That evening in a suburban house in Leister a light was on in one of the thee upstairs bedrooms, the small box room that is considered a third bedroom despite this use being pretty marginal. Instead, it was full of sensitive electronic equipment. The house was a normal looking semi detached home except for a large spindly metal framework on the roof. Kevin was sat in front of the ham radio set and idly wound the dial over to an old maritime band. There had been little to listen to of interest that evening; there was the usual aviation chatter along with the banter between other ham radio operators. None of which seemed particularly scintillating right now.
The usually silent channel had somebody broadcasting on it. The signal was faint with large amounts of static, yet was still audible.
'...With air supplies sufficient for a maximum of eight days. The craft is upright on the lunar surface but has sunk some way into it. The hatches remain accessible. We are unequipped to manoeuvre the craft. We have a small number of diving suits that might be adapted to work in the vacuum outside the craft but ore not willing to risk this except in the case of an actual rescue attempt.'
There was a long pause in the transmission. Then it started again.
'Mayday, Mayday, mayday. This is the U566. We have lost power and are aground. Our position is on the moon. I repeat, our current location appears to be on the surface of the moon. We request urgent assistance. our craft is disabled following an onboard malfunction....' The message continued. '...We will continue to monitor this frequency until we have established i communication schedule that enables us to reduce our battery usage.'
Kevin picked up the handset, then paused. This must surely be some sort of hoax. A U-boat on the moon, indeed. Would any response be recorded for the amusement of the hoaxer or even the general public? writhe these thoughts in mind he reached out and picked up the mouthpiece to his radio.
'U - 566, this is Ethermancer receiving your call. As I read it you are on the moon. Can you advise what the weather is like up there? Over.There was a pause then the voice came over the airwaves, sounding a little uptight it might be said.
'It's the bloody moon. There is no weather. Please put me through to your commanding officer.'
'Commanding officer? You realise this is a civilian frequency?' Kevin frowned. If somebody was broadcasting hoax maydays over the CB radio frequencies they probably ought to be reported to the authorities. He wondered if he could tease out a little more information that could be used for prosecution if that came. He reached out and pressed a button on the radio equipment with a red circle inked on it - a record button. This joker would be bang to rights if they were able to triangulate on them.
Kevin was not the only one listening to the strange transmission. Over on the other side of the country in Cheltenham, another building festooned in antennae, albeit of a more professional nature, the Government Communications Headquarters was also monitoring the airwaves.
Deep in the bowels of the building, Tristan was monitoring the radio transmissions. Tristan was reaching retirement and was more than happy to do so. When he entered GCHQ in the mid 1980s he had listened to intercepts from the Soviet empire. Their forces were right in the middle of Europe and the intercepts were almost like overhearing unguarded conversations within the neighbouring flat in a shared house through a thinly built stud wall - it was immediate and all too human. There was also the much more tangible nature of the equipment that was used those days. The frequencies were scanned using large chunky dials and the analogue decibel gages would show signal strength through subtle twitches and quivers. Today the setup on his desk resembled a stock trader's setup with a couple of flatscreen monitors showing the software that managed the whole thing. And whilst the GCHQ still had a forest of radio ariels on the roof, the actual data reaching him might have been picked up by intercepts from the other side of the world and streamed back to headquarters for analysis. It was a for cry from what he had started with when radio intel meant plucking signals from the sky above. When he had started he was in a room with dozens of other radio operators. Now he shared a room with Abdul, whose greater specialism in Middle Eastern languages was a reflection of the battlefield radio intercepts in Afghanistan where the British Army still maintained patrols.
Despite the modern equipment in front of him which was capable of monitoring a huge array of frequencies and flagging his attention to any signals that might be of value through keyword recognition, and even writing conversations to transcripts, it was difficult to escape the sense that this resembled a dying craft. Britain's enemies rarely broadcast anything over open voice channels anymore. Sophisticated enemies such as China and Russia sent their commands via data using an unbreakable cipher rather than being so vulgar as to actually speak over the airwaves. And the rest of the threats - those less sophisticated actors such as third rate military powers and various insurgents and terrorists - would use their mobile phones or email rather than bother with large broadcasting infrastructure that would really only be needed to control armed forces in the field.
The screen in front of him alerted him to a transmission over one of the shortwave frequencies usually only used by certain maritime traffic. Clicking his mouse on the intercept brought the audio into his headphones and he heard a conversation unlike any he had heard before.
From his time in West Germany Tristan recognised the German accent from the party making a Mayday. Quite a posh German accent, as it happened, one he recognised from the officer class of the German army. An unlikely sort to be placing a crank call, and a crank call it would have to be. A space mission would not be broadcasting on the open frequencies, certainly not a maritime band. It would be sending the mayday to the space agency or company mission control. The "U" prefix to U-566 also, he speculated, sounded like the numbering scheme of a U-boat. Nonetheless the protocol was clear. A distress call always had to be taken seriously, and the mayday must be reported to the relevant authorities. But which of the emergency services should he relay it to? He decided that first he had to get a few more details.
'U566, this is British Government Communications Headquarters. Please provide me with more details of your situation so that I can ensure it reaches the correct emergency service. You are reminded that any hoax call is a criminal offence under the Wireless telephony Act and that you are being recorded. You have advised that your craft is aground and that you require assistance. Can you provide me with a lattitude and longitude of your position?'
Tristan leaned back in the office chair and wondered what the two jokers would make of that. The job of GCHQ is usually to listen, not speak, but the position as as representative of the British intelligence community would generally carry weight on the airwaves. A modest and quietly spoken man, he nonetheless felt a small tingle of excitement when he had to intervene on the airwaves. Most kids, he knew, would be alarmed at this stage that armed police would come bursting into their bedrooms at any moment. That James Bond franchise had a lot to answer for.
'We seem to be on the surface of the moon. We had been using an experimental propulsion technology and it has transported us to the place we are now. We have limited air and food supplies.'
'I an not aware of any lunar mission happening at the moment,' responded Tristan. 'please confirm your nationality?'
There was a pause at the end of the line. Tristan had the impression that the other party was considering their response. Finally, after what sounded like a whispered conferral at the other end of the airwaves, the spokesman for the other party spoke.
'My name is Commandant Vincent Bowers of the SS and I represent Reichsmarine vessel U566 of the Third Reich. I am authorised to negotiate our surrender. In what capacity do you speak?'
Tristan's mouth hung open. He was usually quite good at working out the intention of voices on the other end of the radio and might have expected to recognise a crank call. This did not trigger that feeling in him. The voice certainly had a bearing of aristocracy and ease of authority to it, but there was a slight tinge of fear there too. The sound also differed from more modern radio transmissions: there was a warmness to the tone that suggested valves rather than transistors to his trained ear.
'Please hold the line,' said Tristan, as he picked up the phone on his desk and his fingers stabbed furiously at the buttons as he keyed in a number he had never dialled before, that for the head of national security.
