The bins would be emptied again at 07.30 tomorrow morning. The rubbish would be compacted and all evidence of the transmitters obliterated. By that time, however, they would have done their job and he would be gone.
Jimmy shouldered his bag and raised a hand.
“Merry Christmas Bill.”
“See you tomorrow pal.” The guard pulled his droopy face into what he hoped was a festive grin. Jimmy waved briefly and strolled back the way he had come. A small smile twitched on the corners of his lips and he turned his face away from the cameras, so the fringe of hair hid the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Since it contained living areas, level one of Pinewood military base was a low security area, until you reached the far end. There the passageway became a high security zone, hence the guard. Pinewood’s Operations Room was at the end of the corridor and Jimmy certainly didn’t have clearance to go there.
Never mind. The last transmitter was close enough.
So far Jimmy Hicks knew he hadn’t done anything seriously wrong. If the devices were discovered and traced to him, he’d say it was part of a private experiment he was conducting. Top brass wouldn’t believe him, of course. He’d be labelled a security risk and expelled from his studies at Pinewood.
But at least he wouldn’t be imprisoned or shot.
Once he activated the boosters, however, Jimmy would be crossing a line. He’d be interfering with the security of a top secret government facility. He’d be sabotaging a supposedly fool-proof defence system. Most of all, he’d be pitting his wits against some of the finest and most ruthless military minds in the world.
His heart was thumping like a brick-bat but he gave a grim smile.
The challenge was partly why he was doing this. But, if he were caught, the powers that be would never believe his other reason.
He wanted to impress a girl.
09.20
In the cab of the drab, olive truck, Lieutenant Dunwoody opened his sealed orders. The vehicle headed a small convoy travelling north and the lieutenant held the envelope between his knees while he removed the contents.
Inside were a few photographs and a thin file marked TOP SECRET. Dunwoody studied them carefully, memorising the contents.
There was an aerial view of Pinewood, the military installation he was heading for, surrounded by thick forest and ringed by a double perimeter fence. It didn’t look much, just a handful of box-shaped, fortified buildings. According to an attached report, however, this was because most of the base was underground.
Dunwoody glanced at the driver but the soldier was concentrating on traversing a winding highland road not much wider than his truck. The Lieutenant bent over the report again.
Officially Pinewood specialised in virtual technology and, to some extent, this was true. The facility boasted the most advanced reality simulators in the world, designed to put soldiers into combat scenarios and test their reactions. Plugged into one of Pinewood’s virtual settings, an officer might find himself facing hostile tribesman in the Somalian desert. He could be trapped in a war ravaged street by an armed mob. He might be ordered to evacuate civilians from a burning village under heavy mortar fire.
According to this classified report, however, Pinewood researched much more than virtual technology.
Under the base were six levels of laboratories and associated living quarters. Teams at the installation worked on projects as diverse as skin grafting three dimensional mapping and alternative fuel cells. Above ground, all that could be seen were the Administration Offices, the Vehicle Maintenance Depot and a building known as the West Wing.
The West Wing consisted of staff training areas and two specially adapted dormitories. For some reason these dormitories contained children but the report didn’t say why.
Dunwoody mentally filed this unusual information, though it didn’t concern him much. The kind of squad he commanded wasn’t sent out to deal with trivia.
He and his men had been ordered to Pinewood because of a problem in the lower levels, an area so highly classified that the report didn’t say what they would find down there.
And that concerned Lieutenant Dunwoody a great deal.
10.00
Jimmy Hicks was thinking.
He sat on a straight backed chair, in the centre of the dormitory, staring at the wall. Every now and then he twisted a strand of hair round his finger and pulled at it, as if he were coaxing an idea from his head. The other kids ignored him, used to his spells of intense concentration. If it turned out he was having an extraordinary notion then, sooner or later, he’d go next door for peace and quiet. If the idea wasn’t going anywhere then neither would he, and he’d eventually join the conversation.
This particular exchange was about the possibility of time travel. The children in the dormitory were all geniuses. They didn’t talk about mundane topics.
“If ah managed tae build a time machine, ah’d use it tae bet on the horses, know?” Diddy Dave laced thin white hands behind his head, pushing a Burberry baseball cap over his beady eyes. He was a pale, sharp faced fourteen year old, dressed permanently in a shell suit and white trainers. “I’d take the winnings, play the stock market. Afore ye know it, ahm minted. Next stop, a wee island in the Pacific for me a semi-detached in the suburbs for mah maw.”
“Time travel doesn’t work that way.” Simon sniffed, looking up from the formula he was scribbling in a plastic notepad. “Even something as trivial as attending a horse race could have serious repercussions in the future.”
“Dinnae get carried away, man. Ah’d go tae the bookies in Spam Valley, where naebody would rat me oot, know?”
“I’ve no idea what you just said.”
At thirteen Simon was the youngest of the boys, quiet and a little shy, with unruly hair and round glasses.
“Listen, Harry Potter,” Dave pointed a menacing finger at his bespectacled companion. “Ye dinnae grow up on a Glasgow housing estate soundin like you’ve got a mooth full o marbles, know?” He glanced around scornfully at his companions. “You wi yer nose aye stuck in a book and Hicksy, wi his girly hair? Ye wouldne last five minutes where I grew up without getting a smack in the puss.”
He glanced across at Barn who was lying on the floor reading a comic.
“Well maybe the big man could.”
Dave had a point◦– Barn’s size was truly impressive for a fourteen year old.
“I saw a TV show about Glasgow once.” Barn propped himself up on a fleshy arm and looked lazily at his companions. “I think it was Crimewatch.”
Simon gave a snigger. Barn was a mathematical genius and could calculate incredibly complex equations in his head. But in every other way he was slower than normal children. Often it was hard to tell when he was joking.
“Aye, well maybe.” Dave looked proudly down at his gleaming clothes. “Ye dinnae get togs like these without a bit of thievin, eh? Ahm wearin mair labels than a jam factory, man.”
“You wrap your presents in Burberry paper, don’t you?” Simon grunted.
“Two layers, man.”
“We won’t be getting any presents this year, will we?” Barn said unhappily. “This doesn’t seem much like Christmas.”
“What you bumpin yer gums aboot, big man?” Dave pointed over his shoulder. “We’ve got a tree, eh?”