Aftershock (23 page)

Mark stared at the faint parallel lines of pipes in the ceiling of his dark, cupboard-sized prison. The searing memory of the torture filled his mind, and his body screamed at him. It felt as though every muscle had been stretched. His head throbbed, his wrists and ankles screamed, and he was freezing cold. He lay on the metal floor, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, his hands bound behind him again.

In the dark, it was hard to keep a handle on the passing of time. He could not tell with any certainty how long he lay there looking at the pipes. It could have been minutes, it may have been hours. All the while, he was trying to rationalise, trying to find answers to some very difficult questions. But they were questions he could not answer. Was anyone still alive in the Neptune? Were Pete and Mai safe? Tom knew about the minesweeper. What had he done about it? Who were these maniacs, holding him and torturing him?

He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew a key was rattling in the lock and the door swung open. It was the same two guards. The brightness of the corridor stung his eyes, just as it had before. Again, the guards said nothing, simply pulled him upright. He tried to turn away from the painful light, but they frogmarched him from the room into the neon glow of the passageway.

They followed a different path this time. Through a door, they led him up a flight of stairs and suddenly they were on the deck of the
Lambasa
. He could see the rear end of the Big Mac a few hundred metres away. Close by,
Ringo
bobbed gently on the water. The sun was bright in the sky. An orange glow swept over the ocean. For a few seconds, Mark felt the warm fingers of the sun. Then they were heading for a hatch. He was pushed down, a firm hand on the top of his head. He took the rungs of the ladder as slowly as he could. He was hurting all over, his head spinning. He felt nauseous, but managed to force back the vomit rising in his throat.

Along another narrow corridor and through a doorway and he was back in the torture room. It was as though nothing had changed. Naivalurua was in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. He looked up as Mark was led into the room. ‘Good morning,' he said, quietly.

Mark looked away, focusing on a spot in the ceiling above the Fijian commander's head. Naivalurua stood up and walked over to the E-Force leader. He grabbed Mark's jaw and forced his head down to look at him. Mark stared at the floor.

‘Look at me or I'll have your eyes gouged out,' the Acting Admiral hissed.

Mark lifted his gaze from the floor to meet the man's and felt a sudden burst of pain as Naivalurua landed a punch into his solar plexus, hitting precisely the same spot as before. Mark gasped.

‘That's better. Now, I'm rather hoping you have reconsidered your position, Mr Harrison.'

Mark did not make a sound.

‘Well, that is a pity.' Naivalurua glanced at the guards a few paces behind him. They stepped forward and spun Mark around. Ahead of him stood a small metal trolley. A box stood on top of the trolley. A lead ran from the back to a mains socket in the wall. Two thick wires, one red, one black hung down from the box. Each wire had a clip on the end.

Mark was pushed over to the trolley. This time, they kept his hands bound. A guard stepped up to him. In a single movement, he yanked Mark's boxers to his ankles. The guard straightened up, took a step over to the trolley, grabbed the two leads attached to the machine, and turned back. At a sign from Naivalurua, he bent down and attached one of the clamps to the prisoner's left testicle. Mark yelled in agony, the sound escaping from him in spite of all his efforts to hold it in. The guard attached the second clamp. Mark started to shake involuntarily.

Naivalurua walked over, stopping a foot in front of his prisoner. ‘We can stop all this right now,' he said matter-offactly. He stared into Mark's face. It was streaked with sweat, the agony clear in his eyes. The muscles of his neck had tensed and his jaw muscles protruded. He said nothing.

Naivalurua looked down and shook his head. Then he nodded to the man who had connected the clamps. The man leaned over the trolley and placed his hand on a large white slider.

‘Drop your weapons!'

They all turned towards the voice. A man in the uniform of a Royal Navy commander stood in the doorway. He was holding an M16, the barrel pointed at Naivalurua's head.

One of the Fijian guards raised his gun.

‘Don't!' the Royal Navy officer snapped, and moved a little to his left as six Royal Marines of 40 Commando in full combat gear and armed with BMG assault weapons slid into the room. They fanned out, guns poised, ready for anything.

Mark emerged onto the deck of the
Lambasa
sandwiched between two Royal Navy officers, who led him aft where a launch was waiting for them. He checked his watch. It was 09.23. The sky was a dazzling blue, the sun, a great yellow orb. He shaded his eyes and took in great lungfuls of warm, salty air. It felt as though he had been kept in the dark for weeks.

The commander of the operation, Captain James Heathcote, stepped forward, offered his hand and introduced himself. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Mr Harrison.'

‘Believe me, Captain Heathcote,' Mark retorted, ‘the pleasure is all mine.'

Heathcote indicated Mark should take a seat and buckle up, and the launch sped away from the rusty Fijian naval vessel.

‘Do you have any idea what the hell is going on?'

Heathcote shook his head and gave a brief smile. ‘A coup, and a counter-coup, Mr Harrison. I believe they have them on a regular basis here. Particularly bad timing, this one.'

‘So, who's in power now?'

‘The bunch who gave you free passage. When we heard you had gone missing, we presented the deposed government with a deal. Let us have free rein getting you off that old tub...' he nodded towards the
Lambasa
, ‘and we'd offer background muscle for them to regain control of the island.'

‘So, one of my team, Tom Erickson, reached you?'

‘Well, by a convoluted path, yes. My orders came from Whitehall. As I understand it, one of your military bigwigs contacted one of ours through the UN. Wheels within wheels, Mr Harrison. Always the way. Still, it worked, that's the important thing.'

‘Yes, it did. So, what happens to the Acting Admiral now?'

‘Well he's no longer an “Acting anything”. My men will escort the crew to Suva and they'll be held in custody. I'm sure you'll be required to provide a statement at some point. But in the meantime, I imagine, you have a job to finish.' He looked straight into Mark's eyes, his face expressionless.

‘Yes, I do,' Mark replied. ‘And I've had plenty of time to work out just how to go about it.'

‘I can't believe that!' Tom exclaimed as Mark described what had happened to him.

‘Well, I guess I wouldn't if it hadn't happened to me, Tom. I'm just really pissed at the waste of time. But what's done is done. I'm here. In one piece. And I have you to thank for that.'

‘Me? I just put through a call.'

‘Yeah, but it was a very good call! So, what's the situation in the Neptune?'

‘I made contact with two groups. They've met up. There are 10 survivors plus Pete and Mai in the base of Gamma. That's the good news.'

‘And the bad?'

‘They can't get out. The computer systems have shut down and they can't reach the subs.'

‘What state are the civilians in?'

‘Some broken bones and serious lacerations but nothing life threatening. The one good thing about your delay is that they've all had a chance to rest for a few hours. But I don't know if many of them have actually slept.'

‘Okay, can you get me the latest from the BigEyes?'

‘Sure.'

‘Anything from Josh or Steph?'

Tom told him about the interference around where he thought the Silverback had come down. ‘One of the techs here is reprogramming the BigEye to search in the far ends of the spectrum. It's a huge job. We're trying to get round the interference the best we can.'

‘Okay, Tom, keep me informed. And get me those sat images asap.'

Still furious that the team had lost close to five hours thanks to his imprisonment, Mark wasted no time getting kitted out in his cybersuit and re-prepping the
Drebbel
. He checked his fuel levels, then ran an analysis of the Neptune, matching the images Tom had sent from the BigEyes with data from the Hunters, and set a course for the stricken hotel. He brought the sub back up to the outer door of the internal dock, instructed the computer to unlock the portal and let the
Drebbel
slide under the Pacific waves.

He dived on a diagonal course from the north. The hotel was visible on the sub's monitors as soon as the vehicle submerged, the image growing clearer as he approached. Fifty-three metres beneath the surface Mark changed course, heading west and then south to bring the sub around Dome Alpha. A few moments later, he could see
Narcis
where Pete and Mai had moored it. It lay some 20 metres from the base level of Dome Alpha. Bringing his speed down, Mark opened comms with Dome Gamma.

‘I'm approaching the
Narcis
,' he told Pete and Mai. ‘I should be close to Gamma in under two minutes.'

‘Copy that, Mark,' Pete replied. ‘Good to hear you're back with us, man. That's the longest night I've ever had...'

Manoeuvring along the south side of the hotel was a delicate operation. There were loose beams and cables that were only visible at very close range. The sensors on the sub were set to ‘max' as Mark guided the vehicle a few metres above the ocean floor.

Passing close to the linkway between Beta and Gamma, he could see the extent of the devastation. About one-third of the glass tunnel had shattered. The Beta end was no more, and the seabed was strewn with fragments of glass. Mark could see that the connection at the other end was undamaged. He pulled the
Drebbel
away and around, approaching the base of Dome Gamma square-on from the south.

Twenty metres from the dome, he could just make out human shapes on the other side of large glass panels in the Lower Ground Floor Level. He cut the thrusters to minimum, allowing the sub to drift slowly towards the hotel. Ten metres from the dome, he cut the power completely. He could see the unmistakable forms of Pete and Mai at the huge glass window, and beside them, a few of the survivors.

‘Good to see you, Mark,' Mai said, her voice booming through the speakers in the control room of the
Drebbel
.

‘Tom tells me you've hooked up with the survivors from Dome Gamma. I can see some of you from here. There're 12 of you, right?'

‘Yes.'

‘What's your status, Mai?'

‘Pretty good, considering. We've had a few hours rest – fretful rest – but the two kids slept. We have some severe lacerations, broken ribs, mild concussions. I've given almost everyone painkilling shots and sealed up cuts. I've used SkinGloo on Harry Flanders' foot and Michael Xavier's leg – they were both pretty badly cut. No one is seriously injured, but...' and she lowered her voice, ‘they're frightened, Mark.'

‘Understandable. So, Mai, this is what we're going to do...'

Tom lay on his bunk staring up at a holographic image hovering in the air about half a metre above his head. He needed to get out of his chair sometimes, needed to lie flat on his back and let his mind churn through things. He had adapted the holoprojector on his laptop so that he could move the image away from the computer and let it float anywhere within 4 metres of the processor. It was completely hands-free because he could instruct Sybil verbally. He had Neil Young's ‘After the Gold Rush' playing quietly in the background.

‘Sybil, display the seismic readouts for all tremors affecting the hotel.'

‘There have been three disturbances during the past 12 hours. The first was the largest. This occurred at 20.04.13 local time.' The image of a graph appeared in the air above Tom's bunk. It showed a jagged line running horizontally, time displayed on the x-axis, strength of tremor on the y-axis. At 20.04.13 there was a spike, showing a tremor strength of 6.3. This was followed by several smaller peaks.'

Tom looked at the figures and ran through a set of calculations in his head. ‘Okay, Sybil. The second and third tremors.'

‘The first aftershock occurred at 02.10.19 local time. It was weaker than the original tremor, but it still caused substantial damage.' A second graph appeared. It was strikingly similar to the first, but the tremor was less powerful. ‘The third tremor was relatively minor. It did not cause any structural damage and may not have been felt by many of the survivors.'

A third graph appeared. It was almost identical to the first and second, but the peak showing the power of the tremor was less than a twentieth the size of the first aftershock.

‘When was the second aftershock, Sybil?'

‘02.51.34.'

‘Sybil?' Tom said. ‘Mark lost his comms link to the hotel a couple of times back there. When exactly were those radio drop-outs, please?'

‘The first lasted more than 35 minutes. It began at 02.10.21.'

‘And the second?'

‘02.51.36.'

Steph lay wide awake on a collection of cushions in front of the fire.

She was wrapped in a wolf hide, listening to Josh and Howard snoring quietly. She had not slept since leaving Polar Base, but felt unnaturally energised. The thing she hated most in the world was being beaten. It was, a distant part of her realised, one of the things that made her special. Her inability to accept defeat had driven her through medical school, and it had kept her sane when her husband, Ted, was killed in Afghanistan. It was the same determination to succeed at any cost that had made her such an indispensible member of E-Force. But now – now she was facing defeat. This appeared to be one battle she simply could not win.

She pulled the hide away and sat up. Without making a sound, she tugged on her boots, found Howard's homemade torch, and felt her way to the steps that led up to the surface.

Outside, it was blacker than anything she had ever known. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the all-embracing night, the stars began to appear: hundreds of millions of stars – the cool strip of light that made up the Milky Way, stretching from the flat horizon halfway up the sky. It looked like a jet trail. She had loved astronomy as a kid, and suddenly a longlost memory came into her mind. She was standing in the garden of the family home in Sydney. Her father was beside her, patiently adjusting the focus on a cheap telescope she had been given for her birthday. When he was done, he beckoned her to come, to peer down into the eyepiece. ‘Close one eye, Steph,' he'd said. She lowered her eye to the rubber rim of the eyepiece. At first, she could see nothing – she had closed both eyes. Sensing what had happened, her father gently nudged her. ‘Just close the left eye,' he whispered conspiratorially. She had smiled to herself and opened her right eye to see the surface of the moon as she had never even imagined it. She could see craters, mountains, light and shade. The earth's closest neighbour, just as Galileo had seen it centuries before.

Stephanie suddenly snapped back to reality and turned away from the splendid vista of the distant stars. She lit the fuel in the torch she had borrowed and it cut a strip of lemon light through the vacant night. She had her bearings from the earlier trip with Howard and headed straight for the crash site. She had no idea what she was doing, but she knew she could not simply lie in the dark running through her failings any longer. She had to do something, anything, no matter how futile it seemed.

No more than a few paces from Howard's home, Stephanie began to see pieces of wreckage, strips of metal and plastic caught in the torchlight. She took the same route she had followed earlier with Howard, skirting the mound some 50 metres to the west of the Toyota. Holding the torch at head height and sweeping the horizon, she spotted the fuselage of the Silverback, nose down and tilted at a precarious angle in the sand.

She paused for a moment, turning 360 degrees. Straining her cochlear implants, she listened hard. The silence was almost total. Leaves on desiccated plants rubbed together, creating a faint rustling sound. She could hear a few insects scratching in the sand, and from far off, from the direction of Howard's strange home, plastic sheeting flapped in the light breeze.

She pushed on, taking slow, careful steps towards the shattered aircraft. Using her enhanced vision, Stephanie surveyed the sand as she walked. She had no real idea what she was looking for. In fact, she wondered if she would even recognise anything useful if she stumbled upon it – the plane had been blasted from the sky by some strange force their instruments could not understand. Tonnes of fuel had gone up in the ensuing explosion. It was a miracle they had walked away from the crash. Miracles, Stephanie knew, were not in great supply. Perhaps they had already had more than their fair share.

Then she saw it.

It was almost unrecognisable, just a copper disc no more than 3 or 4 centimetres in diameter, lying in the sand. She stopped, her heart pounding, and dived to the ground, scrabbling in the sand with both hands. In a second, she had the cylindrical metal object clasped between her fingers. At one end, the end that had been protruding from the sand, she could see a flat copper surface. At the other end was a small glass dome. Stephanie turned the object round so the glass portion pointed towards her face. Behind the glass she could see a red bulb. It was dull, lifeless. Around the circumference of the tube, just beneath the glass dome were the words: ‘E-FORCE. EMERGENCY BEACON'.

She could hardly believe what she was seeing. Her fingers were shaking as she lowered her gaze to a point just below the strip of writing. There was a tiny switch countersunk into the metal cylinder. It was in the ‘off' position. She had used the emergency beacon only once before, on a survival exercise at Polar Base. It seemed like a lifetime ago. The beacon was a standard piece of kit, the sort of thing the military had used for decades – it sent out a signal across a broad spectrum.

For several moments, Stephanie stared at it. She could not bring herself to look at the tiny strip of clear glass inside the copper base that would tell her the power level of the device. A bead of sweat ran down her spine and she swallowed hard, making a supreme effort to steady her breathing. Then she ran her index finger along the cylinder, resting it lightly on the plastic switch. ‘On three,' she said aloud. ‘One, two...'

She slid the switch down.

At first, nothing happened. Then the red bulb under the glass dome at the end of the cylinder flickered into life. The beacon emitted a high frequency whine, a single pulse. Then the light switched off and the beacon died.