Tunnels 05 - Spiral

bidding.”
    “Affirmed,” the panel said. “Now sequence fourteen, if you please, sir.”
    Parry thought for a moment. “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore, there is society, where none intrudes —”
    “And sequence eight, please,” the grille interrupted.
    “We’re all frozen to the marrow, bloody hungry, and bloody knackered. If you don’t open up, Finch, I’m going to blast my way into the Complex,” Parry threatened.
    There was a pause, then something clicked at the side of the panel, and a crack of light appeared.
    “Finally!” Parry exclaimed, heaving the door open so they could make their way down a ramp with rusted iron handrails on either side. They descended into a low-ceilinged room.
    “This is the only way in or out of the Complex,” Parry told them, tipping his head at the substantial-looking door that appeared through the dim flashlight beam. “That’s armor plate,” he said. “It would take a ton of explosive to even make a dent in it.” Then he pointed at the gun-sized slits in panels of gray metal set into the concrete walls flanking the door. “And behind those are the twin guard rooms where the sentries would be stationed,” he continued.
    “What exactly is this place?” Mr. Rawls ventured.
    “The Complex was the base for Operation Guardian,” Parry answered. “It’s so hush-hush that
them upstairs
have probably forgotten that they’re meant to have forgotten it ever existed.”
    “So it’s like that fallout shelter Will found?” Chester asked.
    “No, it’s more than that,” Parry said. “Back in the years before the Great War, the aristocrats running the country decided that they needed a safe haven. Somewhere to put their families and portable valuables in the event of invasion. So they built the Complex with their own money — I suppose you could regard it as an underground castle for the very rich. Later on, when things were getting sticky for us in the Second World War, the War Cabinet commandeered it, expanding its role to include a command center for the Resistance.”
    “Operation Guardian?” Mr. Rawls guessed.
    “Precisely. Every town in the southeast and every major region throughout the British Isles had its own pre-recruited Resistance team waiting in the wings. The historians will tell you that the moment the Germans crossed the Channel, each team was to open their sealed orders and follow them to the letter.”
    Parry shot a glance at Colonel Bismarck, who merely nodded. “But what the historians don’t know is that these teams weren’t entirely autonomous. Major initiatives were to be orchestrated from the tactical ops room right here in the Complex, known as the Hub. It’s still here, and we still call it that.”
    “So what’s the Complex used for now?” Mr. Rawls asked.
    “It’s kept ticking over just in case it’s needed at some time in the future,” Parry answered. “And I reckon that time has come.”
    He stopped speaking as they all heard a clanking sound. It seemed to be coming from behind the armor-plate door, although it was difficult to tell because it was so distant. The sound came again, only louder this time, then was repeated several more times.
    Then the large door in front of them slowly ground open. Chester and Colonel Bismarck shone their flashlights into the square passageway, its walls painted cream white and its floor a waxy green. But their beams didn’t penetrate very far down it, and beyond was an ominous and unbroken darkness.
    Then lights came in the far distance.
    “How long is it?” Chester asked, as he squinted at them.
    Parry didn’t reply as more banks of strip lights flickered on, coming closer each time.
    They heard a whirring noise from somewhere in the unlit portion of the passageway.
    “What’s that?” Mr. Rawls asked, stepping back with concern.
    “The last remaining Knight Protector,” Parry chuckled.
    The strip lights came on in the room where they were all standing.
    In the same instant an elderly man on a mobility scooter shot into view before them, executing a sliding stop on the linoleum flooring with a squeal.
    Stephanie giggled.
    Behind him more than a dozen cats, all of different colors and ages, were scampering along the passage as they hurried to catch up with him.
    “Sergeant Finch,” Parry said, going over to give the old man a hearty handshake. As if somehow he’d shrunk, Sergeant Finch’s fawn beret seemed to be