Ground Zero
( Repairman Jack - 13 )
F. Paul Wilson
GROUND ZERO
ALSO BY F. PAUL WILSON
Repairman Jack*
The Tomb
Gateways
Legacies
Crisscross
Conspiracies
Infernal
All the Rage
Harbingers
Hosts
Bloodline
The Haunted Air
By the Sword
Young Adult*
Jack: Secret Histories
The Adversary Cycle*
The Keep
Reborn
The Tomb
Reprisal
The Touch
Nightworld
Other Novels
Healer
Implant
Wheels Within Wheels
Deep as the Marrow
An Enemy of the State
Mirage (with Matthew J. Costello)
Black Wind
Nightkill (with Steven Spruill)
Dydeetown World
Masque (with Matthew J. Costello)
The Tery
The Christmas Thingy
Sibs
Sims
The Select
The Fifth Harmonic
Virgin
Midnight Mass
Short Fiction
Soft and Others
The Barrens and Others
Aftershock & Others
Editor
Freak Show
Diagnosis: Terminal
* See “The Secret History of the World” (page 367)
GROUND ZERO
A Repairman Jack Novel
F. PAUL WILSON
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK • NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
GROUND ZERO: A REPAIRMAN JACK NOVEL
Copyright © 2009 by F. Paul Wilson
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wilson, F. Paul (Francis Paul)
Ground zero: a Repairman Jack novel / F. Paul Wilson.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 978-0-7653-2281-4
1. Repairman Jack (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. September 11 Terrorist Attacks, 2001—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3573.I45695G76 2009
813'.54—dc22
2009016465
First Edition: September 2009
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
AUTHOR’S NOTE
You hold the pen-penultimate Repairman Jack novel.
That’s right: I’ve decided to end the series with number fifteen (though Jack will make his final appearance in Nightworld).
I’ve always said this would be a closed-end series, that I would not run Jack into the ground, that I had a big story to tell and would lower the curtain after telling it.
The end of that story draws nigh. (There’s a highfalutin phrase.)
And if you’ve been following along, you’ve noticed that the recent novels do not tie up as neatly as the earlier ones. I’ve always kept longer story arcs running from book to book, but I used to be able to bring each installment to a distinct conclusion. That, I’m afraid, is no longer the case.
As I move people and objects into place and set the stage for the events that will tip all of humanity into Nightworld, the final chapter, this sort of incremental closure has become impossible.
So I ask you to bear with me. You may have noticed that By the Sword began shortly after Bloodline, and Ground Zero picks up a couple of months after that.
Two more Repairman Jack novels remain, the last ending just before Nightworld begins. Along the way we’ll be reprinting the remainder of the Adversary Cycle, synching the releases of The Touch, Reborn, and Reprisal with Jack’s timeline. (See “The Secret History of the World” at the end of this book for the sequence.)
The post-Harbingers installments of Jack’s tale have become what the French call a roman fleuve—literally, a “river novel,” with one story flowing from volume to volume. As a result, each new installment is going to feel richer, deeper, and make more sense if you’ve read the ones before.
Hang in there, folks. It’s been a long ride, and we’ve still got a lot of wonder, terror, and tragedy ahead. I promise you’ll be glad you made the trip.
—F. Paul Wilson
the Jersey shore
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to the usual crew for their efforts: my wife, Mary; my editor, David Hartwell; Elizabeth Monteleone; Steven Spruill; and my agent, Albert Zuckerman. Special thanks to David J. Schow for the guided hajj to hallowed Bronson Canyon and its infamous “caves.”
GROUND ZERO
Surreal, he thought as he watched the twin towers burn.
His rented boat rocked gently on the waters of New York harbor, a thousand feet off the Battery. The morning sun blazed in a flawless cerulean sky. But for the susurrus of the light breeze and the soft lapping of the waves against the hull, the world lay silent about him.
A beautiful, beautiful day . . .
. . . unless you were anywhere near those towers.
He tried to imagine the pandemonium in the streets around them—the Klaxons, the sirens, the shouts, the confusion, the terror. Not a hint of that here. The towers belched black smoke like a couple of chimneys, but all in silence.
He checked his watch: nearly ten o’clock. The plan was to allow an hour or so of chaos after the Arabs completed their mission. By then, though fear and terror would still be running high, the initial panic would have subsided. The situation would be considered horrific and tragic, but manageable. The second jet had hit at 9:03, so the hour mark was almost upon him. Time to initiate the second phase—the real reason for all this.
From a pocket of his Windbreaker he pulled a pair of gray plastic boxes, each the size of a cigarette pack—one marked with an S for the south tower, the other with an N for the north. He put the N away for later. After all, the south tower was the important one, the reason for this enormous undertaking.
He extended an aerial from the S box, then slid up a little safety cover on its front panel, revealing a black button. He took a breath and pressed the button, then watched and waited.
The vast majority would blame the collapse on the crazy Arabs who hijacked the planes and the Islamic extremists who funded them—the obvious choice. A few would notice inconsistencies and point fingers elsewhere, blaming the government or Big Oil or some other powerful but faceless entity.
No one, absolutely no one, would guess—or be allowed to guess—the truth behind the who and the why of this day.
MONDAY
1
Diana stared at herself in the mirror. She did that a lot. Maybe too much. No, definitely too much. But she didn’t have much else to do.
She hated her life. So boring.
Mainly because she was so lonely. Not that she was alone. She shared this big house with three men—grown men, sworn to protect her with their lives—but they weren’t friends. She could talk to them, as in have conversations, but couldn’t really talk to them about things that mattered. She chatted online all the time, but that wasn’t the same as having another flesh-and-blood fourteen-yea
r-old girl in the same room.
But that flesh-and-blood girl wouldn’t stay long once she got a look at Diana’s eyes.
She stared at the reflection of those eyes now. With their black pupils, black irises, and black everything else, they looked like ebony marbles stuck in her sockets. Sometimes she wanted to rip them out. Yeah, she’d be blind, but at least then she could go to school instead of having tutors. And she’d have a true excuse for wearing wraparound sunglasses all the time instead of lying about a rare eye condition.
She guessed it wasn’t a lie. It was rare—only a few Oculi left around the globe—and it was definitely a condition.
So she was an Oculus. Big deal. These black eyes were supposed to allow her to see things regular eyes were blind to, warnings from Outside.
Alarms.
She’d yet to experience one.
Not that she was complaining. She’d seen her father when he’d received Alarms and it didn’t look pleasant. In fact, it looked awful.
Why was she thinking of Alarms tonight? She hadn’t—
Something flashed to her right. She turned to look but it flashed again, still to her right. She realized it wasn’t in the room, but in her eye. A scintillating scotoma. She’d looked it up. The flashing lights always preceded her migraines. This wasn’t the sparkle she usually saw, more like wavy lines, but she knew the sooner she dug out her bottle of Imitrex and took one, the better.
And then the room tilted. For an instant she thought earthquake or tsunami, but then the pain stabbed through her head—much, much worse than a migraine—and the lights flashed brighter and longer and fused to blot out her room as her knees gave way and she dropped to the floor.
As she lay there shaking, shuddering, writhing with the pain that suffused her, a tunnel opened through the light, revealing . . .
. . . a man in a loincloth, standing on an old-fashioned scaffold and carving a huge block of stone more than twice his height into some sort of thick pillar or column . . . his hammer striking the chisel again and again but making no sound . . . all eerily silent . . .
. . . the same man carving strange symbols into the side of the pillar . . .
. . . and others . . .
. . . and carving a cavity, perhaps three feet across and five feet deep, into one end of the pillar . . .
. . . and suddenly she is grabbed from behind and bound hand and foot . . .
. . . forced into the cavity . . .
. . . sealed over with a stone plug, plunging her into darkness . . .
. . . as she struggles for air she feels the pillar tilt as it slides into a deep hole in the earth and is covered over . . .
. . . she thrashes in the small space until her air runs out and darkness claims her . . .
. . . and then . . . a spark in the distance . . . growing . . . swelling . . . to become a glowing egg . . .
. . . the egg fades and darkness regains control until a booming voice splits the silence . . .
IT HAS AWAKENED!
. . . and then the egg reappears and a spot of darkness materializes within it . . . growing . . . growing until . . .
. . . it bursts free . . .
. . . a strange, formless, flickering, alien being . . .
. . . and as it emerges, an odd word forms in her mind . . .
Fhinntmanchca . . . Fhinntmanchca . . . Fhinntmanchca . . .
The vision faded, and with it the pain, replaced by beckoning oblivion. Diana fought the draw of the temporary reprieve it promised and forced her eyes open. She pushed herself off the floor and staggered to her bedroom door. She had to tell them . . . she had to go to New York.
She had to tell the Heir. She had to find Jack. But where was he?
2
For an instant her fingers froze over the keyboard—surely no more than a heartbeat—before she forced them to keep typing. But they were typing gibberish now.
The man seated by the door was watching her, she was sure of it.
The cybercafé was small but tended to be only half full at this hour—the reason she timed her visits for this time of day. She didn’t want anyone too close while she typed.
She made a practice of rotating among a long list of cafés, coffee shops, and libraries that offered laptops and computers for public use. The list was numbered and she used a random integer generator to choose which one she would visit on any given day. The only time she did not follow the generator’s choice was if it happened to produce the same number twice in a row.
On some visits she would simply surf through her list of blogs and Web sites, blocking and copying pertinent passages and storing them on her flash drive. She never posted on surfing visits. And she never surfed on posting visits.
Today was a posting visit. She’d typed out her posts last night and this morning, then stored them on her flash drive. That way, when she reached a computer, all she had to do was plug in her drive, block and copy the posts onto the various forums or into the appropriate blog comments sections, then be on her way.
She was just finishing up—no more than ten minutes at the keyboard so far and maybe two to go—when she noticed the man get a call. He spoke briefly on his cell, then began scanning the room. After studying everyone, his scrutiny settled on her.
She kept her face toward her screen but watched out of the corner of her eye. He had a bit of a Eurotrash air about him. Maybe it was the hair—bleached blond and short, combed forward for a Caesar look. A well-preserved fifty, tanned, muscular, with strong cheekbones. She didn’t know the country of origin of his clothing, but it was not the U.S. All in all he seemed just a little too well put together to need to rent a laptop in a cybercafé. He looked more like a BlackBerry type.
He was discreet, pretending every so often to stare off into space as if composing his thoughts, but she’d caught him eyeing her. Certainly not because she was attractive. She had no illusions about her appearance. After Steve’s death, it had ceased to matter much. She’d let herself go somewhat—gaining weight, dressing in baggy warm-ups designed for comfort and little else, letting her hair grow out and wearing it in a styleless ponytail. In fact, if her frumpy looks deflected attention, so much the better.
No illusions about her mental state either. Maybe a bit paranoid. She might have been pushing evasive measures to the extreme.
Or not.
You weren’t paranoid if people were really out to get you, but she couldn’t be sure. If the wrong people were reading her posts, they might—might—care. And if they did care, they might—might—want to stop her.
If they thought she was a threat.
A big if. Who frequented these Web sites besides weirdos and nutcases? But the weirdos and nutcases were on to something. They were ninety percent right about everything except who and why. They were pointing fingers in the wrong directions.
Everything was either political or religious or cultural to them. They couldn’t see that the real reasons were much darker, more sinister, and more dangerous and threatening than their wildest nightmare scenarios.
Only one man was listening—or at least not dismissing her as a kook as were most of the others.
When the kooks think you’re a kook, maybe it’s time to reassess your position.
No. Not when you’re sure you’re right.
And she was sure. Well, pretty sure. As sure as you could be about these things when—
There. He’d looked at her again. Her gut tingled with alarm. No question: He was watching her.
How could they have found her? Her practice of switching log-in locations guaranteed a different IP address every time, and her random choice of location made it impossible to predict where she’d be.
Well, not literally impossible, but virtually impossible.
She’d sensed they might be looking for her, but never dreamed they were this close.
The café, already small and cramped, seemed to shrink.
Her practice was to situate herself in a rear corner with her back to a wal
l so no one could read over her shoulder. But that was working against her now. She wished she were closer to the front, nearer the door.
Keeping her fingers moving and her head perfectly still, she flicked her gaze back and forth. The coffee bar sat against the far wall; to her right, the restroom—“Customers Only”—and an “Employees Only” door leading who knew where; the front door to Amsterdam Avenue lay all the way across the café to her left. Through the windows she could see people whisking by in the bright July sunshine.
“Another?”
She jumped at the voice, then realized it was the waiter. Where had he come from? She glanced up at him—certainly no older than his late teens. He looked underfed and overtired. A college kid maybe?
She forced a smile as she nodded. “Why, yes. I do believe I will.”
She liked to indulge herself in these cafés, usually with a mocha latte—she was expected to buy something, so she might as well enjoy it—but only one. But today a second cup might prove useful. Make it look as if she intended to stay awhile.
While she waited, she put the time to good use by uploading the rest of her posts. She’d just hit ENTER on the last when the waiter returned.
“Hang on,” she said as he placed the cup on the table. She handed him a bill. “Here. I may have to leave on short notice. Keep the change.”
He looked at it, then her. “This is a twenty.”
“I know.” She understood his confusion: The tip was more than the coffees. “You look like you could use it.”
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