staff in the tunnel, so keep the lights off in here.’ The Doctor’s chair scraped back as he got up and joined Ace, looking out the window. The day was getting steadily brighter as the sun came up over the mountains. The square kilometre of ground outside the excavation was clearly visible now, an ocean of mud with bare patches of concrete rising out of it. Vehicles with bee‐and‐eye logos were parked on the concrete. ‘And the security guards of course.’ Spotlights gleamed in the tunnel mouth and on the bare rock brow of the mountain above. Further up the slope was O’Hara’s large redwood house. The Doctor was peering through the glass, looking up towards the house. Ace noticed that for some reason his breath wasn’t fogging on the window.
‘How long do you think it will take up there?’ said Justine.
‘They’re coming down now,’ said the Doctor. ‘Mancuso has got him.’
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A hundred metres from the canteen prefab there were stacks of timber, each about the dimensions of a small house. The timber in the stacks consisted of logs cut to the size of telephone poles. The trees had apparently been chopped down recently; their cut white ends were still sticky and aromatic with resin. Ace stood hidden behind one stack, breathing in the resin smell. As she exhaled her warm breath came out like cigarette smoke on the cold morning air. The Doctor and Justine waited with her, watching the figures come down the slope from the house. Ace felt a deep fatigue waiting somewhere in the background of her mind, a promise of exhaustion as soon as the pressure was off. A wave of sleepiness rolled over her, making the morning and the mountainside unreal. She pressed her thumb against the sticky splintered stump until the flesh under the nail went white. The pain woke her up a little. She needed to be ready. They were entering the