Aftershock (21 page)

Mark clicked off the comm link to Pete and Mai and let out a sigh of relief. ‘None of this got any easier,' he thought.

He jumped up from his seat and headed for the control room door. ‘Computer,' he said, ‘is the
Drebbel
prepped and ready to go?'

‘Affirmative.'

Mark walked quickly along the corridor leading from the control room to the elevator. It was a wide passageway with curved walls and windows looking out to the featureless black of the ocean. He checked his watch. It was 03.08.

The elevator travelled three storeys down to the cargo hold. Mark took a right out of the elevator and strode through a pair of swing doors. The
Drebbel
, a sub identical to the
Narcis
and named after another great engineer linked to the invention of the submarine, Cornelius Drebbel, stood in the docking area. Mark punched in a code on a flat pad close to the door of the sub and a steel panel opened.

The sub was primed, all systems online. It was ready to do Mark's bidding. He dropped into the pilot's seat and ran his hands over the smooth plastic surface. Applying pressure to key points on the panel, he activated the controls. Perched on a short monorail, the sub slipped through a set of doors into the dock. The doors closed silently behind it.

‘Pressure equalisation complete,' the computer announced after a few moments. A hatch on the outer skin of the Big Mac opened and the submarine was poised ready to go.

A light came on in the centre of Mark's display and the comms sprang to life. ‘This is the Fijian naval vessel,
Lambasa
. Stand down. Repeat. Stand down. We are about to board your vessel.'

Mark was stunned for a second, then he stabbed at the comms control. ‘The hell you will,' he snapped. Then to the computer: ‘Emergency shut down. Security code: 646348gryh#.'

‘Code accepted. Shut down activated,' the onboard computer replied immediately.

‘To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?' Mark said.

There was a pause. Then a new voice came over the line. ‘Mr Harrison, yes?'

‘That's correct.'

‘I am Acting Admiral Ratu Naivalurua.'

‘I spoke earlier to Admiral Sir Joni Madraiwiwi.'

‘Yes, the honourable admiral is ... indisposed. I am in command of the naval task force assigned to the Neptune Hotel.'

‘I see. So, why are you hindering our rescue operation?'

‘That will become clear later, Mr Harrison. But right now I'm afraid we have to board your vessel.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Mr Harrison, I...'

‘Look ... I'm here to save lives. I don't have time to argue.'

Another pause. Longer. ‘My officers are on their way.'

‘Okay, Acting Admiral Naivalurua. You will not be able to board my vehicle. That is completely out of the question,' Mark said coolly. ‘However, E-Force are bound by law to cooperate with local authorities. You're doubtless aware that if I don't have the full support of my hosts, I can't act unilaterally. I can only appeal to you on humanitarian grounds. There are many people down there who need help. We're the only ones able to rescue them. Why are you hindering our mission?'

The Fijian commander liked pauses, but eventually the comms came to life. ‘My officers are close to your vehicle. Please surrender and you will be treated with the utmost respect.'

Now it was Mark's turn to pause. He felt like saying, ‘Do your worst,
Acting
Admiral.' He knew the officers of the Fijian navy could not get into the Big Mac if they had a thousand years to try it, but he also knew the rules E-Force operated under. He had written those rules.

‘Exactly what is it you want, Acting Admiral?'

‘We are impounding your vessel and taking you into custody.'

‘On what grounds?'

‘Trespassing into Fijian waters.'

‘But we had clearance.'

‘That was granted by the former government.'

‘I see,' Mark said slowly, realising what had happened. ‘Okay. I can see we're going to have to strike a deal here.'

‘No deals.'

Mark cut the comms, folded his arms and sat back. He was burning up with anger. People might be dying down there and this buffoon was interfering. He steadied his breathing and waited. The minutes passed and Mark's anger grew exponentially, but he was a disciplined ex-military officer. He knew what he was doing.

The comms sounded. Mark ignored it. It kept going. After a dozen rings, Mark tapped the control panel.

‘Mr Harrison.' The Fijian commander's voice spilled into the control room.

‘Acting Admiral.'

‘It seems we
have
reached an impasse.'

‘It does.'

‘You want to get down there, yes? Well, that will not be happening.' There was real menace in the man's voice.

Mark remained silent.

‘There will be no deals,' Naivalurua said. ‘But these are my ... instructions.'

Mark said nothing.

‘You want to rescue the unfortunates trapped in the hotel. We are not convinced your intentions are pure. After all, these are ... trying times, are they not? We wish to check your credentials. Will you allow us aboard?'

Mark knew he had little room to manoeuvre. He could not simply launch the
Drebbel
. That would be breaking the rules binding E-Force to international law. Nor could he just sit tight and wait. That would do nothing to help the people trapped in the Neptune. He leaned into the comms, running a hand over his temple and breathing steadily. ‘Withdraw your boat to the
Lambasa
,' he said. ‘I'll come to you.'

The
Lambasa
effectively was the Fijian navy, and they were very proud of it. A 52-year-old minesweeper which had been modified with a single Soviet 4.37 millimetre gun taken from a Russian sweeper type T-44, it was a preloved vessel from the French navy that had been sold on to the Argentineans in the late 1970s. After they had thrashed the thing, including taking a hammering from British Harriers in the Falklands War, the junta passed it on down the line to the Fijians.

Mark sent an encoded message to Tom at Base One and pulled away from the Big Mac on a jet ski. He had left everything of value behind and exchanged his cybersuit for a blue jumpsuit and flak jacket. Apart from a conventional radio, he had no comms, and he was completely unarmed. Dead ahead bobbed the launch the Acting Admiral had mentioned. As agreed, it was holding steady at a point 100 metres from his aircraft. Two men dressed in black military fatigues and brandishing AK47s stood aft. A third man was at the wheel. Mark followed the launch back to the grey minesweeper. As he drew close, he could see streaks of rust along the hull and a broken window on the bridge. It was a sorry excuse for a military vessel. As the launch pulled alongside the
Lambasa
, a stairway was lowered into the water and the black-clad figures climbed up to the deck. Mark tethered the jet ski to the stairs and flicked on the defence shield, a tamper-proof system that produced an electric shock if anyone decided to get too close to the machine. Reaching the top of the steps, he pulled himself up onto the deck.

The Acting Admiral was a short, rotund man in a white uniform. An impressive array of medals hung across his left breast. His head was the shape and size of a ripe watermelon. Perched on his hairless pate was a stiff white cap smothered in gold braid. He had small, black, darting eyes and a flat nose. More figures in black stood either side of him, their machine guns at waist height.

They all stared at Mark intently. Even without his E-Force uniform, he looked an imposing figure. A head taller than any of the crew, he was powerfully built and carried himself with a poise that came from a blend of many years of military training and an innate self-confidence. He took half a dozen paces towards the Acting Admiral. ‘Mark Harrison, E-Force,' he said.

Ratu Naivalurua stared at him and walked forward, stopping so close, Mark could feel the man's breath on him. And before Mark could react, the Acting Admiral's fist flew into the E-Force leader's solar plexus. Mark collapsed in a heap, clutching his abdomen. Naivalurua clicked his fingers and the two armed sailors ran forward. Mark shot a hand out to grab the ankle of the Fijian commander. He felt an intense stab of pain as the butt of a machine gun crashed down on his head and he tumbled into blackness.

The service stairs at the back of the casino were almost unscathed, but filled with acrid smoke. Something was burning a flight or two up from where they were and it didn't smell good. They closed the door to the casino behind them to provide another level of protection against the approaching fire, and Sigmund led the way, the others close behind. Michael Xavier followed two steps back.

A mean light came from a few surviving florescent strips and it was hard to make out one step from the other. ‘Keep going,' Michael called from the back and watched the shapes ahead shuffling down the stairs. ‘There should be four flights down to Lower Ground.'

A scream rang out. Emily. Her legs went from under her. Michael dashed forward, but was too slow. She hit the concrete with a thud. Hilary was there just before him. The kid burst into tears. Hilary pulled her close, almost going down herself as her feet slid on a patch of oil.

‘Up we come,' Michael said, taking Emily's hand and giving her an encouraging smile. She clambered to her feet, rubbing the back of her head. Michael lifted her chin. ‘Gotta be brave. You can be brave? Can't you, Em?'

The girl wiped the tears from her eyes and managed a brief smile. Michael was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of guilt. It was his fault they were all in this horrible situation, a voice screamed in his head. He felt a welling panic and forced it away. Yes, this might have been his fault, he reasoned, but if he crumbled now it would make everything 10 times worse. It was his responsibility to get his family out of this place, even if he died trying. He gripped Emily about the shoulder and caught Hilary staring at him. Her expression was almost serene. Michael couldn't remember the last time she had looked that way. It lasted only a moment and was quickly smothered with anxiety and pain. She grabbed Emily's arm and pulled her on, down the stairs.

Sigmund reached lower ground level first and almost fell over a shape on the floor. The others piled down behind him. He raised a hand and they stopped. Crouching down, he saw a body. It was a man dressed in a security guard's uniform. He was lying on his side. He smelt of burned flesh and incinerated hair. Sigmund covered his mouth and pulled the man over onto his back. His jacket was shredded and streaked with carbon. His face was a black husk, unrecognisable as human.

Emily and Hilary turned away. Michael and Miguel stepped forward. A red light was flashing at the dead man's waist. Miguel lifted the bottom of the security guard's jacket. They could see a radio hooked to his belt. Beside that, a plastic ID. It had melted around the edge, but they could just make out the name: Epeli Uluivuda.

‘I knew him,' Miguel said. ‘Wife and kids in Suva.'

A loud buzz came from the radio. At first, they were so startled, none of them could understand where the sound was coming from. Then Michael bent down on one knee, carefully plucked the radio from Uluivuda's belt and stared at it as though it were an alien thing. Then he put it to his ear, and depressed a button on the side. ‘Hello,' he said, feeling slightly ridiculous.

A crackle. Then a voice. ‘Hello. This is Base One, Tintara. Over.'

‘What's your status?'

‘Base One? What's Base One? Are you on Fiji?' Michael asked.

‘No, sir. My name's Tom Erickson. I'm a member of E-Force ... the rescue organisation?'

‘E-Force?'

The others stared at Michael in astonishment.

‘Sir, we don't have any time to waste. May I have your name?'

‘Yes, yes, of course. My name is Michael Xavier. Some of my family are here – my wife Hilary and daughter Emily. There are two others in the party Miguel Bandonis and Sigmund de Silva.'

‘Right. The satellite tells me you're on the lower ground level of Gamma.'

‘How can you...? No, it doesn't matter. Yes, we've just got down from the casino.'

‘Mr Xavier, there's another group of survivors who've just reached Gamma and are close to you. Your son is with them.'

‘Nick? Oh, thank God.'

Hilary was at his side. ‘What's happened?'

Michael turned from the radio. ‘Nick's safe. He's close by.' Xavier turned back to the radio. ‘They came through the linkway?'

‘No. It's been destroyed.'

‘Oh, Christ! That means we only have one chance...'

BOOM.

The sound was like a low note on a bass guitar played at excruciating volume. Michael felt Hilary grab his arm. ‘What was that?' he exclaimed.

There was a silence from the radio. ‘Hello, er ... Tom?'

‘Mr Xavier,' Tom said calmly. ‘You have auto-isolation systems in the hotel, yes?'

‘Yes, we do ... Oh my God! No!'

‘What? What is it, Michael?' Hilary tightened her grip on his arm. He could feel her nails digging into him. Her face was millimetres away from his, panic in her eyes. He stared at her, speechless. He opened his mouth to reply but was cut off. The stairwell shook, sending them all sprawling across the floor. The radio flew from Michael's fingers and clattered across the concrete. Hilary and Emily screamed.

The shaking stopped abruptly. Crumbled concrete cascaded from the roof, pellets falling to the floor.

They picked themselves up. ‘Everyone okay?' Michael asked. He looked round and saw they were all standing, shaken, but no more harm had been done. He could hear Tom's voice and walked over to the radio, plucked it from the floor and brought it to his ear. ‘The top of the dome has gone, hasn't it?'

There was a long pause, then Tom said, ‘I'm afraid so, Mr Xavier.'

Michael lowered the radio and stared at the others, his face drained of blood. Hilary's hands flew to her face. Tears began to stream down Emily's cheeks.

‘All those people,' Miguel said, almost to himself.

‘Mr Xavier? Come in please. Mr Xavier?'

Michael lifted the radio back to his ear.

‘Sir, you have to keep moving.'

Michael was staring into space, barely able to register where he was or what was happening. His brother was dead. Johnny was dead. He glanced at Hilary, catching her eye. She stared straight back at him, distraught. In that moment, she suddenly realised that her husband knew all about her and Johnny.

Michael looked away and felt his daughter Emily beside him. She clasped his hand and leaned against him. He glanced down at her filthy, tear-streaked face. Her dark hair was tangled and matted with dirt and dust, her silk gown smeared with grime and spatters of blood. ‘Okay, Tom,' Michael said into the radio. ‘We're heading for the emergency subs.'

‘That's a good plan.' Tom replied. ‘Sir, could you flick on the speaker, please?'

Michael depressed the switch.

‘The other party are almost at the dock.' Tom's voice echoed around the stairwell. ‘From where you are, there are two possible routes. One's blocked.'

‘Right. So, which way?'

‘Leave the stairwell straight ahead and take a left.'

Michael glanced at the others and they followed him across the landing. The door opened onto a corridor. The walls ran with water, the carpet was sodden. They sped past closed doors to left and right, the carpet squelching under their feet. The corridor curved right. They took the corner and almost fell over a cleaner's trolley blocking the way. It was on its side. The floor was strewn with toilet rolls, bars of soap, cleaning fluids and linen. The cleaner lay on her back close to the trolley, crushed by a large lump of plaster. Pieces of masonry and crumbs of light blue plaster lay scattered all around. In the ceiling, a gaping hole exposed pipe work and cabling. Michael crouched down to check that the woman was dead. He found no pulse and her skin was cold.

They edged their way around the obstruction and headed on down the passageway to a lobby. An empty desk stood to one side. A small table lay smashed on the carpet, pieces of broken vase and bits of flowers scattered in an arc about it.

They all stopped suddenly as a door opened on the other side of the lobby. A head came round the edge. Pete Sherringham stepped forward. Behind him, a bedraggled group stumbled into the reception area.

‘Nick!' Hilary Xavier screamed and ran towards her son.