Aftershock (29 page)

‘Come on, Sybil!' Madeleine said and glanced at Tom. Unaware they had got the message, he was still tapping out the same rhythm on the armrest.

‘Do you want to find out how long...?'

‘No, save the processing power.'

‘But it could take weeks,' Noel Brannigan persisted.

‘In which case, we don't have a hope anyway.'

Brannigan sighed and stared at the screen. Colours flashed across its plasma cells. And then it lit up.

‘Prime factors calculated,' Sybil said.

The Silverback shook violently, span 360 degrees on its axis and dropped another hundred metres. It was now no more than 70 metres above the wreckage. There was a roaring sound in Dimitri's ears, and his vision was blurred. Keeping his grip on the flight control handset with his left hand, he reached out with his right to touch the main control panel, but he could not reach it. A plastic support had slipped under the tremendous g-force trapping his arms, pushing them down and back. The only way he could release it was to climb and allow the plane to spin again so he could push the support back into place. Right now, though, that was impossible.

‘Warning. Critical. Structural integrity at 16 per cent. Eject. Eject.'

He could not eject, even if he wanted to. He could not reach the release control. He stretched his fingers, forcing his arm forward, millimetre by millimetre. He knew the controls like the back of his own hand. He did not need to see them. He knew his fingertips were hovering close to the panel.

‘Agggh!' he yelled, making his ears ring as he put everything he had into moving his fingers.

He felt the plastic beneath the tip of his middle finger. The control was touch-sensitive. It responded instantly. ‘Ultrasound engaged,' the onboard computer said.

Sixty-five metres beneath the undercarriage of the Silverback, a burst of high frequency cyclic sound pressure, beyond the limit of human hearing, pulsated over the crash site.

‘Structural integrity 7 per cent. Critical. Eject. Eject,' came the calm, dispassionate voice of the computer.

Dimitri pulled back on the control handset, feeling the plane roll. He could see in his helmet holoscreen that the Silverback had plunged to less than 30 metres above the ground. The orange sand and the blue sky swirled into one as the aircraft turned on its lateral axis.

The jet shuddered. An explosion to port rocked the plane as the ultrasound clipped it, and Dimitri saw a fireball envelop the engine. Pieces of Maxinium and plastic smashed against the canopy and bounced off. A great red streak of fire shot from the wing and the plane went into a spin. Dimitri fought to regain control, but nothing was responding. The control panel was dead.

‘Wow!' Madeleine exclaimed, watching as two large prime numbers appeared on the big screen. ‘Wow!'

‘Now what?' Noel asked.

Madeleine snapped away from the screen and stared into her colleague's eyes. For a second she looked completely lost. Then she broke into a smile and dashed over to Tom in his wheelchair. He was still frantically tapping. Madeleine ripped a plastic badge from her boilersuit, twisted the pin outwards and without wasting a second crouched down beside Tom. ‘Really sorry about this,' she said, and stuck the pin into the top of his hand.

Tommy Boy jumped to his feet. The old man made a show of not reacting and stayed rooted to the spot leaning on his gnarled staff, surveying the avatar with his black, mirthful eyes.

‘One, six, zero, three,' Tommy Boy began.

The old man gave him a surprised look and started to laugh. Tommy Boy kept shouting numbers. ‘Four, zero, three, four, six, nine, two.'

The old man roared with laughter, his eyes glinting.

‘Seven, eight, four, two, one, one, two, eight, seven, eight.'

The old man's laughter stopped, but his face remained creased with humour, the lines seemed to be etched into his old skin.

‘Five, five, four, nine, zero.'

The smile faded.

‘Two, two, four, zero, five.'

The old man rushed towards Tommy Boy. He seemed to have shed a thousand years in a microsecond. With stunning agility, he flew though the air. Tommy Boy managed to sidestep the guardian with a fraction of a second to spare. He kept on shouting numbers. ‘Nine, nine, four, zero, two.'

The old man's face had transformed into a horror mask, his eyes blazing, mouth red and gaping, rotten old teeth snarling. His staff whistled through the air, missing Tommy Boy by a millimetre.

‘Nine, one, two, one, four, three.'

The old man roared and swung the staff again. Tommy Boy caught it and kept hold as the guardian yanked at it with incredible strength.

‘Four, four, two.'

The old man froze.

‘Six, six, five, one, zero, three.' Tommy Boy swung the staff, missing the guardian and slicing the air.

‘Six, five, one,' Tommy Boy went on, not missing a beat.

The old man stared straight ahead, unmoving, ignoring the arc of the staff as Tommy Boy brought it around. The wood slammed into the frail figure, smashing him across the side of the head. He collapsed in a heap.

Tommy Boy took a step forward, looked down at the old man bleeding on the metal floor. ‘Seven,' he said and lifted the wood to deliver the coup de grâce.

The lights snapped off.

Silence.

Josh and Omar stared at the screen, their faces frozen in horror. The Silverback had made its cleansing run, and beneath it on the desert floor, the wreckage of
Paul
and every other material thing within a kilometre radius simply turned to microfine powder. But then the Silverback started to roll and shudder.

Josh had flown these planes a thousand times. He knew them intimately and he had experienced the terror when the ELF beam struck. The sense of powerlessness it brought. He turned from the screen, no longer able to watch the terrible scene unfolding. Throwing his head into his hands he tried to obliterate the horrible reality. ‘Oh God,' he mumbled. ‘Oh, God.'

‘Hummingbird 3. Come in, Hummingbird 3.'

It took Josh a few seconds to realise the crazy truth. The voice was Dimitri's.

‘Hummingbird 3. This is Dimitri. Come in.'

Josh lifted his head and saw Omar as he broke through his own moment of disbelief and shock. They both snapped around to gape at the screen. The Silverback
Mick
was climbing into the blue. Its port wing was blackened, the engine had disintegrated, but the onboard systems had compensated – nanobots were already at work patching up the wing, and the computer was automatically stabilising the jet.

‘Dimitri. This is Hummingbird 3,' Josh managed to say. ‘God, it's good to hear your voice, man.'

‘Not half as good as it is to hear yours, my friend,' Dimitri replied.

‘Mark ... Wake up.'

The voice seemed far off. He opened his eyes and saw Mai leaning over him. For several seconds he could not remember what had happened or even who he was. He moved his leg and a ripple of pain shot along his spine. His head felt like it was splitting in two. Mai helped him sit up.

The room lay in semi-darkness. As he looked around, he saw other human shapes in the gloom. Some of them were beginning to stir. The place stank of damp and sweat.

‘You okay?' Mai asked.

‘I guess.'

They saw Pete struggle to his feet on the far side of the room and walk over to him.

‘You all right?' Mark asked.

‘Yeah, apart from the bastard with the hammer who keeps hitting me.'

‘I saw one of the intruders. He was wearing a gas mask. I think they knocked us out with a nerve agent, some sort of opiate.'

‘So much for Chinese hospitality!' Mai added, rubbing her head with the palm of her hand.

Then Mark noticed what the other two were wearing. Their cybersuits had been replaced with green one-piece boilersuits. He looked down at himself and sighed. ‘The weapons have gone of course.'

Pete nodded.

‘Fabulous!'

There was a sound from the middle of the room. Mark turned to see Harry Flanders clambering to his feet and wincing with pain.

‘Okay,' Mark said to Pete and Mai. ‘Assessment. First check that everyone's here.'

Two minutes later, all the survivors were awake and accounted for. Everyone felt bruised but there were no serious injuries.

Mark paced the circumference of the room. It was about 5 metres square, the size of a double garage. There were no windows. Metal shelves had been built into three of the walls. They were all empty. In the fourth wall, the outline of a door, sealed tightly shut. No markings on the inside. He surmised it had some sort of electronic lock.

‘It's a storeroom,' Mark said to Pete, sitting down on the floor beside him.

‘So, what now?'

Mark shook his head. ‘Comms are nonexistent. We have no idea who our captors are. We have no weapons. We're basically at their mercy.'

Pete looked at the floor between his feet. ‘And we have no idea if there are any other survivors in the hotel, what's happening on Tintara, or what the hell has happened to Steph and Josh.'

There was a sound from across the room and the door in the far wall slid open. Two Chinese soldiers ran in and took up positions either side of the door. They covered the room with their machine guns. A third Chinese man in civilian clothes stepped in and stood close to the entrance. He was wearing black spectacles and had a round, chubby face. He turned to one of the guards, barked something in Mandarin and the soldier dashed straight for Mark Harrison, dragging him roughly to his feet.

Pete made to get up, but the soldier shouted at him and brought his gun around. Pete put up his hands. ‘Oki dokie. I get the message, man.'

Michael Xavier, who had been sitting against the wall close to the door, sprang up. ‘What
are
you people doing?' he yelled. The second guard at the door turned on him, swinging his gun, ready to smash it across Xavier's face. Harry Flanders suddenly appeared in front of Michael, pushing the hotel owner aside. The guard was about to land a blow on Harry's unprotected temple. The man at the door roared an order and the soldier froze. He lowered the gun and retreated backwards to the door. Mark was pushed out into the corridor, the barrel of a gun in his back. One of the soldiers pulled a black hood roughly over his head and the door slammed shut.

It was only a short walk, but Mark could not see where he was going, so he kept stumbling and tripping. One of the guards guided him around bends in the corridor but cared little if Mark hit his knees or bashed his shoulders into protruding objects along the way.

He heard a door slide open and fell forward, hitting the floor. Someone ripped off the hood.

‘Stand up.'

Mark looked up. It was the man in civilian clothes. His English was perfect.

Mark clambered to his feet.

They were in a luxuriously furnished office. The walls were teak panelled. Book cases filled with leather-bound volumes lined two of the walls. Directly in front of him stood a huge old-fashioned mahogany desk. A Chinese man sat behind the desk. He had his elbows resting on the leather-trimmed top, fingers interlinked in front of his face. His index fingers were placed together to form a spire at his lips.

‘Leave us,' he snapped to the guards.

The man in civilian clothes and black-rimmed spectacles lowered himself into an armchair to Mark's left.

‘I don't know who the hell you people are, but you're interfering in a civilian rescue mission. You will be accountable for any harm done to us,' Mark said, his voice even and controlled.

The man behind the desk lowered his hands, placing them flat to the desk. He stood up and began to pace, hands behind his back. He was unusually tall and stick thin. He was wearing a dark blue uniform that Mark knew was not standard Chinese military. The man frowned, wrinkling his entire, bony face as though the skin was too taut. He picked up an E-Force stun pistol from where it lay on his desk and waved it in the air nonchalantly. ‘This is a funny little thing,' he said. ‘Toy guns! Why do you people insist on using such things?' He placed it back on the desk. ‘That said, I do admire you, Mr Harrison. You've worked hard to establish your...' He puckered his lips, ‘interesting organisation. It is simply that you have ... how should I put it? Trodden on our toes.'

‘Look, we're just trying to do our job. Let us be on our way. We're not interested in politics or whatever it is you're doing here.'

The man frowned again and glanced at his friend in the armchair. ‘That's noble of you, Mr Harrison. I would expect nothing less. After all, you are a man of great integrity. I have followed your career and that of your associates with very keen interest.'

‘Who are you?'

The man looked a little perturbed at the question. ‘Forgive me, I've been very rude. My name is Mengde Sun. My friend here is Fu Tang.'

Mark stared at the older man, his face expressionless. He went to speak, but Mengde raised a hand. ‘No, just listen. I don't have time to waste on small talk, Mr Harrison. We have our own agenda here. This base serves an extremely important role. You'll understand if I cannot go into specifics. The Neptune Hotel has got in the way of our work. It is very unfortunate. We did not want to take so many lives. It was quite unnecessary, but our warnings were left unheeded. You see, this is a research base, we have work to do. We have schedules to follow. If people ignore our requests to cease and desist then we are not responsible for any damage caused by the testing of our equipment. Of course, we did not bank on you people turning up. But that has, in fact, been a pleasant surprise. I never let an opportunity pass without taking full advantage of it. You are here, with your rather wonderful machines.'

Mark shook his head, the facts finally falling into place.

‘But how did you build a base without being noticed?'

Mengde Sun touched his nose and smiled. ‘We Chinese are clever people. This station is very deep – way beyond the range of conventional sensors. We transported everything here by long-range nuclear submarine. It took several years and meticulous planning. I admit it was not at all easy. But then, nothing worthwhile is. You'd appreciate that, Mr Harrison.'

‘And you expect me to believe this is all sanctioned by your government?'

‘Did I imply that? If I did I'm sorry for misleading you, Mr Harrison. This has nothing to do with Beijing. The Chinese government know nothing of my work, but they pay for it. I do precisely what I like. You might say I'm the real power behind the throne. Many years ago I allowed myself to be controlled by the glorious leader of the time, Jiang Zemin, the Eighth General Secretary of the Communist Party of China. In those days I was idealistic, loyal to our great government. But 12 years in Jing Shak Prison changed all that. You've heard of Jing Shak, of course.' His face suddenly drained of blood, his eyes glazed. ‘No, this is my project. Call it an insurance policy, an ace up my sleeve. I'm happy to be the puppet master, for the moment. But things can always change.' He sighed and seemed to snap back to the moment. ‘So, Mr Harrison, we will continue with our project, but as you were so kind to drop by, we will gladly relieve you of your equipment. We tried and failed to obtain the E-Force codes to take advantage of your technology...'

‘The Fijian coup,' Mark interrupted.

‘It would have been so much easier if you had cooperated then rather than having Her Majesty's Royal Navy intervening.'

‘I suppose you're going to torture me too. It didn't work before.'

Mengde fixed Mark with a blank face. ‘Let me assure you, Mr Harrison, if I wanted to acquire information using torture I would get it. But no, I work in very different ways.' And he glanced again at his colleague, Fu Tang. ‘There are 13 of you. Every 10 minutes, I will kill one of you until you provide the codes.'

Mark was speechless. He stared back at Mengde, keeping the flood of his emotions to himself.

Mengde glanced at Fu. The man pulled himself up from the armchair and paced to the door.

‘You're a very interesting man,' Mengde said as the door to the room closed behind Fu. ‘A soldier, a computer expert. You're multilingual, an athlete with an Oxford education.
Very
impressive, Mr Harrison. Yet you go and expend your energies on a
rescue
organisation.' Mengde shook his head. ‘What a terrible waste.'

Mark said nothing, just stared fixedly at his gaoler.

‘You see,' Mengde went on, ‘such a notion as E-Force goes completely against all that I believe in. Your toy guns sum it up.' He glanced at the stun pistol on the desk. ‘My view is that if people are so stupid as to find themselves in a disaster, then they should be left to die. Or, if they are strong and find themselves in the midst of a catastrophe, they will find their own way out.'

Mengde seemed to expect a response from Mark, but none came. He was quite aware of the game the man was playing.

There was a sound from beyond the door. A soldier shouted. It was followed by a muffled response. Mark thought he could recognise the voice. The door flew open and Fu led the way. Behind him, the soldiers escorted a man wearing a black hood. One of the soldiers removed the hood. The financier, Sigmund de Silva, stood, dazed, blinking under the bright lights.

Mengde looked at de Silva, then looked again at Mark. ‘So, Mr Harrison. The codes.'

Mark said nothing.

There was a sound at the door. It slid open and a soldier bowed and stepped in. ‘Apologies, Commander,' he said in Mandarin. Then he paced over to say something quietly in Mengde's left ear.

Mark heard it clearly, and he understood Mandarin. The man said: ‘Another plane has landed on the surface, sir.'

Mengde span round to face the soldier. ‘What sort of plane?'

‘A very large aircraft, sir. It is another E-Force jet.'

Mengde held the soldier's eyes for several beats. ‘Prepare the beam,' he said, then turned away quickly, flicking his fingers to dismiss the man. The soldier bowed and left the room.

Mengde took a step closer to Mark. ‘The codes.'

Mark said nothing.

Mengde nodded to the soldiers. Between them they pushed Sigmund de Silva to his knees. One of them bound the man's hands behind his back.

‘What the fuck is this all about?' de Silva screamed. ‘Mark? What...?'

‘Shut up,' Mengde snapped and kicked de Silva in the face. Sigmund's head jarred back, blood spraying from his smashed nose. He looked pleadingly at Mark.

With a supreme effort, Mark stood rigid, showing no emotion.

‘Oh, you're such a good man, Mr Harrison,' Mengde said, and gave Mark a contemptuous look. ‘No doubt you are thinking of the greater good. This man may be sacrificed for your precious technology because that technology will allow you to save many more lives in the future. Am I right, Mr Harrison?'

‘Sacrifice? ... What?' Sigmund screamed. He was shaking, his eyes were massive and black and they held Mark's.

Mengde nodded again and one of the soldiers grabbed Sigmund's sparse white hair. Yanking his head back, with his spare hand he pulled out a Commando knife – 20 centimetres of gleaming stainless steel. With lightning speed, he brought the blade down to Sigmund's neck, lining up the edge with the man's jugular.

‘Last chance, Mr Harrison.'

Mark still did not move.

Mengde started to turn back to the soldier.

‘Okay,' Mark hissed.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Okay. You win. I'll give you the codes.'

Mengde tilted his head slightly, and flicked his palms up. ‘Well?'

‘Let him go first.'

‘Oh, Mr Harrison, I wasn't aware of your talent for comedy. Another thing to add to your impressive CV.'

Mark said nothing.

Mengde's face fell, suddenly expressionless. ‘No, it doesn't work that way. Codes first.'

Mark looked at the floor. ‘Give me pen and paper.'

Mengde turned to the desk and plucked up a sheet of watermarked paper and a Mont Blanc pen. The soldier with the gun took a step forward nervously. Mark could see his trigger finger whitening slightly.

Mark grasped the pen and wrote down a series of numbers and letters. He handed the paper and pen to Mengde.

‘Very good,' the Commander said. ‘But of course, I will have to have these checked.' Then he gave the merest hint of a nod to the man holding de Silva. The soldier drew the knife across the financier's neck, cutting into his throat almost to the vertebra. Blood spurted in a great fountain and Sigmund's head fell back, a gaping red and grey wound grinning like an open mouth. His eyes rolled up and the soldier let him fall sideways, blood siphoning into a puddle.

Mark was so shocked he did not move even when Sigmund's blood sprayed across his face. And then everything suddenly seemed to shift into fast motion. There was a blaring sound, a screaming from a speaker in the ceiling. It took him a second to realise it was a voice, a metallic rasp. ‘Warning. Station under cyber attack. Warning.'

Mengde turned his eyes from the terrible scene and looked at the ceiling, momentarily confused. The soldier with the machine gun let the barrel droop. Mark snapped out of his horrified stupor, and instinct and years of training took over. In a millisecond, he was leaping forward, diving headlong towards the soldier.

The guard fell backwards, spraying bullets around the room. In a fifth of second, two 42mm shells struck Fu Tang in the forehead, splitting open his skull. Brains and blood shot into the air, cascading down over his falling body.

Mark smashed his elbow into the guard's face, breaking his nose and knocking him unconscious. Spinning on his heel, he slammed his fist into the side of the other guard's face. The man fell backwards, cracking his head on the edge of Mengde's desk.

Mark straightened, surveyed the scene with disgust and just caught a movement at the edge of his vision. Commander Mengde Sun had made it to the door and was disappearing into the corridor beyond.