Marshall watched the last moments of the Piccadilly Hotel. The intervening area, Haymarket and the south side of the Circus, was down, and the hotel was standing out alone above the tempest. The colonnade between the wings was still intact, but just as the camera moved across it two of the columns buckled and crashed back into the face of the hotel, driving tremendous rents through the wall. Instantly, before the camera had time to move away, the entire front of the hotel collapsed in an explosion of dust and masonry. One of the wings tipped over and then crashed to the ground, carrying with it the remains of a small office block that had sheltered behind it. The other wing rode high above the chaos like the bows of a greater liner breasting a vast sea, and then slipped and cascaded to the ground in a soundless avalanche.
As the camera swung full left onto the House of Parliament, Marshall saw heavy waves breaking among the ruins of the Lords. Driven into the estuary by the wind, powerful seas were flooding into the Thames and being carried up as far as Windsor, sweeping away the locks and spilling over the banks, where they completed the task of destruction started by the wind. The time-familiar river façade of Westminster had vanished, and high seas washed across the ragged lines of foundation stones, spilling over the supine remains of Big Ben, stripping the clock faces as they lay among the rubble in Palace Yard.
Suddenly the corporal jumped forward, pointing to the set receiving the Hammersmith picture.
"Sir! Quickly! They're trying to come out!"
They crowded around the set, watching the screen. The camera was mounted over Hammersmith Broadway. Directly below in the street, a hundred feet away from them, was the entrance to Hammersmith Underground. The tall office buildings in the street were down to their first stories, walls poking up through piles of rubble, but the entrance to the station had been fortified with a heavy concrete breastwork that jutted out into the roadway, three circular doors fitted into its domed roof.
These were open now, and emerging from them was a press of struggling people, fighting and pulling past each other in a frantic effort to escape from the station. The doorways were packed with them, some peering out hesitantly when they reached the entrance, then being propelled out into the open street by the pressure of the mob behind them.
Like petals torn from a wind-blown flower they detached themselves from the doorways, took a few helpless steps out into the street and were whipped off their feet and hurled across the road, bouncing head over heels like sacks of feathers that burst and disintegrated as they ripped into the ragged teeth of reinforcing bars protruding from the debris.
The camera swung away from the scene and pointed eastward into the face of the storm, the panorama obscured by the clouds of, flying stones that poured into the face of the camera like countless machine-gun tracers in a heavy bombardment.
Symington was sitting limply in his chair, grimly watching the screen. On the other side of the table Crighton and the Wren typist watched silently, their faces gray and pinched. Above them the light bulbs shook spasmodically as the bunker trembled, illuminating the thin dust falling from the ceiling. It drifted slowly across the room to the mouth of the ventilator shaft, where it swirled away.
The camera returned to the Underground station. The stream of people were still trying to get out, but somehow they had realized the futility of stepping straight into the wind and were trying to make their way along the protecting wall of the concrete breastwork. But no sooner had they gone 10 or 15 feet when they again felt the full undiminished force of the wind stream and were twisted helplessly from their hand holds and spun away into the air.
Marshall slammed one fist into the other. "What are they trying to do?" he shouted in exasperation. "Why don't the fools stay where they are, for God's sake?"
Symington shook his head slowly. "The tunnels must be flooded. The river's only half a mile away and water's probably pumping in under enormous pressure." He glanced up at Marshall, smiled bleakly. "Or maybe they're just worn out, terrified to the point where escape is the only possible solution, even if it's just escape to death."
Marshall nodded, then glanced at his watch. He looked around the room for a moment, taking in each of his three companions, nodded to them and began to move for – the door where banks of teletypes stood against the wall.
"Not much coming through," he said to Symington. "Looks as if we ought to start pulling out. Might take anything up to a couple of days to reach the U.S. base at Brandon Hall. No point in trying to be heroes. Get in touch with them and see if traffic there can pick us up today. I'll look in again in half an hour."
He made his way quickly along the darkened corridor to the small stairway at the end of the floor, then hurried up it to the level above. His office was halfway down, backing onto the elevator shaft and emergency exit.
Unlocking the door, 'he let himself in. Deborah Mason, a heavy trench coat belted around her trim waist, was sitting on the sofa next to her suitcase. She stood up as he came in, put her arms on Marshall 's shoulders.
"Are you ready now, Simon?" she asked anxiously. "I can't wait to get out of here."
Marshall held her close to him and smiled into her smooth face, touching her lips lightly with his own. "Don't worry, darling. All set now.
The small room was stacked with gear. A carton of gas masks and an R/T set cluttered the desk, crates and suitcases stood against the walls. First testing the door to make certain it was locked, Marshall sat down at his desk and dialed the transport shelter above.
"Kroll?" he asked in a low voice. " Marshall here. Get ready to pull out in about ten minutes." He paused, looking away from Deborah and dropping his voice. "Meanwhile, can you come down to my office? Take the rear stairway by the elevator shaft. I'll need your help with something."
Slipping the phone back into its cradle, Marshall glanced up at Deborah, who was watching him suspiciously, her mouth fretting slightly.
"Simon, why do you want Kroll to come down here?"
Marshall began to shrug, but Deborah cut in: "Symington and the other two are coming with us, aren't they? You're not going to leave them behind?"
"Symington? Of course not, darling. He's invaluable to us. But we'll need Kroll to help persuade him to come along."
He stood up and walked over to one of the suitcases, but Deborah stopped him.
"What about Crighton and the girl?" she pressed. "You're not going to leave them, or try anything-"
Marshall hesitated, looking Deborah in the face, his eyes motionless.
"Simon!" Deborah seized his arms. "They've worked for you for months; both of them trust you completely. You can't just throw their lives away. Hardoon can use them somewhere."
Marshall clenched his teeth, pushed Deborah away. "For heaven's sake, Deborah, don't start sentimentalizing. I hate to do it, but these are tough times. People are dying out there by the million. Are you willing to swap places with one of them?"
"No, I'm not," Deborah said firmly, "but that's not the point, is it? You've got a place for them."
"In the Titan, yes. But at the Tower-I can't be sure. Hardoon is unpredictable; I've no real authority with him. I'd leave them here, but they'll put out an alert within five minutes and we'd be picked up before we'd gone ten miles." He looked down at Deborah, her mouth clenched determinedly, then burst out in a growl of irritation:
"All right then, I'll take a chance. It's a hell of a risk, though."
He picked up the suitcase, carried it over to the sofa. The case was of medium size, with heavy metal ribs that appeared to have been mounted at a date later than its original manufacture.
Taking a keychain from his pocket, Marshall opened the two locks and carefully raised the lid. Inside was a small vhf radio transceiver, equipped with a powerful scrambler.