Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment (51 page)

Tony suddenly stiffened, and his hand went to his headset. His expression said he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “It’s Marsh,” Tony said. “It’s all over the airways. An ICBM was just launched from mainland China. Target is Washington, DC. One of our subs launched in retaliation.” A second later he added, “Shit! A launch from Pakistan.” He hesitated a moment as Marshall told him the rest. Tony’s face drained of color. “The grid countdown has restarted. Ten minutes and counting.”

“Uncle Tony!” Sarafina cried out.

The two men turned to see her running toward them. Behind her, the tunnel was filled with families. Gunfire erupted behind them, and every bobbing head in the crowd seemed to flinch at the same time. An instant later, they stampeded toward the door.

“Get them out of here!” Jake shouted.

Tony nodded. “This way!” he roared, waving the crowd toward him. He stepped outside and began issuing orders over his radio.

Jake moved into the tunnel, encouraging people to speed up. He spotted Francesca on the opposite side of the crowd. She didn’t
see him. There were a number of children around her. She ushered them forward.

Jake saw Ahmed behind her. He locked eyes with the teen. “Keep them moving!” Jake shouted.

Ahmed nodded. Raw determination shone on his face.

Most of the crowd was past him when Jake saw Sergeant Fletcher lifting a body over his shoulder. It was Becker. His eyes were closed, and blood dripped from his dangling fingertips. Jake realized with a start that his friend must have taken a hit when he’d pushed Jake out of the way. Jonesy stood alongside. His hands were bloody. His face was a mask.

Jake watched as they followed the group down the tunnel. It was a long-practiced drill, Jake thought.
No man left behind.
Jake crouched down and retrieved Becker’s pack.

His blood was on fire.

The gunfire had stopped. The Aussie rescuers had put down the latest surge of Order reinforcements. When the last of the civilians was outside, the remaining operators peeled back in cover formation. Jake waited by the blast door. He motioned for the final two operators to go through first, his mind tracking the grid countdown.

Seven minutes.

As soon as the soldiers stepped through, Jake moved to the control console and released the
EMERGENCY STOP
button.

The blast doors started to close. By the time the remaining hydraulic pins slid into place, Jake had already removed two of the four C-4 charges from Becker’s pack. He set the timers for fifteen seconds. Then he placed them on the console and ran into the facility.

Ready or not, here I come…

Grid Countdown: 0h:6m:30s

The Island
7:25 a.m.

T
HE BLAST WAVE
from the contained explosion knocked Jake off his feet. The MP7 was thrown from his grasp. His ears popped, his vision blurred, and a hot wind blew past him. Rocks and smoke spewed from the mouth of the tunnel.

Jake scrambled on all fours to the private stairwell, yanking open the door and slamming it behind him. He bent over, hands propped on his thighs, breathing hard. The blast had carried more impact than he’d anticipated. He’d intended to destroy the console. Instead, the entire tunnel had collapsed. It brought an evil grin to his face. The only exit was sealed forever. Victor’s utopian refuge had just become a prison.

He shook his head to clear it. Then he made his way down the stairs. A part of his mind relished the ruin he planned to rain down on the lord of Castle Brun. The master planner thought he’d covered all the bases. But he’d overlooked one of the most basic tenets of human conflict:

There’s nothing more dangerous than a man willing to die for the people he loves.

But confronting Brun would have to wait.

First things first. The grid countdown was at five minutes. He had to try to stop it.

He raced down the staircase and into the level-three corridor. The air temperature was stifling. The power was restored, and the ventilation fans had kicked on, but the interior temp continued to rise. Whatever Becker had “broken” in the sublevel, he thought, it wasn’t good.

He was five strides from the chair-room door when he felt the surge of energy. The sensation was unmistakable. The chair had been activated, and the mini had come to life, its power resonating with his brain. Jake tried the door. It was locked. He reached for the keypad, entering the master code Victor had used when he’d escaped the room. It didn’t work. Someone had deactivated it from the inside. Jake bashed the door with his shoulder, but it didn’t budge. Then he remembered the observation window.

He sped to the next doorway, entered the code, and burst inside. What he witnessed through the window collapsed his lungs.

The room was suffused in a bright glow. The chair’s fiber-optic wires radiated with back-and-forth streams of pulsating light. The embedded mini shone like a brilliant star. And standing on top of the chair—with the skullcap lowered over his head—was Jake’s son.

“Aaa-lex!” Jake cried out, pounding on the window.

Their eyes locked. And for the first time since father and son had met, Jake saw doubt on the child’s face.

“Unlock the door, son!” Jake shouted.

Alex glanced at the door, but it was no use. He was trapped in the grid’s embrace. The glow from the mini intensified, and Alex grimaced. Suddenly, he arched backward, his arms stiffened, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

Jake was frantic. He grabbed a nearby chair and swung it against the window. When it bounced off with a plastic thud,
he realized it was polycarbonate. Even a sledgehammer wouldn’t crack it.

The countdown was at ninety seconds.

Alex’s body was shaking. Color leached from his face.

Jake pressed his hands against the window and mentally embraced his son. He outpoured every ounce of his being.

Their minds joined, and he felt Alex’s fear. The grid sucked data from his son’s brain, and Jake knew immediately it was too much for the young child. It was killing him. Jake remembered the sensation. He’d felt it himself in a cave six years ago in Afghanistan—when he’d triggered the devastating sequence of events that led to this moment. And again in Geneva, when it seemed as if the grid had gleaned everything available from Jake’s brain…before discarding him like a corrupt hard drive.

Jake drew on his reserves. His focus was absolute. Only one thing mattered—his son must live. He reached out to Alex’s consciousness, bonding their minds as they had when they’d first met.

In that singular moment, Jake Bronson bequeathed all that he had—and all that he was—to his son:

His love.

His strength.

His life force.

Thirty seconds.

Jake felt Alex’s reaction as if it were his own. Jake’s energy surged through his small frame. It fueled the boy’s confidence. His consciousness seized control of the communication link with the grid. In the pause between heartbeats, he transmitted a kaleidoscope of images and emotions, drawn from all he had witnessed in his short life, including Victor’s treachery. The underlying message was simple. It spoke of family. And loyalty. And accepting the differences in one another. Of embracing love and trust and second chances. Of the true character of mankind, capable of untold violence, but possessing the strength of will to control it.

It spoke of a belief in God.

It was his son’s personal appeal to the grid’s creators, his argument that mankind be spared, supported by the wisdom of inalienable truths, but laced with the innocence of a child.

And beneath it all was Alex’s undeniable willingness to sacrifice his young life to make it happen.

The grid reacted.

Abruptly, Jake and Alex’s perception shifted. They saw the planet as if viewing it from the stars. The geodesic matrix surrounding the earth brightened. It glowed with such intensity that night became day across the globe. Beams of light shot downward into the earth’s atmosphere, destroying the nuclear missiles before they reached their targets.

Then, all at once, the light connecting the pyramids vanished. Then, one by one, each pyramid broke orbit and accelerated into space. It was over in moments.

Alex was filled with joy.

Jake was filled with pride.

Grid Countdown: 0h:0m:30s

The Island
7:31 a.m.

T
HE BACKUP POWER
in the main facility was on, but Victor’s engineers were having difficulty restoring the surveillance system. It was being rebooted for the third time.

The satisfied expression on Victor’s face was not feigned. It would all be over soon, he thought. The missile launch had succeeded in restarting the grid countdown. The first of the missiles would impact in three minutes. It was of no consequence. Because the grid countdown was at thirty seconds. The incursions, the American’s escape, the loss of Hans, and even the detonation of the nuclear warheads—in the final analysis, none of it mattered. His destiny had been fulfilled. The end was moments away.

A new world order would rise from the ashes.

The security system came back online, and one by one each of the surveillance videos flashed on. The power plant, the corridors, the lagoon—they were all there for him to see.

But Victor’s focus was transfixed on a solitary scene that nearly stopped his heart. It was the American’s son, standing on
the chair, the skullcap draped over his head, the room aglow with light.

Victor’s throat seized.

“There’s activity from the grid!” shouted one of the men at the console.

“Lasers!” said another.

A beat later, the presiding officer gasped, “
Ach mein Gott
! The missiles have been destroyed. The grid has vanished!”

Victor’s eyes got huge. His body trembled and he staggered backward.

On the screen, the boy stepped down from the chair. He swung open the door, and Jake Bronson rushed in and scooped him into his arms. Father and son twirled with delight.

The rage that overtook Victor was cold and distilled. Those around him edged away.

He clenched his jaws so tightly that a stab of pain blossomed behind one eye. It brought him back to full awareness.

He rolled his shoulders and wrapped himself in a mantle of calm serenity, extending a hand toward the nearest security officer. “Your weapon, please,” he said flatly.

The man handed him his submachine gun.

Victor walked steadily toward the sanctum’s exit.

Nobody followed him.

T
HERE WAS NO
other way out, Jake thought. He had to chance it. His son’s life depended on it.

They were in the fire department on level four. Alex clung to his chest, his feet supported by the waist belt of the harness strapped to Jake’s back. They both dripped with perspiration. The air temperature was at least 110 degrees. The insulated fire suit made it worse.

“You hangin’ in there?” Jake asked as he zipped the torso of the oversize suit around them. The face mask and hood were in a bag slung from his elbow.