by L. A. Larkin
‘Incineration,’ says Price. ‘But we don’t yet know if that’s one hundred per cent effective. We’re monitoring the ocean where the Queen Elizabeth went down.’
‘We’ve had to incinerate the infected aircraft carrier and a military research facility at Porton Down,’ says Casburn. ‘Cost us millions. Hundreds dead. Caused a major panic. People have gone into siege mentality and won’t leave their homes.’
‘At all costs we must stop it getting into the Colorado River,’ says Price. ‘If it does, we don’t know how to stop it spreading. It’ll move too fast.’
‘At least we know what Sinclair looks like,’ Wolfe points out, trying to stay positive. ‘We find him and talk him out of it.’
‘You help us find him. That’s it.’
The semi-circular Hoover Dam looms large in the distance over seven hundred feet tall and, behind its curved barrier, Lake Mead, the darkest of emerald greens. Beyond, the arched Hoover Dam Bypass Bridge spans the Colorado River, providing tourists with a bird’s-eye view of the dam.
‘Stunning,’ says Price.
‘Where’s the First Family?’ Wolfe asks, peering through the glass.
‘On the bridge taking happy snaps,’ says Pine, pointing. ‘Over there. Traffic on either side’s been stopped.’
Wolfe peers down, scanning the barren, red rocky terrain, hoping to glimpse the car park where they are going to land. They swoop over the compound of tour operator, Dam Helicopters, all their choppers grounded. Rumours have spread of the First Family’s arrival, and pedestrians race for the bridge. A Secret Service helicopter hovers above and she can just make out a man armed with a rifle on a café roof. On the ground is a line of stationary vehicles on Route 93. In the middle of the bypass bridge, lined up in perfect precision like green and white stripes on a tie, are the four Sea Kings.
The road crossing the bridge is divided in two by a concrete median strip so the landing space for the choppers is tight. There is only one walkway across the bridge and it’s accessed on the Nevada side, separated from the road by a concrete barrier running its whole length. Except, today, a central section of the barrier has been removed to allow Elizabeth, her children and their protection detail to move easily from the road to the footpath. From this vantage point they get a spectacular view of the Hoover Dam, five miles up the river. To the First Family’s left, the narrow footpath is a bottleneck of onlookers behind waist-high crowd-control barriers. Facing the crowd are two Secret Service agents.
Their chopper hovers over a car park. Police cars have been moved to allow them room to land.
‘This is as close as I can get you,’ says the pilot.
The chopper’s downwash blasts grit into the air and police officers shield their faces against the dust and debris.
‘It’s tight,’ Casburn says.
‘I’ve landed in tighter,’ responds the pilot.
As soon as they’ve touched down and the pilot’s killed the engine, they hasten from the helicopter and, keeping low, head for a broad man in a suit with Marine-style haircut wearing mirror sunglasses. ‘Ron Lightbody heads up our Nevada office,’ says Pine. ‘This is DCI Casburn from Britain’s SO15, and murder suspect Olivia Wolfe. She’s helping us find Sinclair.’
Lightbody glances at her handcuffed hands.
‘I’ll bring you up to speed as we walk,’ says Pine. ‘Let’s go.’
Pine and Lightbody lead. The others follow.
‘Should she even be here, sir?’ Wolfe hears Lightbody ask.
‘Her hunches are good. She thinks FLOTUS is the target. So she stays.’
FLOTUS being the code name for the First Family.
Pine updates Lightbody as they climb zigzagging steps and then race along a cliff-edge footpath towards the bypass bridge. High above them in the cliffs, a Secret Service sniper lies flat, peering down the sight of his rifle. Wolfe spots another on the Arizona side. Next to him, an agent with binoculars. All are in black with bulletproof vests.
Lightbody leads them to the Hoover Dam Police’s operations centre, a flat-roofed, single-storey building with viewing platform which the Secret Service has taken over for the duration of the First Family’s visit. Inside, agents watch CCTV feeds from cameras covering the bridge and surrounding area.
‘Let me get this straight,’ says Lightbody. ‘This Sinclair has a biological weapon that erodes steel and he’ll try to use it to harm FLOTUS? How?’
‘We don’t know. That’s the problem,’ Pine replies.
Price clears her throat and speaks up. ‘Um, I have an idea.’
‘Go on,’ directs Pine.
‘The Hoover Dam Bypass Bridge is a steel-concrete composite, right?’
‘Right.’
‘I’ve done some calculations, and at 23,000 cubic metres of concrete and 7,258 metric tonnes of steel, and given Toby’s modified bacteria devours steel almost twice as quickly as the original specimens, a cupful could corrode the bridge enough for it to collapse in twenty-four to forty-eight hours.’
‘FLOTUS will be long gone by then,’ says Lightbody, arms folded. ‘A collapsed bridge is not our problem.’
‘That’s just the beginning,’ says Price. ‘If it gets into the river, it’ll be washed downstream, corroding any steel it comes into contact with. Pipes, turbines and gates will collapse. Downstream at the Davis Dam, they’ll close the gates, but that won’t stop its progress. Psychosillius will eat through those gates, and the next gate, and the next.’
‘How many states get their drinking water from this part of the Colorado River?’ asks Wolfe.
‘No idea.’ Lightbody calls over Hoover Dam police officer Bohannon, and repeats Wolfe’s question.
‘Approximately eight million people,’ Bohannon replies. ‘That includes residents of Arizona, Nevada and California and, because of seepage from the All-American Canal, there’s Mexico too.’
‘And that’s just the people impacted by the water-borne bacteria,’ says Price. ‘Psychosillius can travel on people and cars and trucks and planes. This is more destructive than any bomb. It will level cities. Skyscrapers will collapse. Flights won’t take off, ships won’t sail. We’re talking about a global economic collapse and the death of millions.’
‘Okay,’ Pine says, ‘I get the picture. Our job is to protect POTUS and FLOTUS. Nothing else.’
Wolfe’s heart is pounding. She’s terrified she is right about Sinclair and they can’t stop him. She’s also terrified she’s wrong and therefore leading the Secret Service on a wild-goose chase and making enemies of the most powerful law enforcement agencies in the world.
‘Has the crowd been screened?’ Pine asks Lightbody.
‘Initially,’ says Lightbody. ‘But we had a bottleneck along the walkway. Kids getting crushed, so we let some through un-magged.’
Pine frowns. The magnetometers detect guns.
‘Could Sinclair be armed?’ he asks Wolfe.
‘Normally I’d say no way. But his plan to infect Creech has failed. That could destabilise him. So, yes. Yes, he could.’
72
Wearing a Nevada Wolf Pack black baseball cap and sunglasses, Sinclair stands just forty feet from his target.
Pretending to take photos with his phone, his focus is on the President’s six-year-old daughter, Melanie, zooming in on her face, her blue eyes wide with wonder as her mother, Elizabeth, points out a feature on the dam. The daughter has a blonde bob held back by a mauve hairband and freckles on her nose. She can’t stay still, bouncing from foot to foot, just as his Sally used to. He feels a stab of guilt like heartburn in his chest. But Sally won’t get to see the Hoover Dam, or go to university, or fall in love.
The First Lady moves, momentarily blocking his view of Melanie. Sinclair lowers his phone. His stomach somersaults when he realises the small group is heading his way. The shift agents react instantly. The one closest to Elizabeth says something over the air to the shift leader. It’s rare for the protection detail to speak so, if they do, they have a prob
lem. This kind of impromptu move is exactly what the Secret Service hates and what Sinclair had hoped for.
There must be a hundred onlookers jostling around him on the narrow walkway and hundreds more heading their way. People scream and wave, desperate to grab Elizabeth’s attention and get that once-in-a-lifetime photo. Between Sinclair and his target are families, backpackers, couples, and twenty or so Girl Scout Juniors, easily identified by their jade green vests covered in badges and patches over white polo shirts.
Earlier, at the Hoover Dam’s High Scaler Café, where he’d bought a coffee and killed time staring at the T-shirts, key rings and other memorabilia, he’d overheard one girl tell the woman at the till they were the Girl Scouts of South Nevada. The Girl Scout standing directly in front of Sinclair, wearing a pink daypack and pink clips in her long dark hair, looks to be no more than nine. She squeals with excitement and jumps up and down at the First Family’s approach.
‘Holly! They’re coming! They’re coming!’ she says.
Holly is dumpy and bespectacled, with a wiry plait down her back. She sees her friend jumping up and down and follows suit.
Being short, Sinclair doesn’t stand out. He’s made sure he is next to a Canadian family of five holidaying in Nevada so he doesn’t look like a lone male. He’s read how the protection detail scrutinises crowds, looking for anyone out of place or behaving oddly. In his right pocket is a glass laboratory bottle with a unique red cap he’s invented. Sinclair takes care not to put a hand into his jacket or to look down. He doesn’t want to look suspicious. Like he’s drawing a weapon. He keeps his eyes on his target.
Twenty feet away and closing.
The President’s daughter has honed in on the Girl Scouts at the front. Sinclair has studied his target and knows Melanie is a Girl Scout ‘Daisy’. A few months ago, the Girl Scouts from Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, Oklahoma and Washington, D.C. had a slumber party on the White House lawn. Elizabeth had come up with the idea and some lucky girls even got a group hug from the President, who dropped in to say hi. Melanie joined her mother at the camp singing songs around a makeshift campfire of battery-operated lanterns.
‘She looked at me! She did! I’ve got to get to the front,’ says Holly’s friend, ‘You stay here.’
The dark-haired girl squeezes between the two in front, ignoring the angry shove she receives.
Holly holds up her phone to take a photo, attempting a selfie with the First Family in the background, but she’s being jostled and is too short. Sinclair looks over her shoulder as Holly inspects the photo: all she’s managed to take is herself and the crowd.
‘Please don’t die on me!’ she mumbles, shaking the phone.
Sinclair can see the battery is almost flat. Holly slides a finger behind her glasses and rubs a tearful eye. Sinclair knows that feeling. The loser. Never cool. Overlooked.
‘Excuse me,’ Sinclair says. Holly looks behind her, startled, her plait flicking around. ‘Would you like me to take a photo of you and them?’ he asks. ‘I can text it to you.’ He holds up his mobile phone.
She blinks at Sinclair, uncertain. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.’
‘Okay,’ he says, smiling, then looks ahead, ignoring her. She’ll change her mind, just as Sally used to do.
The protection detail is as close as it can get to Elizabeth, Melanie and Thomas, without blocking their path to the well-wishers. The lead agent at the barrier directs a police officer to move so the First Family can stand at the barriers.
‘Sir?’ says Holly, tugging at Sinclair’s jacket. ‘Please will you take a photo?’
‘Sure.’
He raises his phone high and takes a photo of the President’s family, then of Holly smiling, making sure it captures a glimpse of Melanie through the crowd.
‘Here, have this,’ Sinclair says, offering Holly his phone.
Holly holds it in her open palm, confused.
‘You want me to take a photo of you?’
‘No, you have the phone. It’s yours. I don’t need it any more.’
‘You mean it, sir?’
‘I mean it.’ She takes his phone. ‘Hey, I got an idea,’ Sinclair continues.
He opens his other hand; resting in his palm is a metal, circular key ring with a colourful vintage Hoover Dam travel poster image on the front.
‘I bet Melanie would like a souvenir. I just bought this at the shop. You give it to her. Go on. Follow your friend. You can do it,’ he encourages.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Holly says, beaming. Then, just as quickly, her shoulders slouch and she looks defeated.
‘I’ll never get through.’
‘Course you will. Come with me.’
From the raised platform outside the Secret Service’s operations centre, Wolfe and Casburn scan the crowd on the bypass bridge. Casburn has an earpiece so he can communicate with Pine. Price is running tests for Psychosillius at the side of the bridge. Lightbody and Pine are in the control room.
Where is Sinclair?
Wolfe leans on the platform’s metal rail. She can’t see the onlookers’ faces: they have their backs to her. So she searches for a man of the right height and build. On the edge of the tightly packed throng, a dark-haired man in a denim jacket moves his head constantly, scanning the crowd.
‘Can I have the binoculars?’ she asks.
Casburn hands them to her but the handcuffs make them difficult to use. ‘For God’s sake, Dan, get these cuffs off me! I’m not going to do a runner.’
He looks her straight in the eye. ‘You run and I’ll kill you myself.’
She holds out her wrists and he removes the handcuffs.
Through the binoculars Wolfe focuses on the suspicious man. She can just make out a coil poking out of his jacket collar and up into his ear. Relieved, she realises he’s Secret Service.
There’s a bit of shoving near the cordon as a young girl in a green waistcoat with a chunky pigtail pushes to the front, followed by her father. The little girl stretches out a plump arm over the barrier towards Melanie. The agent assigned to Melanie has grey short-cropped hair and sunglasses. He instantly steps between them.
The girl with the plait hangs her head and pulls back her arm, clearly crestfallen. Melanie pouts, upset she can’t accept the gift offered, and pleads with the agent, who has a brief conversation over the air, takes the gift, inspects it, then hands something small and circular to Melanie. She gives the agent a big smile and moves closer to the gift-giver for a chat. Cute, but Wolfe reminds herself not to get distracted. She refocuses on the men in the crowd.
But the Girl Scout chatting to Melanie draws her attention once more. Another agent moves in and takes what looks like a souvenir key ring from Melanie and walks away with it. He heads towards a support helicopter. Melanie chats to her new friend, who gestures to her father in a black baseball cap to take a photo of them both, handing him the phone. The man takes the photo but seems distracted by the agent walking away. He isn’t even looking at them when he takes the picture and then shoves the phone back into his daughter’s hand. Why is he annoyed?
A long-haired man next to the annoyed father looks down. He’s undoing his jacket and slides his hand inside. Even if Sinclair was wearing a wig, the man is too tall to be him.
Wolfe’s eyes move back to the Girl Scout’s father. On his back is a navy blue backpack. She uses the binoculars to zoom in on it. Is that a tiny teddy bear dangling from the top handhold?
He’s not the father.
Wolfe grabs Casburn’s arm.
‘Toby! There!’ She points.
‘Imminent threat! Snowdrop!’ shouts Casburn into his sleeve’s microphone.
Wolfe doesn’t hear any more. She jumps the handrail and runs as if her life depends on it.
73
Wolfe sprints down the bridge’s footpath and throws herself into the closely packed crowd.
‘Stop him!’ she yells. ‘Sinclair!’
Her shouts go unheard above the raucous gather
ing. Between her and Sinclair are a hundred or so people. The Secret Service will react in a matter of seconds. The counter assault teams armed with fully automatic Stoner SR-16 rifles and flash-bang grenades will spill out of the Suburban and wherever else they’re hiding. The snipers will be ready to take the shot. She hopes to God that Pine will tell them she’s not the threat. But she knows that if she gets in the way, they will shoot through her.
Melanie is still at the barrier with her new friend. The agent in the denim jacket shoves through the crowd towards the longhaired man reaching inside his coat.
‘Gun!’ the undercover agent shouts, then clutches the man in a bear hug, pinning his arms so he can’t move.
At the word ‘Gun’, the agent protecting Melanie snaps his head round and sees the undercover agent grappling with a suspect.
The young girls at the front shriek and try to run, but they are pinned against the barrier.
Each shift agent runs to shield their protectees. Distracted for a second, the grey-haired agent swivels to grab Melanie, but Sinclair has jumped the barrier, snatched the President’s daughter and holds a gun to her head. It looks like a Glock, a pistol easily bought from any gun shop on the Strip.
The shift agent draws his pistol and points it at Sinclair.
‘Drop your weapon,’ he bellows. ‘Do it now!’
Sinclair grips the terrified child around the waist with his left arm, ducking low, using her to shield his torso from a bullet. If snipers try to shoot from behind, there’s a risk the bullet will travel through his body and kill Melanie too.
Sinclair shuffles backwards until his rear is against the white rails that run the length of the bridge. They are the only thing stopping him and Melanie from plummeting into the Black Canyon, nine hundred feet below.
Wolfe battles a tsunami of terrified people fleeing, her progress agonisingly slow. She’s almost knocked to the ground, staggers and pushes on.
Elizabeth screams as she’s forcibly removed from the scene.
‘No!’ she cries. ‘Not my daughter!’