The first warning bells began to sound after Luke had spent an hour back at the keys of his favoured computer. He was competent, like any young man of the modern age. His fingers flickered over the keys. He passed a few simple tests of dexterity. Then Dr Hendricks set him a more complicated challenge.
Far to the south, in the north-western quadrant of London, is the suburb of Northwood. Beneath its streets, with their rows of calm, tree-lined avenues of commuter dwellings, out of sight and largely out of mind, is the operations headquarters of the Royal Navy.
The Admiralty may be in central London, the warships moored in Devonport, the great aircraft carriers Queen Elizabeth and Prince of Wales still undergoing sea trials off Portsmouth and the nuclear-missile-bearing submarines in the Clyde estuary off Faslane, but the navy’s computerized-war heart is at Northwood. This is where the database flickers deep beneath the suburban streets. And the database is protected by fearsome firewalls that guard its vital access codes.
Sir Adrian sought and received the permission of the First Sea Lord to see if the cyber-genius could possibly secure those access codes. Luke tried for a week but was repelled at every attempt. The sixth sense, or second sight, or whatever he had had, seemed to be missing. On theoretical exercises, others from GCHQ had made more progress, though none had ever reached the sacred core.
Sir Adrian flew from London to Inverness and was brought by car to the castle. He had long, gentle conversations with Luke and his mother, and more technical ones with Dr Hendricks, who explained that something seemed to have changed. The boy who had set off for his mountain walk two weeks earlier was not the puzzled youth now dabbling at his keyboard.
Again Sir Adrian consulted Professor Simon Baron-Cohen in his Cambridge offices. The academic and cerebral specialist was not encouraging. Despite all the expertise in the world, the effects of brain damage were still unpredictable.
What had happened to Luke Jennings was not simply a tap on the skull causing very temporary unconsciousness, what the layman calls ‘knocked out’ or ‘knocked cold’. That happened to many people – in the boxing ring, at the work site or in the home. Recovery was speedy and permanent.
But it seemed what that Scottish rock on the mountainside had done was more serious. The professor confirmed that permanent brain changes could take place as a result of cerebral damage. There was simply no guarantee that time alone would change a damaged human brain back to the way it was.
Sir Adrian flew back to London to inform the Prime Minister that Operation Troy based on the incredible skills of the Fox was over.
‘Is this lad damaged in any other way, Adrian?’ she asked.
‘No, Prime Minister. Indeed, since his return from hospital to the Highlands, he seems to be developing into a much more well-adjusted young man. But we have to accept that this astonishing talent he had for slicing through the world’s most complicated firewalls has deserted him.’
‘So our secret weapon is no more?’
‘That is the case.’
‘Who knows that it ever existed?’
‘Very, very few, Prime Minister. Among our allies, the White House and a few very senior Americans. This side of the Pond, you, two or three Cabinet members and some senior executives in the intelligence community. We are all sworn to secrecy and accustomed to it. I do not foresee leaks if the whole hub is dismantled and dispersed. As to the Kremlin, I very much suspect they will wish to let this sleeping dog lie.’
‘What about the Jennings family? Surely we have wreaked havoc among them?’
‘I have a suspicion that Mrs Jennings wishes to remarry. I suggest they all sign the Official Secrets Act and that funds be allocated to find a job for Luke and to complete the education of Marcus, with an ex gratia payment for their spring and summer of dislocation.’
‘Very well, Adrian. I rely on you to put the matter to bed. In short, it never happened, or at least it had nothing to do with Her Majesty’s government.’
‘As you wish it, Prime Minister.’
The close-down would be very quiet and very discreet. With the Prime Minister’s permission, Sir Adrian instructed Dr Hendricks in his Highland castle to begin the dismantlement of the computer hub and the restoration of the staff to their posts at Cheltenham.
As Weston had predicted, Sue Jennings and Captain Harry Williams decided to marry. She would settle down as a soldier’s wife, using the proceeds of the sale of the Luton residence to purchase a family home outside Hereford, close to the base of the SAS regiment.
She put the decision to both her sons. They already got on well with Harry Williams. Marcus was philosophical about yet another move of school, since he still had a couple of years until he took the exams in the British system known as GCSEs. To Sue’s surprise, even Luke accepted the decision. The most challenging variations of behaviour caused by his condition seemed to be abating. All he wanted was his computer room, where he could play his cyber-games, and it now seemed he could cause no more havoc among the databases of either friend or foe.
That left Dr Hendricks with one last quandary as the headquarters at the Scottish castle were being dismantled. He was still in possession of the information yielded by Luke’s last triumph before he was injured. This was the access codes to the inner heart of the North Korean missile programme, its acquisition still unsuspected in Pyongyang. He passed the decision to Sir Adrian.
The old knight had had an eventful but tiring
seven months. He had wearied of London; of the noise and the pressure, the fumes and the bustle. He longed for his cottage in the landscape of unspoiled Dorset. His spaniel had been cared for by a neighbour; now, he wanted to walk the woods again, with dog at heel, to live among his books and his memories, to have a log fire on a winter’s night. However, he had one last chore to do before he left the metropolis.
The United Kingdom was still capable of taking covert control of the guidance systems of the North Korean rocket programme. He decided it would be a pity to waste such a chance.
That autumn, the North Koreans tested another missile. It was not the Hwasong-15 but the smaller and older Taepodong-2. Their reasoning was simple. Despite all Pyongyang’s promises, secret development on the miniaturization of nuclear warheads had continued at unknown research laboratories well below ground. Ostentatious demolitions had taken place at ground level to justify the trade benefits being permitted by the USA.
After the disastrous experience with the Hwasong-20, it had been decided to carry out fundamental improvement to the earlier Taepodong and fit it with the smaller atomic warhead when it was ready. The cover story was that the four-stage Taepodong was destined for space research only; thus the test-fired missile had no warhead.
It was launched from the Tonghae facility to avert suspicion. Tonghae had earlier been used to launch non-weaponized missiles.
The latest Taepodong performed perfectly – at first. It rose vertically and sedately into the stratosphere. It was designed to climb through the stratosphere into the exosphere before turning east towards the Sea of Japan. After crossing the Japanese island of Hokkaido it was intended that it run out of fuel and crash into the western Pacific. At the zenith of its climb, however, something went wrong. It wavered, tilted and turned west. Towards China.