Fault Lines

by Mark Lingane

  The soldier twisted against the hold, crying out in pain, then he twitched away and back, breaking her grip. He grabbed her leg, forcing her down, but she swept around, securing her leg around his head and driving him to the ground.

  Hanson clutched the balaclava and started to pull it off. She saw the square, cleanly shaven chin, but didn’t see the low punch-jab into her stomach that knocked the wind out of her. The soldier leaped to his feet and stepped over the gasping Hanson, pulling the balaclava back into place. He picked her up by the hair until she was on her knees. He brought around a heavy fist and smashed it into her jaw. She flew across the roof. He grabbed his rifle and pressed the barrel against her head. Hanson could see murder in his eyes.

  And then he hesitated.

  Keeping the sights trained on her, he reached into his pocket and extracted a small black box that emitted a dim green glow. He stepped back, keeping his weapon trained on her, still hesitating. Then the expression in his eyes changed.

  The doubt was gone. He cocked the rifle.

  A steel bar swung in from the side, smashing into his arm. Chambers brought the bar around again, into the soldier’s hamstrings. The man fell backward, rolling away. The rifle flew out of his hands and skipped across the roof. The soldier groped around, but was unable to locate it. Chambers kicked him in the stomach, forcing the soldier to roll away.

  Lightning sheeted across the sky, outlining the figure. Chambers charged forward, but the man was gone. It had all happened so fast Hanson was barely able to stand.

  “Where did he go?” he shouted. Manically, he searched the rooftop. Another sheet of lightning illuminated the roof. He caught a flash of metal in the guttering.

  “Today has not been a good day,” she murmured. He helped her sit up. She complained all the way. “I take it you couldn’t stop him.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I notice you couldn’t stop him either.”

  She smiled at him. “Please don’t run off after assassins. I need you around to rescue me.”

  “I heard another gunshot. I thought he’d had a go at you,” Chambers said, concern in his voice.

  “It was close. I’d gone for the letter, but changed my mind at the last minute. You were more important. Lucky I did, because the bullet landed in the fire and exploded. Would’ve pinned me. Took out the whiskey instead, which is enough of a crime.”

  Hanson sat silently, staring at the rooftop. “He pulled a small black device out of his pocket. It had green numbers on it like a clock.” She held up an imaginary box in front of her.

  “Maybe you were less important than his dinner date,” Chambers said.

  “It was odd, like he was making up his mind. I could sense he wanted to shoot me, but he looked at his box and didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “Is that when I rescued you?”

  Lightning flashed again. Hanson gasped. “Your head.”

  “What? It stings a little.”

  “Come here.” She took out a handkerchief, knelt next to him and held it to his forehead.

  “Ow,” Chambers cried.

  “Ow? Is that what they say down on the estates when you get merked?”

  “Is that clean?”

  “Yeah,” she replied slowly.

  “You could be nice to me. I’ve just been whacked in the head by a sharp piece of metal while rescuing you. You were nice to creepy old guy.”

  “He’s old. He deserves respect.”

  “Deserved. Past tense now. And did he really? He was threatening you and being creepy.”

  She looked into his face. “Interesting, isn’t it? He said lots of odd things. And when he was about to say something vital, he was shot by a mystery sniper.”

  “Notice the outline?”

  “No. Where?”

  Chambers indicated the nearby chalk marks. “That must be where he shot from. Chalk outline, same as the other building.”

  “At least now we have a name. Famous young Alan Henderson, who holds the world record for a distance kill. Do you think it could’ve been him?”

  “The guy wasn’t a young soldier. His movements were slow, but he knew what to do. Like those old Kung Fu masters who replace speed with cunning. Maybe that rules him out.” He winced as the pain stung deeply.

  “Let’s get that injury seen to,” Hanson said. She grimaced with sympathy. “Sorry.”

  It had been foolish to run in on his own, but at least they now had a connection, a name, and could build some kind of a case. “I think I’ll do what the nice white girl says.”

  She mock-threatened to punch him. “You want another injury to go with your existing one?”

  Chambers staggered up, fighting to get his balance as the world wheeled around him.

  “You notice anything about this house?” Hanson said, as she helped him stabilize.

  “It’s dark.”

  “And empty, like the place that survived the plane crash. Quite a coincidence. Empty building, although not as freaky, plus military sniper and chalk outline.”

  “Jeez, we can’t leave without the gun,” Chambers said.

  He staggered around, clutching the handkerchief to his head until he found the rifle lying in the guttering. “Got it.”

  Hanson took it from him and looked down the barrel. She twirled it expertly in her hands. It was as light as a feather. Even though it had failed to fire, it was one expensive piece of cutting-edge kit. The owner would be furious to lose it.

  “It’s custom,” she said. “There aren’t too many people who can make something like this, and they’re the kind of people who keep records. Just in case the coppers come calling.”

  25

  CHIEF INSPECTOR BOOKER trudged up the street under his umbrella. His stomach sagged over his belt and his breathing was labored. The rain had declared war against the warm weather and rallied its forces. Booker felt it was personal. Water was seeping through the material and dripping onto his head.

  Blue lights flashed in the street-side windows. The curtains on the upstairs floor flicked open. Booker saw Hanson staring down at the crowd that was assembling at the edge of the taped-off perimeter, agog in their cashmere dressing gowns. He stopped and watched her, the changing expressions on her face, the way she stood. The eye of her father, but hopefully with a better future.

  He pushed his way into the building and up the stairs, and slipped quietly into the study, hovering in the shadows. The forensics team was slowly making its way through the room, tagging and photographing various items, diligently documenting the scene. Mel Chelsea wasn’t there. He’d have to check on her.

  The medic was attending to Chambers’ forehead, while Hanson was pulling out the contents of the safe and dumping them on the desk. She flicked through the files.

  “Were any CCTVs out in the vicinity?” Hanson called.

  “Yes. But Holloway’s team said they didn’t record anything,” someone replied. ‘They were pointing in the wrong direction.”

  Hanson groaned but continued to leaf through the pages. “I have a bad feeling we’ll need to talk to the commissioner,” she said to Chambers.

  Booker stiffened.

  “You’ll need proof that he was giving the files to your colonel friend,” Chambers replied.

  “You heard it from the colonel. Hey, you know that glowing device the guy on the roof had? Carter mentions it in his notes. But there’s no explanation of what it is.” She checked back and forth between two documents. “He’s got a vague note here: ‘H has failed. Arrange for termination.’ I wonder who H is.”

  “You’re good at this stuff. Why didn’t you stay in the army?”

  “And follow in Daddy’s footsteps? How could I ever live up to his legacy? I’d always be ‘not good enough,’ a failure. And the condescending and patronizing smiles from his friends would have driven me up the wall.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re over it.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and looked down. “Wait, I’ve got something.” She
held up a piece of paper. “A kill contract. A picture of a young woman, no name, initials CP at the bottom. It’s from thirty years ago.” She wrote the date in her notebook and slipped the next piece of paper out of the folder. “And here’s the forensics report. It’s got Chelsea’s name on it. She has the most amazingly neat writing.”

  “Didn’t she say to find the other files, plural?”

  Hanson read aloud: “‘Sniper kill … maximum range … incredibly lucky … target name Molly Blackall … September 1, 1991.’ Is that name familiar to you?”

  “How could it be?” Chambers replied.

  “‘Body found floating in the flood. Presumed drowned.’ Looks like Carter was the sniper. The commissioner would’ve been chief at the time.” Hanson flipped over the page and continued reading. “Chelsea is a marvel. She searched and found the firing point. And you know what was there?” She glanced up at Chambers, who was reclining on the Chesterfield with his eyes closed. “Chalk. Old chalk.”

  Chambers shook his head. “What’s significant about chalk?”

  “There are no others.” Hanson quickly leafed through the pages. “This is a damning piece of information.” She sat quietly staring out the window. “But this is not what he chose to burn. What could possibly be worse than this? I’m dying to know what was in that envelope.”

  “You would have been,” Chambers reminded her, “if you hadn’t come after me.”

  She rubbed her eyes and smiled. “Don’t worry; I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Listening, Booker was surprised. Of all the people to have ignored evidence in favor of saving her partner, Hanson would be the least likely. It was most unexpected. He picked up part of a conversation between two forensics field members talking about an incident in the forensics lab earlier that day.

  “… and the place was a mess.”

  “How did they get in?”

  “Dunno. They’re saying it could’ve been an insider.”

  “Any news about Chelsea?”

  “They doubt she’ll …”

  Booker stepped noisily out of the shadows into the center of the room. “Hanson, can you explain this?” Guidance was going to be required.

  Her head snapped up and she looked into the stern face of the chief. “Sir, what are you doing out?”

  “It’s hardly a dinner date. Nor am I chained to the desk like a dog. Do I need to remind you that you’ve been suspended? And that wasn’t an answer to my question.”

  “I was in the area; thought I’d lend a hand.”

  He gave her a long stare. “I’m nearly one hundred and ten percent sure that that is not permissible, or even believable. Please, don’t tell me this is to do with the plane crash.”

  “No, sir. Homicide.”

  Booker looked down at the prostrate figure of the deceased colonel. “He’s military. Don’t they normally do their own investigations?”

  “He’s ex-military. Now a civilian.”

  “I suppose with your background you cover both police and military. Oh, well, we all get one of these.”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “It seems every chief gets a strange sniper murder taking out an old military head. Probably a rite of passage.”

  “Every chief?”

  “Yes. Stanley had two or three as well. He managed to let it slip after a few drinks one night.”

  “Why haven’t we heard about these recurring incidents?”

  Booker paused. “It’s nothing to do with you, Hanson. Get home. I’ll turn a blind eye to you working when under suspension.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Chambers, who was chatting with a nurse. He caught the flash of Chamber’s eyes as they flicked over to him.

  “But I’m here now,” Hanson said, “and I’ve got my head around the situation.”

  “A smart DCI would know when compliance would be a better option than defiance.”

  “I’m making progress.” Dissent flashed in her eyes. The room fell into silence. There was tension in her voice beyond her normal desperation for approval.

  “Ah, yes, I keep forgetting that you’re the only inspector in the greater London area.”

  “I must protest.” She stood up to face him, placing her hands on the desk.

  “Protest as much as you want. Write it down in an epic that would do Homer proud. But get out of here.” Booker’s face was impassive.

  The two stood glaring at each other until Hanson broke and cast her eyes down. Booker watched her leave.

  Chambers stepped behind Booker at the window and watched Hanson walk down the street with her head lowered. “Thanks, Booker.”

  “You owe me, Chambers. Don’t think I won’t forget.”

  “She’s losing faith in you.”

  “Let’s all hope so.”

  26

  NORTON NOTED THE international code when his office phone rang. France.

  “Oui, Maréchal.” He leaned back in his chair and placed his boots on the table.

  “Ah, Field Marshal, you are being humorous, no?”

  “Apparently not. To what do I owe this privilege?”

  “We should discuss war.”

  Norton sat up, resting his forehead in his hand. The ongoing antagonistic nature of his channel neighbor gnawed at him. “War is not a solution, Maréchal.”

  “Some situations do not need a solution, rather a reaction. People need to see that things are done.”

  Norton sighed. Polispeak was spreading like an infection. “It’s better to act than react. We are in charge of our destiny. If we run around reacting to past events, we’re at the mercy of our attackers. And we fail to learn from history.”

  “You cannot ignore the will of the people. You, of all people, Field Marshal, must understand that. You, who have pledged to keep them safe.”

  “War is a losing game, and a loser’s game. There will always be losses, but my job is to minimize them. That’s a realistic—not idealistic—goal.” Norton felt his temperature rise. A growing number of people seemed to be developing an unwelcome understanding of what his job actually was. “Surely you believe the same. Otherwise we’re not leaders, just warmongers.”

  “I see we are at an impasse where insults will inevitably be issued. I suggest we end this now.”

  “Fine, you’ve said your piece, although it’s of little value.”

  “I have not said my piece yet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I have discussed the issue with my advisors and the parliament.” There was a long sigh. “If you wish to continue with your commitment not to attack, they will support your decision. Is this your final pronouncement on the matter?”

  “Yes, in my bones I think we should watch and wait. There’s no point running foolishly into the oncoming guns of an unknown enemy. This is a time where sense must prevail. Thank you for your support. It’s sorely needed.”

  “I will inform the parliament once we land.”

  “You’re not in France? Your phone number—”

  “Not yet, I’m still at the embassy. Our lines patch through the national servers so they can keep an ear on our dealings.”

  “Of course. Have a safe flight.” Norton heard a sharp crack as he hung up, similar to a distant gunshot.

  He let out a sigh of relief. France was a significant ally to have on their side. It would help when trying to talk some sense into the other leaders.

  “Lance Corporal,” he shouted, “get the U.S. on the line.”

  Phillip du Merle lay across the imported rug surrounded by shattered glass, his blood spilling out of the bullet hole in his head. From the opposing building, the sniper collected his things, being careful with the device, and moved quickly.

  The satellite phone gave a patchy signal, unusual considering his location. “It is done.”

  Earth’s rotation took the sun to the far horizon. Daylight was fading on the blue solar panels of Orion, a Zenit-4MT spy satellite orbiting at a height of two hundred kilometers above Earth’s
surface. The small internal battery switched on and reset the electron flow in the magnets lining the interior of the satellite. The magnetic strengths shifted and Orion started to rotate, aligning to its new course. Its trajectory slowly began to change, dipping toward the planet.

  Space debris from the satellite’s launch drifted into position, forming a structure around the small blue box. The structure continued to reconfigure as more abandoned pieces of rocket joined the construction, wrapping around the satellite. Machinery slid and clicked into place, creating a new shape.

  A sleek, silver spaceship silently appeared out of nothing, with the last of the disappearing sun’s rays catching its outline. It drifted to a stop, millimeters from the new structure. A small mechanical arm extended from the base of the craft and inserted a small black box into the satellite’s control center.

  With the most diminutive expulsion of gas, the silver craft moved in front of the drifting construction and both slowly began to gain momentum. Pieces locked solidly into place as the new machine fell. It trailed the spaceship, keeping close, as they both descended toward the planet’s surface.

  The silver craft started to glow as it entered Earth’s atmosphere. The tip turned yellow, then orange. The radiance billowed up, encompassing the body. Fire raged, piercing the darkness as it streaked toward the city below. Panels began to buckle and melt. The skin bubbled and peeled away as fire ripped into the metal. As spaceship and machine continued their accelerating descent, the silver craft shook violently. The structure fractured and pieces peeled away in the atmosphere.

  The city loomed ahead, its lights turning on as darkness crawled over.

  The final panels of the craft were ripped away, melting into the air. The last sound was the scream from the pilot as the craft erupted in flames and was vaporized.

  The machine, now safely in Earth’s airspace, tweaked its ailerons and rolled off its descent axis. The satellite, buried within the machine, buzzed noisily as signals were sent out and up.