2041 Sanctuary (Dark Descent) (5 page)

Using his personal control terminal Martin tapped a few keys and brought up a secure login screen to which he entered his username and password. Accessing a little used command programme which looked like a simple black box containing a flashing white cursor, he entered the following code:

Live_channel > worldnews_1

Override_external_source_control > Y

Override_internal_shutdown_control > Y

Broadcast_multiple_feed > UHF > ALL

Sound_carrier_frequencies > LINKED

Terrestrial_MHz_Band > 400.00–900.25

International_Bands > ALL

Live_feed_delay > ZERO

SAVE > Y

Martin hit the Enter key and a message popped up followed by the same cursor, the small, hypnotic, blinking line sucking in his attention like a whirlpool, demanding he make a decision.

Disable live feed delay? Y/N _

Martin hesitated before entering the letter Y and pressing the Return key. The main screen on the wall flashed once and a message in red text briefly appeared:

ADJUSTING TRANSMISSION

‘Martin, did you see that?’ his assistant producer asked, noticing the interruption to the stream.

‘Yes, it’s just a scheduled update to the system, nothing to worry about.’

The assistant nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer.

Martin got up from his seat and ambled over to the only door into the office and quietly locked it before slipping the key into his trouser pocket. Returning to his chair, he settled in to watch Jessica’s report.

♦

‘As you may know I have been one of the BBC’s main news anchors for the last five years,’ Jessica began, addressing the camera and now easing back into her usual professional style. ‘In that time I have been privileged to report to you, our viewers, the headline stories as they have broken around the world. Unfortunately in many instances, regarding the most important matters, I have not been given or allowed the freedom to report on the issues that I believe you have a right to hear.

‘I, like many in my profession, hold dear the simple principle of the freedom of the press. A principle which a free and fair society must cherish and protect, lest those in power become above reproach, and injustice and corruption rots civilisation from the top down and from the inside out. Without a free press governments may act with impunity and commit atrocities in our name for the benefit of the few belonging to organisations and companies without borders; the few in power who publicly preach patriotism and yet privately practice treason, treason against their nation and against humanity itself. The greatest threat to humanity’s future is not the dust cloud or the nuclear bomb, but the hidden sociopath in a position of power. How can the human race function with compassion if we are ruled by those without any?

‘But I digress. In what will probably be my last broadcast for the BBC, I want to bring you the alarming truth about a global cover-up perpetrated by the world’s leading nations. A cover-up planned and directed by the GMRC itself. What is this secret that we are not being told? I do not know. What I do know is that there is a cover-up and they will go to any lengths to make sure it stays hidden from view.

‘How can I prove this bold claim? As ever, direct proof is hard to come by. The GMRC has seen to that. What I can prove is the surrounding evidence. A wise man once said you don’t need to see something directly to know that it is there. Anything with substance, physical or otherwise, leaves telltale ripples which reveal its presence. The fact is, for over fifty years governments, powerful companies and organisations have been manipulating these ripples to cover their tracks. How do they do this so effectively? The utilisation of the media is key to their plans.

‘I am reporting to you now for the first time operating under true freedom of the press. What you have been told is a lie. Whatever the GMRC is hiding, they are willing to suppress, silence and murder those seeking the truth to keep it hidden. So what is my proof? I can reveal the ripples surrounding the lie. Within the BBC alone over fifty journalists and researchers have disappeared or died in supposed accidents in the last ten years, over half this number within the last three years alone. Coincidence? No. Many of these people have been linked with, and reprimanded over, anti-government and anti-GMRC reports. What’s more, my contacts have revealed a disturbing trend within the entire media industry, across seemingly every nation. I personally know broadcasters from CNN and Fox News in the USA, and CTV News in Canada, who tell me there is a deep unease and fear within the networks about reporting any overly negative views against their government and even more so with regard to the GMRC itself. As with the BBC, these organisations have experienced similar disappearances and
accidents
to their workforce.

‘This high labour turnover in the journalistic profession is also replicated across Europe, Australia, India, China, Brazil and anywhere that has a high quality, so-called independent, press. I myself have been told on numerous occasions to avoid anti-GMRC viewpoints and not to report my findings on my missing colleagues. I have witnessed first-hand the seizure and destruction of BBC News computers by government and GMRC officials on no fewer than three occasions. Reporters have also been arrested while others have just disappeared without trace.

‘The question is not whether the media is being suppressed, but why. What is the GMRC hiding from the people of the world that it will go to such lengths to cover it up? I hope this report will go some way towards exposing the truth and to galvanising and fostering public support for an end to unilateral GMRC control. It’s time our politicians said “no more” to GMRC protocols and sanctions and stood up for the rights of the people they were elected to protect.’

‘Jessica.’ Martin’s voice came through her earpiece. ‘They’ve blocked the signal internationally; it’s only a matter of time before the terrestrial feed goes too.’

Jessica gave an imperceptible nod. ‘Even now,’ she continued, ‘the GMRC seeks to halt this broadcast. They don’t want anyone to know the truth. What are they hiding from us? What are they hiding from you, from everyone? What are they planning for our future, for our children’s futures and for the generations to come? Why is it that—’

‘Jessica, we’re off air,’ Martin told her, ‘it’s over.’

‘How did I do?’

‘Brilliantly,’ he replied with real warmth, ‘you did us proud, did us all proud. I—’

Martin’s voice cut off. ‘Martin?’ Jessica said, her concern audible. ‘Martin!?’

There was no reply.

♦

In London, Martin West relaxed in his chair as his phone rang for the umpteenth time. His ten colleagues looked at him with nervous eyes; the banging on the door to the broadcasting suite continued unabated as the people outside shouted their demands for entry.

Casually, Martin picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’

‘Martin, open the door.’ It was his editor’s voice, fraught with emotion. ‘The GMRC are on their way. Don’t make this harder than it already is.’

‘I told you to do something,’ Martin told his boss. ‘My brother went missing and you did nothing. No investigation. No reports to even suggest there might have been foul play by the Government or by the GMRC. What did you expect, for me to forget the whole thing, forget my brother even existed?’

‘I couldn’t do anything; I’d have lost my job!’

Martin snorted in derision and slammed down the phone just as the door to the room burst open with a bang. Wooden splinters flew across the floor as grey garbed GMRC soldiers stormed inside. The other workers screamed and cried out in fear, some putting their hands in the air while others fell submissively to the floor. Pulled from his chair, Martin was thrust against a wall, handcuffed and marched from the room.

♦

Back in New York, James had come round to the front of the camera to give Jessica an uncharacteristic hug. The noise of the crowd increased and Jessica turned to see the barriers had opened up at the front of the building. The NYPD brutally held back the protestors as a team of GMRC operatives swarmed out of the entrance and headed straight towards the BBC news crew.

James swore and turned to run, but he was brought up short by the sight behind them; U.S. troops had cut off their escape.

‘Relax.’ Jessica laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder as the grim-faced men bore down on them. ‘This was inevitable. Just stay strong and we’ll get through this together.’

Before James could reply they were forced to the ground by angry, shouting, armed men. As Jessica’s face was held down hard against the freezing cold tarmac, all she could see were feet shod in heavy, black, military boots with the occasional glimpse of a terrified looking James, a few feet away, trying to maintain eye contact with her. Jessica gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile and at the same time wondered if she’d ever see her children and husband again.

Chapter Two

Malcolm Joiner, director of the powerful and feared GMRC Intelligence Division, stepped out of his plush helicopter and onto the roof of the GMRC’s western hemisphere headquarters. No sooner had the director and his entourage disembarked than the twin-rotored aircraft’s wheels lifted back into the air. The helicopter angled up and away, creating a tremendous downdraft. A deafening, reverberating, whump, whump, whump of the massive blades accompanied its departure as they cut through the dark, turbulent skies above. Reaching a set altitude, the dazzling landing lights turned off and when the ponderous bulk of that vehicle had shrunk into the distance, another soon took its place, the relentless procession continuing without pause.

One hundred storeys high, the building punched its way heavenward, but it was by no means the tallest tower in the Manhattan skyline. What it lacked in height, however, it made up for in sheer volume – above and below the surface. The chrome and glass clad, purpose-built, circular structure had an impressive diameter and dominated its block on uptown Ninth Avenue; it had to, as it housed thousands of staff in key hub offices for the various departments of the GMRC.

The whistling ice-cold wind had initially sought to snatch Joiner’s breath away and turn his skin to stone as his ridiculously expensive shoes had touched down onto the helipad’s hard, painted surface. The intelligence director fought back the urge to shiver as he strode across the vast rooftop towards one of the four main entrances to the building. In front of him other arrivals garbed in dense layers of fur-lined clothing made their way past high levels of security, the first of many such interventions before they reached their final destination.

For the sake of appearances, Joiner refused to dress like a cocooned Eskimo and cover his body from head to toe in thick thermal attire, like many of the dignitaries now filtering towards the warm interior. Instead he wore his usual close-fitting suit, which accentuated his considerable height, although, as ever, he wore a classic pair of soft Italian leather gloves, a thin yet warm knee-length handmade overcoat, and a pair of narrow, rectangular glasses, to which he had attached flip down sunshades. It wasn’t that the sun was ever an issue these days, it was that he liked his appearance to be in keeping with his role and, since he was also head of U.S. Intelligence, it was almost a prerequisite to exude an ominous, untouchable and superior air; nothing could state this more than a pair of dark glasses.

The fact that he was untouchable was beside the point. He wanted to make sure others knew he was untouchable and that to consider otherwise was a very bad idea; not just for their own health but for the health of everyone else they held dear. Joiner had spent many years cultivating his aura of invincibility and power, and he wasn’t prepared to let it falter by wearing the wrong kind of clothing. As every politician and civil servant knew, appearance was everything.

Like those before him, Joiner subjected himself to the preliminary security station. A GMRC guard in arctic weather gear waved him forward.

‘Keep your arms inside the scanner at all times!’ the man told Joiner, raising his voice to be heard above the roaring winds and heavy air traffic above.

Without any acknowledgment he’d heard the guard’s instruction, Joiner stepped onto a shoulder-width, round, rubberised mat; a red circle at its rim and the representation of a person in the centre. The automated scanner hummed into life. White light illuminated Joiner from above, the beam emanating from an integrated fitting sunk into an overhang from the building’s entrance. Joiner and the mat he stood on were situated within an inconspicuous two inch wide square metal border that had been set into the floor and which now rose up to reveal itself. The scanner produced a high-pitched drawn-out whine as the metal structure swished up, down and around Joiner’s body in short, sharp motions, intense, ice-blue lasers sending short arcs of light over his whole frame.

After ten seconds the security device sank back into the floor. Joiner stepped forwards, passing beneath a strong, continuous jet of hot air and into a warm, brightly lit foyer. When the rest of Joiner’s team had been similarly swept they boarded a short escalator which whisked them to a row of gold doors, each embossed with the GMRC logo. At the edges of the room six well-armed soldiers stood to fixed attention, their grey-clad forms virtually invisible to the flow of VIPs passing by them on a regular basis.

A pair of the plush doors opened and Joiner’s group entered the lift’s glass interior. After descending a number of floors, Joiner emerged into a massive, open atrium. Bustling with orderly activity, the large, internal expanse consisted of a grand airport-style check-in system, the one hundred foot oval desk at its centre manned by a veritable army of administrative staff and encircled by row upon row of seating.