by Hammond, Ray
Floyd picked up another of the phones on the main reception desk and pressed nine. This time there was an outside dial tone. His fingers started punching in one of the three emergency numbers he had committed to memory.
‘Calling your mother again, Tipton?’ said a voice approaching from behind.
Floyd turned. Ramon Resigo stood immediately behind him, an automatic rifle crooked in his arm.
‘Communications cut, as you ordered,’ said Floyd, holding up the handset and the wire he had just wrenched from its socket.
The Columbian glanced at the dangling wire, then back at Floyd’s face and nodded.
‘O.K., get the others and take Elevator Two down to the Accelerator Hall.’
*
A meeting of the Global Crisis Committee had been called, for the first time during President Robert Brabazon’s term in office.
Seated around the table in the White House Situation Room, the President, his cabinet and the committee’s special security advisors, were shielded from all external interruption.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Theodore, one the President’s two dedicated VAs, over the room’s PA system. ‘We are ready to give you an overview of the situation and our first analysis of likely developments.’
Brabazon nodded and Theodore lit one of the large wall screens.
‘This is a direct video feed from French police at the CERN research campus on the Swiss border,’ explained the presidential VA.
The TV image that appeared on the screen was a night shot and bright lights had been erected all around the main entrance to the complex. Smoke was still rising from blast sites at the gatehouse and around the perimeter fence where HFDA terrorists had detonated charges to slow down police entry.
The camera panned around to show that scores of police and emergency vehicles were drawn up outside the campus, waiting for instructions. Even as they watched, the sound of muted gunfire could be heard coming from somewhere deep inside the complex.
‘The French confirm that a large group of heavily armed men have gained command of the CERN complex,’ Theodore told the committee members. ‘Based on advice from the British Counter Terrorism Unit, French authorities are assuming that the group is made up of trained HFDA terrorists and some FARC mercenaries, but it looks as though they had completed their penetration of the campus by the time the police arrived.’
‘What the hell do they want with this goddamn remote research centre?’ demanded President Brabazon.
‘Mr Ryan?’ prompted Theodore.
‘I want to bring in Professor Alain Nagourney,’ Mike Ryan said, sitting forward. ‘He’s a high energy particle physicist from the University of Chicago who is consulting for the ATA. He’s in Mountain View at present. Professor, can you hear me?’
The wall screen refreshed, then all present saw the image of a lean, unshaven, spare-looking man in a T-shirt and jeans sitting at on bed in a motel room.
‘We are live,’ Theodore confirmed.
‘Go ahead, Professor,’ said Ryan. ‘Tell us what the HFDA could want with this thing.’
‘O.K., I’m reasonably happy with this model,’ Nagourney told his high-level audience. ‘I’ve built a simulation of how a large volume of Zilerium 336 anti-matter isotope collisions could develop into a sustained singularity in the environment of the Large Hadron Collider. If you can stand by to project data at your end?’
The screen in the Situation Room switched to graphic mode.
‘This is the LHC at CERN,’ Nagourney explained highlighting a graphic of the circular tunnel. ‘It’s currently configured for smashing up uranium nuclei. If HFDA physicists used a sufficient quantity of their super-heavy isotope – if they used above one thousand attograms of anti-matter – they could deliberately create a black hole with a very large event horizon. They could destroy all of the Geneva region or even all of Western Europe.’
‘But only by killing themselves,’ interjected Brabazon. ‘They’d be committing suicide.’
There was a silence as all present reflected on this. In the past HFDA volunteers had died in the course of terrorist attacks, but none had voluntarily committed suicide.
‘They’re betting we won’t call their bluff,’ said Theodore.
‘Mr President?’ called Nagourney. ‘I should warn you that if the HFDA did trigger a black hole singularity in CERN there remains a real risk that the event horizon might not be containable. The zone of singularity would simply go on growing.’
‘And what would that mean?’ demanded Brabazon.
‘I’ve prepared a graphic,’ said Nagourney.
The image switched to show a daytime view of the Earth from space on which was superimposed an outline map of the European hemisphere.
A dark spot began to grow in western Europe. Then it gradually spread out to cover the entire continent. Abruptly the graphic altered to show a cross-section of the globe, complete with a representation of the magma strata and the planet’s molten core. The dark spot on the planet’s surface grew larger and larger and then, with an almost agonizing slowness, began to travel downwards towards the centre of the sphere, growing and consuming magma into its dark maw as it sank deeper into the Earth.
‘What’s happening?’ demanded Brabazon.
‘Sir, with sufficient mass, the black hole would suck in all of the matter in the surrounding area and then would fall through the Earth’s mantle towards the centre of the planet,’ explained Nagourney. ‘Once there it would carry on consuming matter until the entire planet had disappeared into a singularity no larger than a football. The moon would then follow, then the nearest planets and, eventually, even the sun itself. The whole solar system could disappear. The Earth would have become ground zero for a massive black hole that would eventually consume this part of the Milky Way galaxy.’
There was a stunned silence in the Situation Room as the simulated black hole on the screen consumed all of the planet.
‘Is this guesswork, Professor?’ demanded Brabazon as he watched the graphic repeating again and again.
‘The only guesswork is whether or not Makowski and the HFDA would risk using a large enough quantity of the isotope to trigger this,’ the physicist responded coolly. ‘If they do, then the outcome is a mathematical certainty.’
‘Thank you, Professor,’ said Ryan and Theo switched off the screen.
‘They must be insane,’ snapped the Secretary of State helplessly.
‘We already know that,’ said Brabazon, fury growing in his voice. ‘They have already demonstrated beyond any doubt that they are totally, absolutely, FUCKING INSANE!’
All present were taken aback by the President’s outburst, as if the scaffolding of a public persona had fallen away. None but the very closest of his advisors had ever seen the man lose his temper before, let alone swear so floridly in an official meeting, one that was, as routine, being recorded for posterity. But now posterity itself was under threat.
‘Let’s take a two minute comfort break,’ suggested Theo tactfully.
*
Stepping out of the elevator with his men, Floyd was surprised by the sheer scale of the brightly lit Accelerator Hall. Buried 150 metres beneath the main campus, the huge, almost empty space looked something like the turbine room of an old-fashioned power station.
The hall’s ceiling was at least eighty feet high and was criss-crossed by narrow walkways and motorized crane gantries. Dozens of suspended tungsten lamps lit the vast hall with a brittle, clinical brilliance.
A small section of what Floyd assumed to be the Large Hadron Collider itself stretched the length of the hall against the far wall. It was about eight feet in diameter and, as it passed through the hall, the stainless steel bore entered and exited various complex-looking housings and access points.
At least sixty soldiers from the HFDA raiding party were now in control of the hall. As Floyd stepped away from the elevator he saw that Dr Sergy Larov and a dozen of his technical team had donned sterile, anti-static whi
te uniforms and were busy at one of the collider’s large access hatches. Also wearing a white sterile suit was the coerced Professor Bo Lundgren, now deep in conversation with Larov.
A score of terrified scientists in sterile clothing were being herded against the end wall of the Accelerator Hall. They were guarded by three young HFDA soldiers, all of whom had their weapons trained on the CERN researchers. Among the captured group were one security guard and two hapless cleaners, complete with mops and buckets.
As Floyd watched, Sergy Larov turned away from his huddled conference with Professor Lundgren and crossed the main floor of the hall to approach the captured scientists. He pointed two of them out to one of the guards and the soldier stepped forward, separated one man and one woman from the group, and marched them back over to join Larov’s group of technicians. The soldier remained behind them, his automatic rifle raised, as the HFDA scientists barked questions at the pair.
Although he did not understand the technical details of the super-scale technology housed in this cavernous room, Floyd could sense vast quantities of energy in the air. It was completely dry in this huge vault, despite being so far underground, and the atmosphere seemed to crackle with latent electrical power.
Additional bright lights flicked on at the far end of the hall and Floyd saw Alexander Makowski standing in front of a television camera. Despite the brilliance in the main hall, TV lights had been set up and two cameras – one on a tripod, one a shoulder-mounted Steadicam – were now focusing on the Humans First leader. It looked as if he was preparing to record a broadcast.
There was intense activity everywhere in the hall and the man with the mobile camera now turned and panned slowly around the enormous room recording details of the HFDA’s take-over of the facility. They wanted the outside world to see precisely what was happening deep underground.
Floyd took his bearings. The large oval tunnel which housed the Hadron Collider entered and exited the hall at either end – giant openings large enough to drive a truck into. From points scattered all around the hall, corridors and walkways led off to other parts of the vast underground complex.
‘Tipton,’ called Resigo, striding across the hall. ‘Take your unit and secure the power station.’
The sergeant pointed to a wide corridor leading off from the main hall. ‘Just make sure the generators keep running.’
From the pre-op briefing Floyd knew that the Large Hadron Collider drew electricity from its own subterranean power station. Larov had explained that the giant particle accelerator demanded so much energy that CERN had been forced to abandon its reliance on the French and Swiss national power grids and generate its own electricity deep underground.
With a nod to Resigo, Floyd set off at a trot, followed by the half-dozen HFDA soldiers.
*
Robert Brabazon glared balefully around the hastily reconvened meting in the Situation Room. He was daring anyone, or any of the VAs, to disagree with his angry and profane analysis of the HFDA’s collective mental health.
‘Shall I resume, Mr President?’ asked Theodore politely.
The President sank back in his chair and nodded for his political-economic VA to continue with his situation report. Like all of the other cabinet members in this room Robert Brabazon’s intellect and judgment benefited from the advice of an especially powerful bio-compatible chip that was implanted in his cerebral cortex. The bio-interface processors provided a platform for the most advanced hardened virtual assistant personalities ever developed by the Department of Defense, software agents so powerful they were still on the Pentagon’s classified armaments list.
Brabazon’s own two virtual assistants, one customized for political and economic strategizing, the other a general purpose administrative VA, each had access to processing speeds and reasoning power many magnitudes greater than even the most capable human brain.
Theodore now pasted a 3-D graphic of the Large Hadron Collider to the screen. It looked like a spokeless bicycle wheel lying on a sea bed with four tall vertical pipes connecting it to the surface.
But before the VA could resume the briefing, Mike Ryan sat forward.
‘During the break I learned that one of my agents is now underground at CERN,’ he told the meeting. ‘She was on her way to Geneva to investigate a reported sighting of Makowski in the region when Professor Nagourney realized the HFDA’s likely target. She diverted to the complex to warn them but she is currently out of contact, presumed to be underground. Also, the British have sent in the SAS —’
‘How are the French forces planning to respond?’ interrupted General Harris Diamand, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
‘Well, the local police are doing nothing at present, general,’ Ryan told the flag-rank officer. ‘On our advice they’re waiting for the French and British special forces to arrive.’
‘We must send in the SEALs,’ barked the general. ‘Find out where the nearest SEAL squadron is.’
‘I think we have to let the French and British lead on this,’ said Ryan quietly but firmly.
The General shook his head stubbornly.
‘The nearest SEALS are at a training base near Frankfurt, Germany,’ reported a new voice. It was Edwin, General Diamand’s personal VA. ‘They could be there in forty minutes.’
‘Sir, the SAS traveled by scram-jump and they’ve already landed in France,’ Ryan put in quickly as Tony, his own VA, provided him privately with the information. ‘They will be at CERN in fifteen minutes.’
‘O.K., but send in our SEALs from Frankfurt,’ ordered Brabazon. ‘And make sure the Brits and the French know they’re coming. We don’t want any goddamn arguments about jurisdiction.’
‘The Commandement des Operations Speciales have already been informed about the British presence,’ said Ryan as Tony reported in his inner ear. ‘The COS trains with the SAS and they’re going to work together, under French command.’
‘Sir?’ It was General Diamand.
Brabazon nodded for the general to speak.
‘You need to be absolutely sure that you can neutralize this threat,’ said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. ‘If there is even a one per cent chance Makowski would detonate a particle weapon of the scale Professor Nagourney suggests you should get your tactical bombers into the air now. The Ninth Bomber Wing is currently at Fairford in England and they could be overhead at CERN in thirty-four minutes. You should be ready to completely destroy this facility before the terrorists can activate their new weapon.’
The President pursed his lips as he considered. Then he began to nod.
‘Sir?’ put in Mike Ryan. ‘These tunnels are thirty storeys below ground.’ He pointed to the graphic on the wall. ‘Surely we haven’t got any weapon that can penetrate that far down?’
‘Well, General?’ asked Brabazon.
‘Conventional bunker busters can only penetrate to a depth of ten yards,’ said Edwin, speaking for his boss. ‘But Fairford has a stockpile of N-DEPs – satellite-guided nuclear deep earth penetrators – they go much deeper.’
A silence greeted this recommendation and the human members of the emergency committee exchanged anxious glances. The use of nuclear weapons in anger had not been sanctioned since the end of the Second World War.
‘How much deeper?’ asked the President.
‘That depends on the local geology,’ said Edwin. ‘Between twenty and forty yards. But their seismic shockwave is significant.’
‘But doesn’t most of the blast go upwards?’ challenged Brabazon. ‘What about collateral damage?’
Edwin displayed a map of the French-Swiss border region, then a highlighted circle appeared. ‘I estimate blast damage would be contained within a radius of four miles. Radiation fall-out would depend on current wind conditions.’
‘Sir, CERN is only six miles from Geneva,’ Ryan objected pointing to the map. ‘Half a million people live in the city and the surrounding area.’
More glances were exchanged around the table.
All present understood the threat to the city and to the population of eastern France and Switzerland if nuclear weapons were deployed.
The President leaned back wearily in his chair. ‘Well, Theodore?’ he asked.
‘Nothing is to be gained by keeping the Ninth on the ground, Mr President,’ reasoned the VA. ‘You have maximum options if they are deployed.’