The land was showing the first signs of autumn. The trees were grudgingly shedding the first of their yellowing leaves to the wind, scattering them amongst the gutters and alleys of Stone Hill Garrison.
Tranter had never seen a border before, not outside of photographs and theatre news-reels. Even having worked in the field he had never seen one first hand, having either travelled by night or come to land via the sea.
Now that he saw one with his own eyes it brought his heart to his mouth. It was simply enormous.
He watched it, dumbfounded. How any nation could have afforded the construction of the thing was a miracle. Even without the troubles of the economy and the lack of capital it seemed unimaginable that there could ever have been a large enough workforce to complete the job within a thousand years. And yet there it was, spanning the entire horizon and reaching a hundred feet – a hundred and fifty at some points - from the wasteland below into the forget-me-not sky.
Eighty-seven point six million tonnes of concrete and iron rose out of the land in the form of an inverted triangular prism. Broader at its peak to hinder ascent and fortified with barbed wires and pikes, it was near impossible to cross, regardless of the surveillance points. Set in a grid formation at an interval of twenty feet were dark globes containing motion-sensitive cameras. Over the decades their casings had faded for the elements, though ninety per cent of them - according to the latest statistics - were still in operation. They each reflected a single point of light like a tarantula lying in wait of prey, and gave the concrete mass an eerie animation; a cold and indifferent gaze, as that of a lidless corpse.
His attention was drawn to a series of squat concrete buildings over a half mile from the camp. Orange lights were pulsing atop their roofs, the same that signalled curfew in Birmingham. These lights, however, warned of a craft approaching on a wide arc from the south. A Rhinox. Elephantine and ugly, with a hold the size of a cathedral, it was a sextuple-rotored helicopter designed to lift tanks and armoured vehicles into remote locations. He watched its course, lethargic and graceful, the giant craft wrenched at the earth beneath, so tremendous was its downstream, leaving a ploughed furrow in its wake.
The panes of the window began to vibrate as the Rhinox approached. Even at such a distance they could cause damage, and had been used, unofficially, to fly over enemy camps to decimate them. Prohibited from flying within a mile of populated dwellings, they were only ever discernible on the horizon of Birmingham. Seeing one so close now was nearly as great an experience as witnessing the border. The craft slowed as it neared the jumble of low buildings, enveloped by a cloud of churned soil and dust before disappearing.
For the duration of the week he and Toubec had attended meetings regarding a sweep of Mortehoe using troops rather than Dark Lens’, as whomever was residing in the area had become adept at hiding from them. They had been met by resilience from every quarter: the expense of the operation, the lack of equipment, the lack of topographical information, there seemed to be little in the entire arsenal of the military that could make possible a forty-five mile journey across empty countryside. Even the possibility of a helicopter fly-by of Mortehoe was met with grimaces, rubbed chins and pouts.
He had fought the argument before, years ago in Imaging when he had seen the woman on the screen in the corner of his eye. He had raged at his superior and been offered the same withdrawn expressions and half-hearted excuses. He wondered if history was repeating itself and thought of Stumm. Was Toubec going to receive a bullet to the temple? He could live with that, he thought.
The infantry of the garrison were cold and unhelpful, Tranter considered as the two of them sat alone in the mess hall, the only other being a serviceman sitting alone in the corner some way from them. Tranter had regarded him with suspicion for a while, but the mans constant checking of his watch and his kit bag stuffed beside his feet acted as evidence he were waiting to leave the place.
Not only had the infantry ignored them the duration of their stay, the officers - vital to the arrangement of their operation, were impossible to find, or otherwise continually laying obstructions in their way. He mentioned his thoughts to Toubec, and though she would have been hard pushed to deny it, she reminded him that the staff were following correct protocol, and that it was he who was asking questions he had no business asking.
‘Questioning them about their operations!’ She admonished him. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘I wanted to know if they carried out their own work beyond the border. I can’t think of any other reason why they don’t want us over there.’ He had taken her to the window and shown her tyre marks leading beyond the perimeter gate and across the bridge of the no-man’s land channel. She regarded the muddy streaks for a moment; obviously he had touched a nerve by noticing it before her. She had no explanation for it; there was no reason for the military to head out beyond the border and into the quarantine zone.
The news on the InterRail had reported that the Ministry of Custody was implementing several-thousand jobs to manufacture helicopters, and over the weeks he had overheard numerous conversations that lead him believe that the finances were coming, almost exclusively, from Stone Hill.
‘What on earth are they doing across there?’ She said, laying her fingers against the glass. He noticed the lack of acidity that usually accompanied her questions.
‘And how can they afford to fund construction of Rhinox when they can’t afford to use them to cross the border? He turned back to the lone infantryman. He was obviously listening to their conversation. Toubec followed his gaze and lowered her voice.
She turned to him and raised her brow. ‘They make out that they can’t afford to open the gates to get through after all the cuts, and yet those tracks are fresh. Even I can see that. Rained on Monday didn’t it?’
‘Started on Sunday evening.’
She turned back to the border and inspected the tracks. ‘You’re right,’ she said, more to herself than to Tranter. ‘They are being difficult.’ She was silent for a moment and he watched her crows-feet deepen as she became lost in thought.
‘I need to make a call,’ she said, leaving greasy fingerprints on the glass as she left.