Regalion

By Mike Murray

Modern Day Airline Captain is embroiled in the mystery of a secret World War 2 weapon that went wrong. Can he unravel the mystery of the weapon, the jewelry and the ghost stations of London's underground railway. Can a quantum weapon have accidentally been developed in 1940. Approximately 90% of the science and history in this book is based on fact.
Was Einstein wrong and why have so few people heard of Nikola Tesla, probably one of the world's greatest electrical scientists.
What actually happened in the Regalion Bunker in 1940 and why was it sealed for ever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Murray
• Release date: Mar 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310252921

Mike Murray

Mike is a Company advisor specialising in mentoring small and medium sized enterprises. He has detailed experience of finance, IT and company fund raising. Now semi-retired he has written his first novel.Married to Sue for over 40 years, he has a son who is an airline captain and a daughter who runs her own successful worldwide online furniture brand called Blackorchid Interiors.

Book preview

Chapter One

January 1939

The tall, thin, elderly man was dressed in a brown cutaway suit. He had just returned to his rooms in the New Yorker Hotel after feeding his beloved pigeons in Bryant Park. On the table in front of him lay four pieces of Russian jewellery, sparkling under a bright light. He thought for a moment about the craftsmen who created them, the unfortunate Royals who once wore them and scorned the villains that for decades envied them. Soon, these once prized possessions would be returned to their rightful place.

He turned to the fresh-faced youth and invited him to come closer. The young hotel worker gazed at the treasures. Then the old man carefully returned them to the felt-lined box and closed the lid.

Joseph, please escort the distinguished gentlemen waiting downstairs into one of the public rooms on the ground floor.

Yes sir.

Downstairs, a portly Englishman lit up a cigar as the head of the Russian Secret Service watched pensively. Across the room, the White House senior scientific advisor and the Head of the FBI whispered to each other.

The double doors opened and the old man in the brown suit entered the room.

Come gentlemen, we have much to discuss.

The doors closed and two large men stood guard outside to ensure no one came near.

The men inside talked for more than three hours. Then, the jewel case was opened. A brooch, crafted in the shape of a delicate diamond-studded bow was caressed, almost as though it had special meaning for the old man. He placed it back in the box and his thin bony fingers handed it to the Englishman.

Mr Churchill smiled and assured the old man that the artefacts would soon be safe in the vaults to be constructed beneath the streets of London. They would be reunited with the priceless collection from which they were separated in 1917. The Russian looked on dubiously but had orders from Stalin to oversee the transfer.

As they left the room, Churchill turned to the old man.

Dr Einstein is not convinced your invention will work Nikola.

The old man stopped and smiled.

"He cannot accept what he describes as unexplained actions at a distance; he believes that given time, we will discover a more logical reason for the phenomenon."

Very well, I look forward to seeing you in London Nikola; let us hope that together we can bring an end to the ambitions of Herr Hitler.

The old man nodded humbly. His place in history was assured; that of his guests now lay in the hands of God and the success of operation Regalion.

He rubbed at his aching leg and returned to his room.

Chapter Two

April 2013

The noise was deafening. Sirens, flashing lights and mayhem permeated the tunnel as the giant machine ground to a halt. Men descended from all parts of the long train that followed the powerful revolving cutting head, each trying to make safe a major engineering challenge that was now being forced into an unscheduled stop. With expensive real-estate above, any deviation from the plan could be disastrous, or expensive, or most likely, both.

The chief engineer shouted to the operator.

Shut that bloody noise off.

The two-tone siren ceased.

Up there; no, more to the right.

The lights on the panel flickered and danced, creating a muted glow in the control cabin.

He climbed the ladder to the top of the cutting ring at the front of the machine. More loose clay and rocks fell dangerously to the ground.

BELOW, he hollered, hoping no one was beneath the falling debris. He climbed further, the sound of his heavy boots clanking against the metal ladder echoed in the concrete-lined tunnel.

Two more metres.

Shouted the operator from the cabin.

A booted foot was dangling from the tunnel roof where it joined the side wall. Buried in a long cavern was a body, clad in a threadbare military uniform.

It’s a body alright, been here a few decades by the look of the clothing.

The engineer shone his torch onto the face of the corpse then jumped back in horror. His muddy boot slipped from the rung of the ladder, it was all he could do to cling on as he descended at speed and slumped in a heap on the floor.

A small group of men began to gather around the white faced engineer.

What is it?

It wasn’t that he was afraid of bodies, he’d encountered numerous on this job as the giant earthmover navigated ancient burial grounds and plague pits from earlier centuries. This was different.

Call the Police and don’t move anything till they arrive.

Almost an hour passed before Jim Church arrived with several uniformed officers. They were followed into the tunnel by a small army of police specialists in overalls. Within minutes, the scene was cordoned off and the tunnelling machine carefully retracted some distance back.

Is it safe?

No, you’ll have to let us shore up with at least one or two more segments.

Segments were the steel-reinforced concrete liners inserted behind the tunnelling machine to ensure the area was strong and water tight. Slowly, the machine withdrew and the crew erected a scaffold gantry beneath the cavern that cocooned the body. The men and women in overalls roped off a safe path to the cavern and Jim Church tucked his suit trousers into his socks and made his way onto the temporary gantry to take his first close look at the body. The forensics team followed him, making it crowded as they went about their routine in the tight and awkward work space.

What the hell do you make of that?

I’ve never seen anything like it Sir.

My God, groaned Church.

The crime scene was almost a century old and forensics could gain little from staying any longer. The surrounding earth appeared clean and devoid of further obvious evidence. It was agreed that scientific analysis would best be made on the surrounding soil after removal of the corpse.

The victim’s remains were carefully extracted from the body-shaped cavern, a detail not lost on Church. Although the cavern was the shape of the body, it seemed proportionately larger. Moulded almost, perhaps even before the body was inserted, yet exactly fitting its contours. Church was particularly puzzled by this and made notes in his book, adding that he’d allowed for shrinkage of the body during decay.

Any sign of the missing right arm?

Not yet, but the amputation is unusual Jim.

Slowly and carefully, the victim was moved to ground level in order to minimise any disturbance of the decaying uniform. As they lay the body down they noticed the revolver attached around its waist. It was oddly angled upward toward the metal frame of the tunnelling machine, as if levitating for a moment, pulling against the decaying holster belt attached to the corpse.

Arc lights now surrounded the crime scene and several of the policemen moved back feeling queasy at what they’d seen.

The face sir, there’s......

I know, I know, I’ve got eyes sergeant. Not a word of this must leave this tunnel. If I see even one word in the press I will know that someone here leaked the details. Do you understand? he sneered, staring meaningfully at the surrounding sea of solemn faces.

There was a low murmur as all around nodded and muttered to one another.

Impatiently, Church turned to the Chief Engineer.

Where the hell are we anyway? We must have travelled a mile from the main entrance.

We’re Under Whitechapel Inspector.

Yes I know that but what is this place?

It’s the mid section of Crossrail, the new London underground line. This section’s supposed to be finished by the end of this year.

Clearly behind schedule, he knew very well it would take a miracle to finish this project on time. They’d encountered numerous hold ups as various sites of scientific interest had been uncovered along the route already. This was the last thing he needed if they were to meet the latest deadlines.

The tunnels here will meet up with the enlarged Whitechapel station being excavated down the line.

Looking tired and pale, he explained that the new Crossrail would run to the north of the existing Whitechapel station which was being redesigned to share a concourse, ticket hall, and control room. The new Whitechapel would become an integrated station, having easy connections to Crossrail, existing underground lines and mainline rail routes.

Do you have any maps?

The engineer reached into the cabin and spread a crumpled map flat with his large rough hands.

Here’s the entrance you were lowered into. Up here is the air vent and we are about here.

How the hell did you get that bloody machine down here, it’s as big as the tunnel itself.

We assembled it down here after the main shaft was excavated, it was lowered in with its sister machine Victoria.

And how the hell do you get it out?

Reverse order at the other end.

How much did the thing cost?

Millions, but nothing compared to the ones used under the English Channel. Those ones were simply steered off the main tunnel and parked for good under the sea bed. God knows what the archaeologists of the thirty first century will make of them, if they ever see the light of day again.

Church brushed a hand through his greying hair.

Where did the name Victoria come from, funny name for an earthmover?

TBM

What?

TBM, it stands for Tunnel Boring Machine. Before the project started, the public were asked to submit names for the six machines that would complete the work, these two were named Elizabeth and Victoria; no prizes for guessing why. It’s a tradition carried out worldwide before any tunnelling machine is put to work. The other two were named Phyllis and Ada.

Sound like a bloody music hall act.

Phyllis Pearsall, God bless her, walked 23,000 streets and over three thousand miles across London and back; she compiled and wrote the famous A to Z guide book of London streets.

Who was Ada, her maid?

The engineer smiled.

She was a bloody genius apparently, helped Babbage build the first ever computer.

How’d she do that?

I don’t know, something about Babbage built his so called analytical engine and Ada Lovelace wrote the first ever computer program, apparently.

And the other two?

What other two?

You said there were six TBM’s.

Mary and Sophia; no idea where those names came from, you’d have to ask the Mayor of London, it was his idea.

Ironically, the foreman didn’t know that Mary and Sophia were married to two of the most famous railway engineers in history, the Brunel brothers.

Over here boss!

Church clambered back up to where the corpse had been extracted. Both men were astonished at the beauty of the diamond encrusted bracelet partly buried in the side wall of the tomb. The photographer took several shots before the bracelet was removed and sealed inside an evidence bag.

Must be worth a fortune.

Precisely, so look after it.

Church’s tone was sarcastic but not without authority. Too many valuable items had gone missing lately from crime scenes controlled by the Met.

The next day, staff at the pathology lab examined the corpse in more detail. Confirmed as male, aged 40 to 45, the victim was nicknamed Bracelet Man. From its style and fabric, the clothing was identified as an army uniform from the nineteen forties or thirties. In the collar of the uniform was a label bearing the number 33836383 and the brass buttons down the front of the tunic seemed to have been fused into the victim’s sternum.

On the left arm, the lower part of the radius bone and wrist, around the radial notch had fused into nothing that resembled a human hand. This weird appendage was not the work of a surgeon but a part of the corpse itself and having no discernible join. Tests revealed that this bone-like mass was made of cells having identical DNA to the rest of the body. The teeth were aged and yellow and almost a perfect set but oddly duplicated.

"It’s a mystery, I can’t say how he died, there are no marks on the body other than a fine wrinkling of what’s left of the skin, certainly nothing that would kill him and there are no wounds or bullet holes. We’re running toxicology tests now.

Church scratched his head and turned around to see who was walking towards him.

Sir, we’ve got a lead on the number in the collar. Ex-army, they’re searching the records now, they think its Coldstream Guards, around the 1930’s.

Anything on the magnetic revolver?

Negative, but something’s a bit odd.

What?

Well sir, it’s not magnetic, it’s made of steel not iron, but an iron frame in the holster was very strongly magnetised, I mean really strongly. That’s why the gun appeared to move up towards the steel cutting ring when we extracted the body. Stronger even than the modern magnets we have today.

Church noticed someone enter the room. He was tall, mid thirties, red hair and talking to a lab technician whilst showing what looked to be his identity badge.

Go on, said Church turning back to the detective.

He shrugged.

Nothing Sir.

What do you mean nothing?

That’s the funny thing; the records stop two numbers before the number in the collar and start again two numbers after.

"What do you mean – stop?"

Well Sir, there’s names against the numbers either side but there’s a block of five numbers with no names or details around Bracelet Man’s.

You better get back down there and dig around the files from that period, oh and while you are there, ask them if they keep dental records for serving soldiers.

Dental records?

Church glared at him, Do I need to spell it out sergeant?

He then asked one of the autopsy team who the red haired man was.

Mike Robinson, he came in, displayed an MI5 badge and requested information about the body in the underground tunnel.

Did he say why?

No, just complained about it distracting him from a far more important matter and said it was routine.

What kind of questions?

He wanted to know if we’d identified the body yet.

Church thought for a second, I wonder how he knew we had a body.

So what did he make of our strange corpse then?

Chapter Three

June 1939

The five soldiers chatted as the army truck drew away from Waterloo Barracks and travelled the short journey to Whitechapel where it turned off the main road and slowly manoeuvred into the forecourt alongside two other vehicles.

The men jumped from the back into a bright sunny day and marched in unison across the courtyard. The building was being evacuated. Scores of people were carried on stretchers to waiting ambulances. Sandbags and other defences were being installed and the windows protected with adhesive tape stretching from corner to corner on every pane of glass.

The five men were escorted towards a service building on the east side of the austere public facade. John Ward noticed the arm bands worn by many of the stretcher-bearers and wondered why volunteers were moving the sick and dying.

Look over there.

He pointed to a huge piece of equipment standing ten feet high and thirty feet long, taking up most of the small front lawn. Protective strips down each side carried red warning signs; Danger Very High Voltage (Live when stopped!).

Eyes front soldier, bellowed the Sergeant Major as they marched towards the entrance and descended several flights of steps.

After shuffling along a dark corridor, they were ushered into a small makeshift lecture room. A blackboard stood in the corner alongside posters attached to wall boards. Old green metal light shades covered dimly lit bulbs that were spattered with years of fly droppings. The place smelled faintly of chloroform. At the front of the room were two white-coated physicists flanked by a pair of army officers.

The five soldiers were seated in a row.

You have volunteered for one of the most important operations ever undertaken by this country. It’s dangerous, experimental and vital to the security and history of our Nation.

Suddenly, a cold draft as the door swung open and five Alsatian dogs burst forward, snarling and straining at their leashes.

Each of the dogs yapped ferociously but none of the soldiers flinched. They’d volunteered along with twenty six other men from a unit of over a hundred Coldstream guards and all five had things in common. They were all marksmen with training in high security guard duty and knew how to handle dogs.

"Say hello to your new best friends. These dogs are the meanest in the army. They are about to become more important than your wife, your mistress and your kids.

After the training, they will jump through fire at your command, even die for you. There’s nothing these animals will not do for you. In the meantime, work will commence on the Regalion Bunker."

After about five minutes, another of the lecturers began to outline the security arrangements for Regalion. They were told they would undergo several psychological tests and spend days on the shooting range. The psychological testing would prepare them for patrols deep underground, in dark tight spaces, protecting the main excavation area and the technicians working there.

The scientists they would work with were the foremost in their field and anything the soldiers overheard must be regarded as top secret.

There followed what seemed like hours of safety briefings and legal warnings on the latest Official Secrets Act. Each man was reminded that breathing a word of this to anyone, including their closest relatives, would see them charged with treason. Even the law had been specifically updated to cover Regalion.

For the first time, John Ward said hello to a dog called Sascha, an intelligent and strong bitch, barely a year old. She snarled suspiciously and surged half-heartedly in several feigned attacks, barely held back by the handlers grasp on the leash.

She was in fine condition, her coat was shiny, she was fast, agile and after only two months training became John’s constant companion. They spent time at the training camp for days on end but when on leave, John was allowed, even encouraged, to take Sascha home with him.

He had a natural affinity with the dog and his logical use of discipline and affection led to both animal and human operating as one. John’s wife Bertha on the other hand, was fearful of the animal, almost regarded it jealously. However, she was glad of the extra military rations. The butcher would occasionally provide extra meat for the family, a reward in exchange for the military contract to supply ‘dog meat’.

It was late and John Ward finally arrived home.

In the parlour, he shifted uncomfortably on the hard leather sofa then started to write feverishly for over two hours. The dim glow of the reading lamp cast a long shadow that slowly disappeared into the flames of the fire that hissed and popped as tiny jets of gas escaped from the tarry coals.

Bertha opened the door with her elbow and entered the room gingerly, balancing a large pot of tea and a sandwich as she closed the door behind her with her foot.

What are you writing about; you’ve been at it for hours now?

He hurriedly gathered up his papers and bundled them unceremoniously into a strong box, snapping the lid shut with a bang.

Just a few notes to help me remember the weird bits of this new operation we’re on.

Is that why you’re locking them in your strong box then, can I not have a peek?

Don’t even think about it or we’ll both end up in the Tower.

John Wards face gradually turned solemn.

I mean it Bertha, stay away from this box.

Three months passed slowly. The training came to an end and operation Regalion began. A Pandora’s Box the like of which the world was unprepared for.

Hitler invaded Poland and Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain declared war on Germany.

Chapter Four

Church looked at the growing pile of paperwork on his desk, screwed up his face in anguish then pushed back in his chair. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to figure out why MI5 were involved.

Eventually, he rose to his feet, brushed his shiny suit trousers and headed for the door.

Leaning out of the door frame he shouted.

Any luck with the dental records?

The whole office turned and stared. A lone voice shouted back.

No sir, the Army need to see the actual teeth and jaw, the picture is so weird they wanted a closer look.

Charming, better get on with it then.

It may take a bit of time.

Fast as you can, I’ll be in my office for the rest of the day, phone me the minute you have anything.

The Coldstream Guards were originally Monck’s Foot Army, set up by Oliver Cromwell around the time of the English Civil War. The name, Coldstream Guards, was adopted in the mid nineteenth century. Although dentistry was around in the Guards as far back as the Napoleonic wars, the Dental Corps was not formed until 1921 and only after 1930 did they start to keep detailed records at the bases where the soldiers served. Church knew that finding a match would be virtually impossible.

After a lengthy process of wading through dusty paper dental diagrams from the nineteen thirties and forties, the records office called Church to say they had located the files of three of the soldiers whose numbers were missing from the list, including Bracelet Mans.

The jawbones contained virtually a full set of teeth. The orthodontics expert began examining the individual teeth, whilst trying to match them to a very old diagram and hand-written notes from Bracelet Man’s record, service number 33836383.

The fussy expert pushed his wire rimmed spectacles further along his nose and blurted out, Not perfect but I think it could be a match to a Private John Ward.

Church picked up the phone after just one ring.

What the hell does that mean? It’s either a match or it’s not.

I’ve no idea sir. He’s still working on them.

You’ll have to call me back when he’s finished; I have another call on line two.

Leaning over the jawbone with a small mirror, the dentist suddenly smiled and said, Eric Morecambe’s Christmas show!

What’s that got to do with anything?

You remember sergeant? That unforgettable line when Andre Previn, the famous musician and conductor, accused the comedian, Eric Morecambe, of playing all the wrong notes on the piano.

No, sorry, you’ve lost me.

His famous reply was that he was playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order.

What are you talking about?

The orthodontist explained.

Look, there’s an exact match but not in the right order. It’s a match but only if you look in a mirror. The teeth are a complete lateral reversal of the record lying on the desk.

Church bellowed down the phone.

Get me an address, a relative, anything.

I’m on my way to Coldstream headquarters now sir.

The Army records gave an address in Fawnbrook Avenue, Dulwich, East London, located between Gubyor Avenue and Poplar Walk. Church wasted no time getting down there.

The house was part of a large Victorian terrace. It had been converted into flats over three floors. He pressed the call buttons for each of the three flats. No answer. He tried reading the names inserted into slots either side of the buttons. The top one read Ward, Jack and Angela.

Got to be related sir.

Oh really Sergeant, I’d never have guessed.

Chapter Five

Chris leave it.

It was too late. A huge black fist came from nowhere and floored Jack Ward’s friend in one blow.

Chris scrambled to his feet and swung at thin air as the nightclub bouncer sidestepped him with barely a raised eyebrow. With one hand he grabbed Chris by the loose fabric around his shirt tails then placed the other in a pincer grip on his throat, marched him toward the door and with some force hurled him onto the wet pavement outside.

Passing cars sounded their horns in mock salute as Jack stood over him shaking his head.

That’s it, I’m taking you home.

The front door creaked open and the emptiness was palpable. The house was cold and there was no Jane to welcome them. Not that welcome was an apt choice of word in Jack’s current state. Her absence was the cause of a six month trail of alcohol-fuelled binges that had almost cost Chris Atherton his pilot’s licence and was about to do so again.

Jack struggled to drag him into the kitchen where he slapped him a few times then began to splash cold water onto his face. He snapped on the coffee machine and prepared the strongest possible brew.

Come on pal, there’s barely twenty four hours before the test.

Chris groaned then threw up into the sink.

It’s no good, who needs their stinking job anyway.

YOU will, tomorrow, when you’re sober, now come on clean yourself up, you need some rest. At least now I know you won’t choke in your sleep.

Jack unpeeled an arm from around his neck and lowered his best friend onto the bed, covered him up then stared at his forlorn school pal now snoring in a deep sleep.

Downstairs, he mooched about for a bit, wondering whether to stay the night. He stared at the many framed photographs of Chris and Jane then thought about his grandfather’s strongbox He wanted so much to tell someone about Regalion. Could he risk it, would Chris, or anyone for that matter, believe him. With Angela his wife now safe, he wondered if it was fair to endanger Chris, who had enough problems of his own right now. He made his decision, looked back up the stairs then quietly opened the front door and left.

Chris was a British Airways pilot with over 9000 hours on Boeing triple-sevens. As