Prediction
Page 1
Prediction
Tony BATTON
Twenty-First Century Thrillers
Prediction
- A stolen top-secret nuclear reactor
- A young lawyer falsely accused of murder
- A government project to build a quantum supercomputer
- A secretive consultancy that can fix any problem
All connected by invisible strings.
But who are the puppets and who is the puppeteer?
Prediction - First Edition v1.1
First published in August 2019 by
Twenty-First Century Thrillers
Copyright © Tony Batton, 2019
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
Cover Design by Books Covered
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The right of Tony Batton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Find out more about the author,
and get a free short story at:
www.tonybatton.com
Also by Tony BATTON
Interface
Resurface
Unstolen
Artificial Inheritance (a short story)
Praise for ‘Interface’
“Batton seems to be a natural in writing a good thriller as Interface has more twists and turns than the Pacific Coast Highway. Just as you think you have figured out the plot, Batton throws yet another curve ball. Even though the premise of Interface is emerging technology, Batton doesn’t use a lot of techno-speak. This should please those of you that like to read thrillers, but shy away from techno-thrillers because of the overly complicated lingo, yet at the same time, Interface keeps those of us that do like the techno in techno-thrillers intrigued. For those of you that like a good thriller, Interface will be sure to please.” - A Thrill A Week
"A terrifyingly real feeling Technothriller. The scariest kind of fiction is that which feels like it’s either already true or could become true any moment. Batton takes one of those scary 'what if' scenarios and turns it into a woah' kind of story. I honestly felt like I couldn’t put it down. The pages and minutes just absolutely flew by. [Batton] could be the next Crichton or Douglas E Richards. - Brian's Book Blog
"The short chapters and the quick dialogue give Interface a movie like quality that adds to the breathtaking pace. Interface is a well written book with a great plot premise and Batton has the ability to infuse his writing with authenticity which makes Interface highly readable and an enjoyable thrill ride." - Spectrum Books
"An intelligent, fast moving and exciting techno-thriller that is a storming debut novel" - Goodreads reviewer
"...the pages pretty much turned themselves" - Amazon reviewer
"Shades of John Grisham meets Jo Nesbo meets Michael Crichton! New kid on the block Tony Batton's debut novel is a stunner" - Amazon reviewer
"Absolutely gripping from start to finish" - Amazon reviewer
"4am and I couldn't put it down. Thrilling scifi'esque, with twists and turns all the way." - Amazon reviewer
"If you read only one book this year read the Martian by Andy Weir, but if you read two then you should pick up Interface. Make sure you pick it up before Hollywood" - Amazon reviewer
"A hugely impressive debut work" - Amazon reviewer
"a fast moving technothriller that successfully captures the reader from the first page" - Amazon reviewer
"...the best book I have ever read! ...the first book that has knocked Daphne du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn from top spot on my book list... I really don’t want to give too much away. I suspect you get the best read if you open it reluctantly to give it a go. So sorry for spoiling that! ...one of those books you feel genuinely sad to finish" - 4 Kids And A Chicken
For Sarah, Alex & Nathan
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Acknowledgments
About the Author
One
It was a perfect day for sailing:
placid seas, a steady south-easterly – certainly not the type of conditions in which you would expect something to go wrong. Yet in the middle of the Indian Ocean a fishing ship listed as registered in Dubai, was sinking.
At least that was how it was meant to look.
A woman in blue overalls stood on the deck next to three other crew members, watching their rescuers approach. Her plastic-rimmed glasses sparkled as the 10,000-ton container vessel pulled alongside, crew ready with ropes to tie the craft together. The ship’s captain, a blunt-mannered Englishman, had barely hidden his irritation at receiving the distress call. Yet he had responded: there was no other craft within a hundred-mile radius, and he could not afford to draw unnecessary attention to his ship by ignoring such a call.
As the two ships slowly drew together, the captain peered over the railing at the woman who was holding a stiff, grey plastic folder.
"What’s your situation?" he asked.
"Still taking on water," she called back as a gangplank slid into place, connecting the two ships. "Our pumps are losing the battle."
"My engineer will inspect the breach. And we’ll get our own pumps connected up. Who’s in charge?"
"Skipper’s below decks." The woman strode across the plank, holding out the grey folder. "I was asked to give you this."
The captain took it, an expression of confusion on his face. "You don’t look or sound much like a fisherman." He sniffed the air. "Don’t smell like one either."
She reached into the pocket of her grubby blue overalls and pulled out a handgun, aiming it at his chest. "Don’t do anything stupid."
The five men standing behind the captain froze, though the captain did not look so panicked. "Is this your idea of a joke?"
She took a step forward, gesturing with the weapon. "I’m not known for making them."
He cleared his throat. "You might have taken on more than you expected." Behind him more than a dozen figures clad in black combat gear swarmed onto the deck, automatic rifles held with precision. They spread out, targeting the woman and the three crew on the deck of the fishing ship. "Now," he said, "shall we start again?"
The woman straightened. "Sixteen guards?"
The captain shook his head. "Not your lucky day. I’ll take that gun." She shrugged, turned it around and held out the grip. He took it from her, hefting it in his hand, then looked puzzled. With a practised motion he ejected the clip and examined it. "Empty?"
She smiled. "It was just a distraction. The system needs a little time to prep."
The captain glanced quickly around. A pattern of red dots had appeared on the man nearest to him, rippling and rotating, then narrowing to a single point. The same pattern appeared on the others. "What is going on?"
"We want your cargo."
His eyes narrowed. "You want to steal washing machine parts?"
"Look in the folder. It’s a copy of your manifest. And not the fake one."
The captain flipped it open and gasped. "This was classified."
"Can I presume you’re not going to cooperate?"
The captain shook his head. The dots narrowed on his chest and a high-pitched whine filled the air.
"If it’s any consolation, it will be quick."
His face went white and he turned, shouting, "Take cover!"
She didn’t bother telling him it was too late. Instead she crouched low. The red dots pulsed brightly and there was a disturbance in the air like a thousand tiny gusts of wind.
Then there were screams.
She kept her gaze averted. Not because she couldn’t bear the sight, but to avoid the possibility of particle damage to her eyes. Instead she tapped her earpiece. "This is Cortez. I presume you saw all that?"
"In my periphery," replied a heavily digitised voice, just recognisable as female. "I was monitoring another operation."
"You have something more important to watch than this?"
"There are many initiatives in progress. I note your telemetry is elevated. Do you have the situation under control?"
"You said four armed guards. There were sixteen."
There was a pause. "I cannot fault your ability to count."
"Another glitch? How many cycles are you giving me?"
"Enough for your purposes."
"I could have taken them out hand-to-hand."
"All sixteen? There’s no sense in taking unnecessary risks. Now retrieve and sanitise. I need you back in London."
"I only just got here."
"You have the next part of Project Green to carry out. Sending details now. But don’t worry, you’ll have another trip soon."
The woman saw images flash across her vision. A face. A name. Both deeply familiar. "Is it finally time?"
"The analysis has been verified, but he is just one of a number of pieces we need to bring into play. Any questions?"
"Lots. But I know better than to ask them."
The call disconnected. The woman turned to her team, now walking across the gang plank wearing yellow hazmat suits. One handed her a spare. She quickly slid it on, then turned and stepped over the bodies.
Two
The senior partner sat staring at the door of the meeting room, ignoring the others who waited with him. Some things Gordon Freeman liked doing. Other things he had to do. A few he genuinely regretted, but for the greater good of Crawford, White & Paine, Solicitors, they had to happen. He might not have founded CWP – he wasn’t quite that old - but it had been his life, his labour of love. Which was probably the reason he had married three times and lost touch with all four of his (now adult) children. CWP had to be protected above all else, and that was why he had called this meeting.
Next to him was Henry Stotter, head of the firm’s Corporate Department: a man of few words that he couldn’t bill for. He was unlikely to contribute, but a meeting like this required a certain weight of numbers. There needed to be no doubt of the message being communicated. And there needed to be witnesses in the event that litigation followed, although the reality was that barely registered as a concern.
Next to Stotter, as far away from Freeman as she could sit, was the woman from HR. He would have preferred to keep this meeting for lawyers only, but CWP was a big firm and they had procedures. When he was younger, these were merely paid lip-service. But the world was changing – changing so fast he wasn’t sure anyone could predict what would happen next.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," called Freeman, his voice hoarse from too much coffee and not quite enough whisky.
A young man in his mid-twenties appeared wearing the pinched smile of someone riding the edge of exhaustion, but then he’d probably worked more than sixty of the last seventy-two hours, as most junior associates at CWP did. His name was Michael Adams and he was the firm’s highest performing junior associate: a safe pair of hands given his almost absurd attention to detail. The clients and partners loved him, meaning he was always first on the internal request list whenever they were building a new deal team. Which made what they had to do now all the more galling.
Freeman pointed to the chair opposite the three of them. "Mr Adams, please have a seat."
Michael sat, adjusting his suit.
"You know Henry Stotter, and this is", he paused, "our HR representative."
The woman gave him a steely glare but smiled at Michael.
"I expect you’re wondering why you’re here."
Michael nodded. "I’m in the middle of a deal with the banking department, so they’re wondering too."
"Project Gemini?" Stotter asked, his expression suddenly animated. "The joint venture?"
"It should close tomorrow, if the other side don’t delay us further."
Freeman cleared his throat. "That’s great, Michael. But you’re not here to discuss Project Gemini." He took a deep breath. "There’s been a… complaint. Well, more than that." Freeman looked at Stotter then back to Michael. "An allegation. A very serious allegation."
"About what?"
"One of our biggest clients, InTech, called me this morning. Me, personally."