by Hammond, Ray
He was grateful that so much of his waking time was taken up by training, even though its nature puzzled and worried him. Over the last twelve days, Floyd had made repeated parachute jumps along the length of jungle strip cleared for the trans-continental highway.
The HFDA men had not yet been told why they needed to gain such expertise, but each man jumped first in buddy formation with an instructor, then on his own, from heights between 10,000 and 12,000 feet – Floyd having to mask all the polished airborne skills his years with the Special Air Service Regiment had provided. At these altitudes oxygen was thin and the buddy training concentrated on showing the men how to free fall for the first few thousand feet before deploying their camouflaged stealth-parachutes at the last possible moment and steering themselves towards an electronic homing beacon. Then they had practiced jumping at night, the uncompleted highway illuminated with oil flares.
During their days of parachute training the aircraft that had flown them had been an ancient Venezuelan jet. But Floyd hadn’t seen this large Paraguayan cargo plane before.
There were no seats in the hold, just a vast bed of polythene sacks stuffed with cocaine. The cargo had to be worth tens of millions of dollars.
‘Find space anywhere you can,’ Ramon Resigo told his group of men. ‘We’ve got a long flight ahead of us.’
*
Once the first shock had passed, the world’s main democracies reacted to the destruction of a part of central London with an overwhelming fury. Democratic political leaders appeared on global television to proclaim that the attack on Britain’s capital city was like an attack on their own. All offered resources – military, intelligence-gathering and economic. All offered additional help and resources to track down the leader and the members of the reincarnated Humans First Party and its HFDA terrorist wing.
Knowing privately that Silicon Valley was the HFDA’s next intended target, President Robert Brabazon went on global television to express his determination that Makowski and his terrorists should be caught and that the United States would not give in to terrorist threats.
‘Finally, the Department of Justice is again increasing the size of the reward offered for information which leads to the capture or the death of Alexander Makowski,’ Brabazon told the world’s people. ‘As of now the reward is five hundred million dollars.’
Following this headline-grabbing announcement the global hunt for Makowski became a media sensation and supposed sightings of the terrorist leader poured in from all over the world.
The United Nations called a meeting of the Security Council to discuss the rapidly increasing world tension and all Western allies raised their security status to its highest alert level. US President Robert Brabazon reacted to his closest ally’s distress by putting his own nation on a war footing.
As a gesture of moral support for its stricken ally, twelve B-16 long-range, ultra-stealth heavy bombers of the Ninth Bomber Wing were dispatched with media fanfare from Andrews Air Force to fly into USAF Fairford, in Britain. There were no targets that the bombers could fly against, but the TV news coverage of their dispatch was intended to underline the strength of the Anglo-American alliance. It was an impotent show of force against an invisible enemy.
Seated in the cockpit jump seats of the lead aircraft were ATA Agent Nicole Sanderson and the agency’s high-energy physics consultant, Professor Alain Nagourney.
‘I must see the site of the British explosion,’ Nagourney had told Nicole a few minutes after the news of central London’s destruction had flashed around the world. ‘If the site has the same chemical signature as I found down in Arizona we’ll have our forensic link to Baxter’s work. You’ll need that for evidence when you’ve caught these assholes.’
Mike Ryan had agreed with the consulting physicist’s suggestion – all possible evidence had to be gathered.
‘Theoretically, we could now build a radically scaled-down particle accelerator in which a black-hole explosion could be created,’ Nagourney had explained to Ryan, Nicole and other senior ATA staff during an informal presentation. ‘But what we don’t have is the super-heavy isotope that Tom Baxter developed. Without that we couldn’t develop the necessary impact mass to trip a particle collision into multi-dimensional gravity – it would be like trying to build a nuclear weapon without using enriched uranium or plutonium. No isotope, no sustainable black hole.’
The physicist had paused during his presentation and turned to address Ryan directly. ‘And there’s something else. Crucially, we don’t know what it is that went wrong during the live test in Arizona and there’s nothing to suggest that Baxter found out either. But as the London crater is so much smaller – less than a thirtieth of the size – it looks as if Makowski or other physicists working for Humans First may have solved the problem. Or perhaps they haven’t. Perhaps the problem of uncontrolled accretion still exists and – depending on the scale of the black holes they try to produce – it is something that could reappear again. With uncertain results.’
‘Uncertain results?’ the ATA director queried.
‘Well, one strong possibility is that if an artificial black hole were to grow an event horizon that somehow overcame the built-in evaporation threshold, it could simply keep on growing.’
The frown on the faces around the room told him that they had not yet grasped what it was he was trying to warn them about.
‘And if a black hole continues to grow,’ he added. ‘It will consume everything in its gravitational vicinity – we just don’t know how large it could become. We’re in a wholly new and unknown area of physics.’
The following morning Mike Ryan had approved Nagourney’s emergency trip to London and had ordered Nicole to accompany him as a gesture of inter-agency goodwill towards their beleaguered counterparts in Britain.
‘Tell the CTU precisely what sort of weapon was used, Nicole,’ the director had added. ‘This is no time for secrecy. The President is going to speak directly with the British Prime Minister today to see if there is any more information about the threat to Silicon Valley.’
There was a double thump as the virtual pilot lowered the bomber’s landing gear ready for touch-down at USAF Fairford. It was black outside and, by British time, they were landing shortly after midnight.
‘So you’re now pretty sure how Humans First got hold of the Indiana technology,’ said Nagourney. They had talked about nothing other than the attack on London and the ongoing terrorist threat during their entire flight.
‘It’s still circumstantial,’ admitted Nicole, ‘But I’m sure that they stole Baxter’s computers and then tortured him to get his password and extract other information about the project. He must have suspected that someone had stored some of the isotope – perhaps he knew who it was but they couldn’t get it out of him. Then they had to track down the other scientists to find out where it was.’
‘And kill them one by one to find it,’ said Nagourney. ‘That sounds very cold bloodied.’
‘They’d employ local drug muscle to carry out the actual violence,’ explained Nicole. ‘FARC controls the cocaine supply, so there’s no shortage of thugs ready to work for the HFDA.’
The engines roared in a graver key and the bomber landed with a gentle bump. Then it braked hard, deployed reverse thrust and turned to follow a ground guidance vehicle.
When the aircraft came to a stop, the passengers thanked the humans who had overseen the virtual pilots and waited as dismounting steps were rolled up to cockpit door.
There was a powerful wind gusting across the airfield and Nicole’s dark hair was blown across her face like a veil as her foot touched the tarmac.
‘Miss Sanderson?’ said a polite British voice. ‘I’m David Evans, from the UK Counter-Terrorism Unit. Welcome to Britain.’
ID confirmed, said Carl.
*
Ray Fox gazed with frustration and tiredness at a world map projected onto the wall in the CTU’s relocated operations centre. He had not heard again from hi
s most important agent since the man’s first and only call from the Venezuelan Andes. That’s not necessarily worrying, Sue reassured him. He’s may have lost his communicator, or it may have been broken.
Yes, but where are they heading? Fox asked as he scanned the map for the thousandth time. It was almost two a.m. in the operations centre but Fox could not tear himself away. A long journey, Floyd said. Into North America probably. But what would be their target? Might they be mad enough to attack Washington directly, or even a target in another major city?
The Central Terrorism Unit’s failure to prevent the destruction of a part of central London had been crushing. Fox had immediately offered his resignation to the Cabinet Office.
Felicity, the prime minister’s political VA, had responded immediately. ‘The PM says, “Don’t be a damn fool”,’ she had told the Director over an internal link. ‘He says we need you now more than ever.’
But any thoughts of beginning an investigation to catch those who had been behind the appalling attack on London would have to wait until the country itself had been steadied. Although power and other services had been restored to most of the capital there was still a profound sense of shock in the nation. The news channels reported that the government was functioning normally and that, although severely depressed, the City of London’s stock markets remained running from their dispersed locations. But the British people wanted time to grieve, not only for those brave members of the emergency services and military who had sacrificed their lives, but also for the loss of many venerable buildings and landmarks of their ancient city.
Many people ignored government requests for the public to stay away from the capital and the roads into and around the city were clogged with traffic as families and friends tried desperately to ascertain the fate of their property and, in some instances, of loved ones who had been missing since the implosion. Emergency services from all over the South East were now working in the badly damaged areas around ground zero to find any buried victims and to bring food and water to those who had survived.
I’d give anything to know here Floyd is, Fox told his VA as he finally pulled himself away from the screen.
*
‘Thank you Lyon, understood,’ responded the Colombian pilot, injecting urgency into his voice. ‘We are descending to 10,000 feet. We will prepare for an emergency landing at Amberieu Airport’
The Paraguayan cargo plane was in a steep but controlled dive. A few moments earlier the pilot had contacted Lyon regional air traffic control in eastern France to report that his aircraft – travelling on its filed flight plan between the Paraguayan capital of Asuncion and Moscow – had suffered from a sudden loss of pressurization. But despite the report he had made to air traffic control, neither the pilot nor his co-pilot were having any trouble breathing the air in the cockpit.
In the cargo hold Floyd stood bracing himself against a fuselage rib. He and all the men of the HFDA company had checked and donned their black, stealth parachutes. All had eye vizors ready to pull down, all had night vision sights slung around their necks.
Sergeant Ramon Resigo stood by a cargo door, ready for the jump.
Levelling out, the plane flew steadily onwards for a few minutes. Then a member of the flight crew opened the specially-modified cargo door inwards to reveal that it was night outside.
The crew member stood staring at a small screen beside the open doorway as darkness rushed past and freezing air invaded the cargo hold. A map outline appeared on the screen and then a central red dot appeared. After a few seconds this turned green. The crewmember held up a thumb.
‘GO, GO, GO,’ shouted Resigo at his men and the first of the group jumped out into space.
Floyd checked the location finder on his right forearm. Every man had practiced night jumps in which they had had to steer their way towards a homing beacon. Floyd presumed there was such a beacon already on the ground down below – wherever down below was. Apart from knowing that they had been flying steadily for almost twelve hours, in the windowless hold Floyd had no idea in which direction they had been traveling, but wherever it was, it had to be on the far side of the world from the Venezuelan rain forest.
The location finder was receiving a strong beacon signal. Floyd and Resigo were the last of their group at the doorway. The two men stepped out into space together.
Ten minutes later the pilot of the Paraguayan cargo transporter contacted Lyon air traffic control again.
‘We have solved the pressurization problem,’ he reported. ‘Pressure is fully restored and is stable. Request permission to return to cruising altitude and resume flight plan to Moscow.’
Eighteen
Harry Floyd had been issued with a gun. It was a brand new, Chinese-built, laser-sighted T-94 automatic assault rifle. He had also been given four magazines, each with forty rounds of live ammunition. As he stood guard in a small barn his fingers keep straying to the stock, to the magazine, to the trigger itself. He was so angry he wanted to use the weapon.
Along with a Belgian HFDA volunteer he had been ordered to guard an elderly man who was now tied to an upright chair placed in the centre of the barn’s stone floor. The helpless prisoner had already been so badly beaten his face looked as if its bones had been removed. He seemed now to be asleep, or unconscious, his face deathly white and his chin on his chest. Floyd had learned that the Humans First leadership had handed this uncooperative prisoner over to the FARC mercenaries to see if their particularly brutal methods of coercion could achieve success where the HFDA’s less direct methods had failed. But from the fact that the man had been recently-beaten and was still bound, gagged and under guard, it was obvious he not yet succumbed.
The barn was one of a number of outbuildings clustered around a large and isolated farmhouse that, to his complete surprise, Floyd had learned was set in the remote foothills of the Jura mountains in eastern France.
The night before he and the other men of the HFDA company had landed safely in a large field, close to the small electronic homing beacon that was guiding all of the other parachutists to their precise landing destination. There were so many of them landing together that, had it not been for their night-vision goggles, they would have fallen on top of each other.
HFDA volunteers were waiting on the ground to receive the new arrivals and it had been almost three a.m. by the time the last group had landed. It had then taken less than half and hour for the 200 or so soldiers to walk across the dark fields to the farmhouse complex. On arrival, Floyd and his group had been shown to dormitories and told to get a few hours’ rest.
The following morning the new arrivals found HFDA cooks in the farmhouse’s well-equipped kitchen producing a constant stream of hot food. The men ate breakfast outside, in relays. As Floyd waited his turn with Hans Hoogervorst, Rod Kantor, the Canadian volunteer, had arrived with news that they were now in eastern France, in the Jura mountains.
‘They say the nearest town is a place called Morbier,’ said Kantor. ‘I overheard some of the local volunteers talking. The target we’re going to attack is on the other side of those mountains.’ He nodded to the range of peaks that rose up grandly in the distance.
When they had eaten breakfast Floyd and the others had been told to report to an outbuilding that had been turned into a weapons store. A massive quantity of ordnance had been gathered in the remote farm complex and, as he was issued with his own rifle and combat knife, Floyd ran his eyes over the racks and racks of gleaming weaponry and ammunition in the makeshift armoury. There was sufficient high-tech firepower to storm a fortress. Floyd’s knowledge of European geography was reasonable, but he could not imagine why Humans First would need 200 heavily-armed direct-action volunteers in such a remote region of rural France.
Now, the large oak door opened and Ramon Resigo and three of the other FARC mercenaries entered the barn. One of the men was carrying an old-fashioned laptop computer. Resigo ordered them to set up the laptop a few feet in front of the bound man.
Floyd unshouldered his automatic rifle, cocked it and cradled it against his side. He imagined squeezing the trigger gently and hosing Resigo and the other FARC soldiers with a stream of lead. He knew from much practice that the gas-powered T-94 would emit sounds that were more like soft thuds than loud reports – noises that would hardly escape the barn’s thick stone walls. He wanted to kill these South American sadists, but he wanted a connection to London even more.