gns.theplutopact-第28部分

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ion　was　rising　fast；　and　the　explosion　was　bound　to　e　before　the　remaining　time　was　up。
　　
　　Facts　and　figures　gathered　later　showed　an　almost　coincidental　timing　of　events。　It　was　certainly　no　more　than　15　minutes　into　the　second　half　before　it　all　began。
　　
　　Ibrox　first…or　was　it　Old　Trafford？　Nobody　really　knew。　And　still　no　goals。
　　
　　The　human　ladders　went　into　action…the　dead　and　dying　forming　the　lower　rungs。　Youths　clambered　on　to　others'　shoulders。　Sometimes　a　whole　human　structure　collapsed；　screams　muffled　in　the　pile…up。　And　that　made　it　all　the　easier　for　those　following　on；　clambering　over　the　dead　and　injured；　breaching　the　security　fences。
　　
　　Disaster　resulted　as　exits　collapsed　beneath　the　mass　exodus　of　the　terrified。　Rival　factions　battled　on　pitches　everywhere。　Players　sought　refuge　in　the　dressing…rooms。　Vainly　the　police　tried　to　intervene。
　　
　　At　Villa　Park　a　giant　hooligan　with　a　pockmarked　face　was　wielding　an　axe…the　blade　honed　to　razor…sharpness。　Even　his　own　rades　screamed　and　scattered　before　him；　a　madmen　bent　on　destruction。　There　was　no　logic　in　his　final　gruesome　act　before　being　pulled　down　by　four　policemen。　A　claret　and　blue　scarf　knotted　around　his　waist；　Villa　in　the　lead…and　he　beheaded　the　referee　with　one　powerful　swing！　It　just　didn't　make　sense。
　　
　　At　Wolverhampton　a　linesman　was　knifed。　Highbury　saw　the　bloodiest　battle　of　all；　twenty…seven　dead；　their　blood　staining　the　lush　green　September　grass。　One　hundred　and　eighty　wounded；　seventy…five　not　expected　to　live。　But　that　did　not　include　the　number　who　had　died　on　the　terraces　and　in　the　stands。　It　was　the　same　story　everywhere。
　　
　　Military　vehicles　assisted　ambulances　in　transporting　the　injured。　Hospital　emergency　services　reached　their　limits；　and　temporary　centres　were　set　up　in　civic　centres　and　town…halls。　Doctors　worked　ceaselessly　alongside　skilled　surgeons；　but　there　was　a　limit　to　what　could　be　acplished。　Many　died　before　they　received　that　vital　surgery。
　　
　　Bodies　remained　on　football　pitches　overnight；　covered　by　tarpaulins。　The　mortuaries　were　full。　As　many　carried　no　means　of　identification　a　television　announcement　was　made　asking　friends　or　relatives　to　report　missing　persons。　A　terrible　ordeal　was　in　store　for　many…a　slow　walk　down　row　upon　row　of　mutilated　bodies；　hoping　to　God　that　one　did　not　recognise　a　son　or　brother；　At　police　stations　the　telephone　lines　were　permanently　jammed。
　　
　　Eventually　the　football　grounds　were　empty；　except　for　the　dead；　the　floodlights　enhancing　the　gruesome　scene。　But　still　the　battles　raged　outside。　Now　the　mobs　rampaged　through　the　towns；　hell…bent　on　destruction　of　every　kind。　Not　just　the　hooligan　element　now。　There　were　office…workers；　bank…clerks；　shop…assistants　。　。　。　normal　people　under　abnormal　circumstances。
　　
　　In　Glasgow　shop　windows　were　smashed；　and　a　fire　begun　at　a　petrol　station　resulted　in　a　devastating　explosion　which　killed　eleven　people　instantly。　It　was　the　same　story　everywhere。
　　
　　The　Battle　of　Highbury　was　moving　south。　Rival　factions　appeared　to　have　formed　a　coalition。　Red…and…white　and　blue…and…white　scarves　were　brandished　side　by　side。　Other　groups　joined　them；　crazy　mobs　with　no　interest　in　either　team。　Football　was　forgotten…it　was　plain　mob…law　now。
　　
　　They　had　remembered　the　threat；　and　they　had　a　destination…Westminster；　and　Downing　Street。　They　blazed　a　trail　of　destruction　as　they　marched…shop　windows；　private　houses；　parked　cars　overturned。　Mass　frenzy。
　　
　　Then；　suddenly；　it　all　came　to　a　stop　as　a　line　of　armoured　trucks　barred　their　way。　Soldiers　fired　shots　into　the　air。　The　retreat　was　disorderly；　panic…stricken；　a　total　anti　climax。
　　
　　Three　rioters　were　trampled　to　death。
　　
　　The　OC　was　not　fooled　by　the　simplicity　of　it　all。　A　dangerous　mob　had　been　halted　by　one　volley　of　shots　over　their　heads　simply　because　they　had　never　e　up　against　military　resistance　before。　They　would　retreat；　lick　their　wounds…but　next　time　a　few　warning　shots　would　not　halt　them。　A　bluff　is　seldom　successfully　called　twice。
　　
　　Canverdale　had　snatched　a　few　hours　sleep　following　his　appointment　as　Prime　Minister　and　by　midday　Sunday　he　was　working　with　the　efficiency　of　a　well…oiled　machine。　Tall　and　lean；　almost　totally　bald；　he　had　a　resilience　that　was　well…known　to　all　who　had　worked　with　him　in　his　party　in　the　past。　Odds　meant　nothing　to　him；　he　never　gave　up。　He　ate　sandwiches　at　his　desk　as　he　talked　on　the　telephone。　He　had　no　reservations　about　speaking　with　his　mouth　full；　and　he　had　little　patience　with　those　who　asked　him　to　repeat　a　sentence。
　　
　　The　re…establishment　of　law　and　order　was　his　priority；　for　no　government　can　tackle　a　crisis　efficiently　in　the　midst　of　anarchy。　He　had　the　facts　and　figures　of　the　previous　day's　rioting　on　his　desk　before　him。　They　did　not　make　pleasant　reading。
　　
　　His　first　call　was　direct　to　Belfast。　He　wanted　up…to…date　information；　ahead　of　the　press。　Already　he　had　contemplated　a　partial　withdrawal　of　troops　from　Northern　Ireland。　An　auxiliary　force；　a　show　of　extra　strength　to　curb　the　rising　anarchy。
　　
　　He　groaned　at　the　news。　Saturday　had　been　the　worst　night　of　terror　in　Belfast　for　six　years。　He　had　no　time　to　listen　to　the　details。
　　
　　He　sat　through　a　call　to　the　head　of　Oxide　Reprocessing。　Dyne　sounded　weary；　as　though　he　had　not　been　to　bed　all　night。
　　
　　'Well；'　Canverdale　barked；　'what's　the　current　reading　on　our　very　own　atomic　bomb？'
　　
　　'Bad。'　Dyne's　sigh　was　audible　over　the　line。　'It's　risen　three　degrees　during　the　night。　At　the　previous　rate　of　escaping　radioactivity；　it　wouldn't　have　attained　this　level　until　Tuesday。'
　　
　　'Which　brings　Doomsday　two　days　nearer。'　Canverdale　pushed　the　plate　of　ham　sandwiches　away。　'Next　Saturday；　in　fact。　A　decision　will　have　to　be　made　on　Friday…maybe　sooner。　Ring　me　if　the　pressure　shows　any　signs　of　a　further　rate　of　increase。'
　　
　　He　replaced　the　receiver；　and　then　made　another　call。
　　
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　12
　　
　　Sunday。　Transistor　radios　had　conveyed　into　the　valley　the　news　of　the　widespread　rioting　throughout　Britain。
　　
　　Coyle　and　Anne　lay　listening　to　the　extended　bulletin。　It　was　warm　between　the　folds　of　the　two　sleeping…bags　which　they　had　zipped　together。　The　inflated　mattress　beneath　gave　them　added　fort。　Apart　from　the　stark　surroundings　of　filing　cabinets　and　a　desk　heaped　with　pending　correspondence；　they　might　as　well　have　spent　an　adulterous　night　in　some　three…star　hotel。　Still　clasped　in　the　embrace　in　which　they　had　slept；　they　listened　to　every　detail　of　the　early　morning　London　news。
　　
　　The　night　of　terror　had　now　subsided　somewhat。　The　rioters　were　licking　their　wounds；　their　losses　heavy。　It　was　emphasised　that　no　casualties　were　due　to　action　by　military　law。　Those　who　had　suffered　had　done　so　through　their　own　behaviour；　many　unwittingly　swept　along　in　a　tide　of　human　madness。　There　was　no　hint　of　further　measures　being　taken　to　safeguard　life　and　property。　The　situation　was　static。　Emergency　services　would　be　maintained。　People　were　urged　to　go　to　work　as　usual　on　the　morrow。　There　was　optimism　in　the　newscaster's　voice…all　part　of　the　policy：　keep　the　people　calm。　There　was　no　mention　of　fuel　rationing；　either。　Coyle　supposed　there　were　sufficient　supplies　to　enable　Britain　to　carry　on　until　it　disintegrated…or；　by　some　miracle；　normality　returned。
　　
　　He　leaned　over　to　switch　off　the　tiny　transistor；　wondering　what　Jane　was　doing　without　him。　The　thought　troubled　his　conscience：　it　was　bloody　selfish　of　him。　He　hadn't　intended　being　absent　the　whole　night；　but　it　had　been　impossible　to　drag　himself　away　from　Anne。　There　was　so　little　time　left　。。。
　　
　　'D'you　know　what　I'd　like　most　from　you；　Bob？'　she　murmured；　beginning　to　fondle　him　again。
　　
　　'What's　that？'
　　
　　'I'd　like　to　be　pregnant。　A　baby。　By　you。'
　　
　　The　idea　flattered　him。　Something　they　had　guarded　against　throughout　the　whole　of　their　affair；　and　now　when　she…no；　both　of　them…wanted　it　most；　it　was　impossible。　A　strange　quirk　of　fate。　He　sighed　deeply。
　　
　　'Well；　we　certainly　didn't　take　any　precautions　last　night。'
　　
　　'And　we're　not　going　to　now。'　She　took　the　initiative　and　clambered　on　top　of　him。　'The　time　of　the　month　is　right；　too。　Even　。　。　。　even　if　there　isn't　time　left；　I'd　still　know。'
　　
　　'How？'
　　
　　'Intuition。　Something　you　just　can't　put　into　words。　Some　women　are　sure　within　a　couple　of　days。　Just　something　you　know　but　can't　explain。'
　　
　　They　fell　silent　except　for　a　quickening　of　their　breath　and　the　movement　of　their　bodies。　She　was　pressing　down　hard　on　him；　then　they　were　jerking　in　harmony；　clutching　at　each　other；　her　fingernails　gouging　his　shoulders；　rolling　out　of　the　warmth　of　the　sleeping…bag　on　to　the　hardness　of　the　floor。　They　never　even　noticed　it；　lying　coupled　for　some　time　afterwards；　basking　in　the　warmth　of　mutual　love。　Coyle　hoped　that　he　had　given　her　what　she　wanted；　though　precious　few　days　were　left。　Intuition　or　not；　he　wanted　to　hear　those　words　from　her　own　lips：　'You've　given　me　a　baby；　Bob。'
　　
　　The　ringing　of　the　telephone　caused　them　to　disengage　with　reluctance。
　　
　　'Who　the　hell　can　be　ringing　the　office　on　a　Sunday　morning？'　he　muttered；　picking　up　the　receiver；　and　perching　on　the　edge　of　the　desk；　stark　naked。
　　
　　'Coyle　speaking。'
　　
　　'Rollason　here。　I　tried　to　get　you　at　home　but　your　wife　said　you　didn't　e　in　last　night。　Getting　a　special　edition　out？'　A　hint　of　sarcasm？
　　
　　'No；　I　just　had　。　。　。　things　to　catch　up　on。'
　　
　　'I　wondered　if　you　were　going　to　bring　out　a　。。。　a　final　edition　of　the　Herald。'
　　
　　'You're　being　pessimistic；　Rollason。　It　may　not　happen。'
　　
　　'That's　something　we　won't　know　until　it　either　does　or　doesn't。　Anyway；　I　just　wanted　to　ask　you　to　play　it　down　as　much　as　possible。　A　personal　favour。　You　must　be　fully　aware　of　what's　happening　outside；　throughout　the　rest　of　the　country。　I'm　worried　about　when　it's　going　to　start　here；　so　I'd　appreciate　it　if　you　didn't　dig　up　any　m