Bob Swift looked at the countdown as it slipped below the thirty-minute mark. Waterman had told them to keep an eye on anything unusual, a second line of defence to the AI and algorithms that churned permanently in the neural network computers, seeking threats and anomalies from the galaxies of data that flowed through them.
A flicker passed through the screen in front of him. Like something had swum close to the surface. Swift blinked, clearing his vision. He must have imagined it, his mind foggy with exhaustion.
Then it happened again.
It was as if the screen had transformed into a flat pool of water and a submerged body was probing from within, its mass displacing the area around it.
Swift was running a diagnostic check when he heard Hunter shouting out at Waterman.
‘Something’s happening to our central control functions.’
‘What areas are affected?’ said Waterman, looking at his own screen for verification.
‘GCHQ defences,’ said Swift in disbelief. ‘Communications with the guard posts are going offline. The armament room has sealed itself. Lifts are offline. Oh shit.’
‘Surface-to-air missiles have just come online. Auto targeting procedures just engaged,’ said Swift.
Waterman snatched up the nearest phone.
‘It’s beginning. Clear the airspace above us.’