In the ink-black stable we stood and listened. I found I was hyperventilating, but I knew that now the most immediate danger of having the hardware discovered in the car was over.
Now, in an emergency, we could do a runner or shoot our way out, leaving the stuff behind, and, if challenged, deny all knowledge of it.
The yard was very still, the church dark. We waited a couple of minutes. Nobody moved or spoke. Then I whispered, "OK."
Our individual tasks were carefully pre-planned. Toad kept watch on the doorway. Pay, the tallest, slung a loop over the main roof beam to take the top hook of the hoist. I broke out the nets, which were made of thick green nylon with a three-inch mesh, and manoeuvred the steel cases into them.
We'd just got the first one trussed when Toad let out a hiss.
Torches snapped off Everyone kept still. But it was only the usual problem women crossing the yard from the church -and in a moment we moved again.
With all three cases netted, I pulled on my dry-suit, got Rick to zip up the back, and took over from Toad at the door while he got his suit on.
Pavarotti had the hoist well secured, the pulleys running smoothly.
"Looks good," I whispered, running my torch beam over his ropes.
"Rick?"
"Hello."
"I'm going down. We'll aim to be back at the base of the shaft at midnight. Lift the lid and have a listen then, anyway. If we're not back, try again every half-hour."
"Roger. Happy landings."
Feet into the top of the shaft. Ease down the ladder. Once my feet touched, I took a careful look round the floor in my immediate area. No signs of disturbance other than our own. The same damp, muddy smell of decay.
I switched off my head-torch to save the battery, jerked the ladder and felt it rise past me as somebody lifted it clear. Then I heard scuffling noises as the first of the loaded nets the SCR started down. I was tempted to peer up the shaft and watch it coming, but didn't fancy being under it if a rope should break or anything went wrong with the hoist; so I stood to one side and waited until the heavy bundle sank gently to the floor, then released the shacide.
Before the second net came down there was quite a pause. I imagined the guys struggling to manoeuvre the heavy case into position, on end above the mouth of the shaft, without letting it bump or scrape. Then more scuffling, scratching noises started, and I switched my torch on again in time to see the bulging net appear. Once more I released the shackle and twitched the rope, then walked the case out of the way on its corners and laid it gently on its back. Its weight was formidable, and I knew that the third component, section two, was ten kilos heavier still.
The pause was longer this time. The guys were obviously having more problems. Then came a thump, and some strangled curses. At last the scraping noise began again, and I stood clear in anticipation.
Suddenly a loud, sharp crack ripped down the shaft. A patter of particles landed by my feet, as if there'd been rapid movement above. Jesus, I thought. Somebody's fired a shot.
I stood frozen. All movement in the shaft had ceased. Some bastard's stumbled on them, I thought. They've dropped him.
But they can't close the cover with the pulley ropes in the way.
Why the hell don't they get on and lower away? Maybe there are more guys in the yard.
In the silence of the tunnel I could hear my heart beating. Not a sound came from above. Irrationally, I felt that if I moved or spoke I might precipitate disaster. All I could do was keep still.
For many long seconds I waited motionless in the dark. My heartbeat seemed to grow louder and louder. Then at last I heard more noises above. They sounded different from the earlier scrapings, but at least something was happening. More bumps and thuds. I shone my torch quickly up the shaft and saw that the whole of its section was filled by the third and last net. Yet, in spite of the noises, the thing wasn't moving. Had it jammed?
I tried my radio and got no response. My instinct was to yell up the shaft and find out what in hell was going on. But I realised that they couldn't shout back for fear of being heard, so I steeled myself to wait.
In the end movement resumed and the big case came on down, Toad and Pay close behind it.
"What the flick were you doing?"
"Didn't you hear that?" Pay asked.
"I sure did. Did somebody fire a shot?"
"No, no. That was the main beam in the stable going."
"Jesus!"
"Yeah. The whole roof dropped several inches. Shit rained down all round. We thought the place was falling in on us.
"Nobody else heard it?"
"Don't think so."
"What did you do?"
"Found an old timber lying at the back and managed to get it under as a prop so the beam couldn't drop any lower. Then we carried on.
We'd lost quite a bit of time already, so we made haste to catch up.
First we had the laborious task of getting the cases out of the nets, loading them into the rubber bags, then bundling them into the nets again.
Experiments with nets full of sandbags, filled to the equivalent weight, had shown us that the best way of shifting our loads in the confined space of the tunnel would be by fitting slings of wide webbing to the nets, fore and aft, and advancing as a pair in line-ahead, one leaning forward and the other back, to levitate the burden between us. It wasn't easy or comfortable because the laden net tended to crash into the heels of the person leading and drag the back marker off his feet but it was better than hauling a huge weight along the floor.
It was obvious that three journeys would be needed, so we set out on the first with me leading, Pavarotti behind, Apple's section one between us, and Toad carrying his own bergen full of tricks. My plan was that, once we reached the site, we'd leave him there with the first half of the device so that he could start preparing it while we went back for the second.
All went well until we were on the downward slope, leading to the river. Then, as the beam of light from my head-torch danced around in front of me, I sensed that something had changed.
"Stopping," I said.
I slackened off my end of the net and stood still.
"The water," said Pay.
"It's gone."
"Exactly. I'm sure my marker was just here somewhere. Look there it is." I pointed to the horizontal scratch-mark on the wall.
"Some bastard's been in here draining it," said Pay incredulously.
"Can't have been."
"Where's it gone, then?"
"You tell me."
In fact only some of the water had gone. A lot remained. Soon after we'd moved forward again we saw its surface lying still and black ahead of us. As we advanced to the edge of it I realised that even at its deepest point it no longer reached the roof: there was a gap of about a foot under the arched yellow bricks, and I could see right through to the other side.
"Well, damn!" Pavarotti sounded very Welsh in his indignation.
"The tide's gone out."
"Tide be buggered!" I snapped.
"We're a thousand bloody miles from the sea."
"Only joking. We don't need our masks now, that's for sure. Hardly need the suits, even. We can walk straight through with our heads above water."
"All the better," I told him.
"But .. . hey, what's this?"
On the right-hand wall ahead of us, just above the water line, the top of an arched recess was showing clearly the opening to a side-tunnel. It was bricked in, but some of the cement had washed out and I could see water welling in and out through the gaps.
"That's where it's gone," I said.
"Or where it came in from. Part of the system."
"So what?"
"So nothing. We carry on.
And through the flood we went, moving slowly to create as little disturbance as possible. Once in the water the steel case, with air trapped round it inside the rubber bag, was almost floating, and towed along easily.
Very soon we were out of the water and at the site itself. We laid the case down a few feet short of the end of the tunnel, to make sure no debris fell on it when we started digging.
"There you are," I told Toad.
"It's going in that recess. And there's the shaft for the SCR. You get cracking, and we'll be back."
One of Toad's unnerving features was his silence, the fact that he spoke so little. You felt that his brain was turning over smoothly like a well-oiled mechanism, but you hadn't a clue what he was thinking. Now, as we left him, he stood there dry washing his hands without a word.
"I wouldn't mind sealing the bugger down here," I said as we started out with our second load.
"That'd stop him annoying me.
By the time we returned, Toad had the lid off the case, and for the first time we got a glimpse of its contents: a terrifying maze of bright blue and white wires snaking round compartments of different shapes. He was wearing latex gloves and a pair of headphones, listening carefully as he touched a probe on one point after another. He had small socket spanners, Allen keys and battery-driven screwdrivers laid out on a mat beside him, occasionally picking one up to tighten or loosen a connection.
But as soon as we delivered the SCR, he turned his attention to that, because he was anxious to have it up and working first.
Rather him than me, I thought as Pavarotti and I peeled off our dry-suits and got stuck into the digging. Secretly, though, I felt a bit like a navvy labouring in the presence of a technician who understood things that would always be beyond me.
We were already sweating when we started to dig, and soon we were positively pouring. The ground was neither clay nor rock but something in between a hard, shaly, grey-brown compound that sometimes broke away in lumps and sometimes split up into flakes with sharp edges. To save batteries we worked with minimum light, using only one torch at a time, whacking our short-handled picks into the face, levering out whatever the blades had got hold of, and shovelling loose spoil away with our hands. From past experience I already knew that Pay stank like a badger when he got hot Pavagrotti, he was sometimes called -and now, at close quarters and in the confines of the tunnel, he was overpowering. But I realised I was smelling probably as bad to him, and said nothing.
Toad, as always, worked in silence, but after twenty minutes or so he stood up and said, "This one's ready."
Out of its cover, the SCR reminded me of the head of a robot, with twin aluminium antennae, linked by a cross bar near the base and rigged on the top like a pair of miniature rugby goal posts. I knew that Toad wanted it installed as high up the ventilation shaft as we could get it, and we'd worked out a means of fixing it in position. From behind our block at Balashika we'd scavenged three pieces of angle-iron and had cut them into twenty-four-inch lengths so that they'd jam across the shaft at an angle beneath it, and lock in position when its weight came down on them.
Standing with my head up the duct, I chopped at the brickwork above me with hammer and chisel to make three notches that would take the lower ends of the struts. Chips of brick kept flying into my eyes, but the grooves didn't need to be very deep, and after one trial with a length of angle-iron, to make sure it would seat itself properly, we were ready to lift the SCR into place.
As a temporary support, we'd brought an aluminium pole made of short sections that slotted into one another. It was part of another satellite aerial system, and we'd worked out that we could stand it upright, with a circular pad on top, to take the receiver's weight between lifts.
When Pavarotti and I raised the box to waist height, Toad slipped the first section of pole in vertically beneath it.
"OK," he said, 'rest there."
Another lift, to chest height, and he got another section in.
The pole, longer now, started to wobble and flex as it took the weight.
"Keep it steady," said Toad.
A third section propped the receiver at head height. The final hoist, into the shaft, could only be done by one person, pushing up with both arms above his head. I delegated the job to Pavarotti, as he's taller and stronger than me.
"I'll give you what lift I can on the pole," I told him, gripping it with both hands.
"Ready?"
"Right."
"Three, two, one lift!"
Up went the black box, scraping against the sides of the shaft.
Toad snapped one more length on to the bottom of the stalk and said, "OK steady again." While I held the pole in the middle, Pay bent his knees, lowering the box on to the pad.
"Angle-irons next," I said but when I went to slot them into position, I found we still hadn't got the box high enough. We needed another three or four inches to give us the necessary clearance. While Pay and I both grabbed the pole and lifted, Toad slipped his steel tool-box under the bottom and wedged it there. That gave us the space we needed; I got the struts into position, arranged some bubble-wrap padding on top of them, and called to the others to lower gently.
All that had taken a lot of effort and concentration. When I checked my watch I was amazed at how much time had gone by.
Our torch batteries were faltering and needed changing.
"Got to keep moving," I said as we took a quick break for a drink of water. Our next task was to chip out a gully for the coax cables that would connect the SCR to the device another aggravating job at which only one person could work. Again we took it in turns, going all out for a few minutes, then resting. As soon as we had a channel clear Toad moved in to connect the cables, and we went back to our main excavation.
I'd realised that our best plan was to form the spoil from our cavity into a ramp, so that we'd be able to slide the Apple components up it and into position. The trouble with this was, the ramp itself began to get in our way. Digging became progressively more awkward as we had to lean over our own heap to reach the back of the recess. By the time we had a hole of the right dimensions, we were both knackered.
All this time, when he wasn't tinkering with the cables, Toad remained bent over his charges, tightening, adjusting, listening through his headphones. Then, as we paused, I noticed he was into his hand-washing routine again, a curious look on his face.
"What's the matter?"
"Just trying to imagine it all white in here."
"White?"
"When the device is detonated, everything in here will be vaporised in blinding white light."
"Charming. I hope we're not here to see it."