Lethal Velocity

by Lincoln Child

  She swiveled toward him.

  “That was five minutes ago,” she said.

  Warne looked at her for a moment—an intense, hunted look. Then he turned and raced away.

  “Wait!” Terri called after him. “I’m coming with you.” And she, too, disappeared from the office. Wingnut, taken by surprise, wheeled around quickly, then began lurching toward the corridor.

  “Wingnut, stay!” Sarah commanded. “Stay with me.”

  The robot stopped. Then slowly, it backed into the office with a loud bray of frustration.

  For a moment, Sarah stared at the open door. Then she squeezed her eyes shut, massaging them with her fingers.

  There was a low beep from the computer. She glanced over at the screen.

  This was odd. Somebody else was using the tag retrieval program.

  She stood up, sweeping John Doe’s radio into her pocket. There was no more time; she had to get to the Galactic Voyage ride right away.

  But still she lingered a moment, curious.

  She glanced back at the screen. Except for emergencies, nobody was authorized to run a tag retrieval while the Park was open.

  She lowered herself back into the chair. Placing her hand on the mouse, she navigated through a series of menus, displaying the anonymous request on her own screen. Then she went rigid in surprise.

  Whoever it was, they were looking for Andrew Warne.

  “THE ONE RIDE in Utopia without security cameras,” Bob Allocco said over the babel of voices filling Callisto’s main concourse. “Tell me that’s a coincidence.”

  They stood within a rest area of curved Lucite benches and alien-looking potted palms, a small oasis of relative calm not far from the entrance portal to Galactic Voyage.

  “Eleven minutes after,” Sarah said, glancing at her watch. “Fred should be here by now.” On cue she spotted Barksdale, jogging down the concourse, threading his way between strolling knots of visitors.

  She motioned to Peggy Salazar, a Callisto line manager who was standing nearby. “Everything’s set?” she asked as the woman came over.

  Salazar nodded. “I’ve explained it to the cast member working Load. He’s a little surprised.” She glanced at Sarah speculatively.

  “Just an impromptu drill. The home office wants to keep everybody on their toes. Practice the same emergency procedures each week, and you grow stale.”

  Salazar nodded slowly, as if digesting this.

  Sarah took another quick look around. The knowledge that John Doe was somewhere nearby sharpened her senses, increased her heartbeat. She felt her hands balling into fists.

  “Come on,” she said to Allocco. “We’d better get inside.”

  They crossed the concourse, stepped through the Galactic Voyage portal, and entered the pre-show area. Salazar came in behind them, and they took up an inconspicuous position away from the queue line. Sarah watched as the dispatcher at the loading station ushered the next group—a woman and three small children—into a waiting car, then lowered the grab bar over their waists. Although she couldn’t see the worker’s face through his space helmet, Sarah knew he couldn’t be too happy, working under the gaze of his department supervisor and the head of Operations.

  As with the other mainline rides, the Galactic Voyage “pre-show” served two purposes: a queuing area for guests waiting to board, and a taste of what they could expect when the ride began. Early on, Utopia designers had learned that it didn’t matter how many warning signs were placed around the entrances to intense attractions like Moon Shot and Notting Hill Chase. Parents insisted on taking young children on the rides, anyway—and then complained bitterly afterward about how terrified their toddlers had been.

  The answer had been to modify the pre-show areas. Event Horizon, one of the worst offenders, was the first to get the treatment. In keeping with the Callisto theme, its original pre-show area had looked like the loading dock of a warp-capable spaceship. The Utopia designers carefully detuned it, adding subauditory rumbles, sparking electrical lines, and a floor that trembled ominously underfoot. After this change, young children often grew so alarmed on entering that they demanded their parents take them on a different ride. The technique worked so well that the intrusive, un-Utopian warning signs could be done away with entirely.

  The Galactic Voyage pre-show could not have been more different from Event Horizon’s. It was bright, cheerful, decorated like a kindergarten of the future: the jumping-off point for a child’s field trip through the cosmos.

  Sarah’s gaze lingered on the queue. Some of the youngest children were dozing. Others pranced in place, impatient after the wait yet eager, now that they could see the ride ahead of them. Often, there was only one parent on hand: adults, especially those who’d been through Galactic Voyage before, weren’t eager to repeat the bland experience.

  In her mind, she could once again see the careful way Allocco had placed that big brick of high explosive on the conference table. Sarah dropped her eyes, forcing the image from her mind.

  Barksdale came up beside them. He nodded to Peggy Salazar, then reached inside his jacket and withdrew a slender jewel case. Silently, he handed it to Sarah.

  “What’s that?” Salazar asked.

  “Part of the drill,” Sarah replied quickly. “Peggy, would you excuse us for a minute?”

  “Of course.” Salazar glanced curiously at the three of them, then walked over to the dispatcher.

  Sarah glanced at the DVD within the jewel case. It was hard to believe that this slender little circle of aluminum and polycarbonate held the most precious of all Utopia’s possessions: the specifications and software that made up the Crucible technology. The disc was branded for internal use only, with the words Proprietary and Confidential stamped below the imprint of a nightingale, along with dire warnings in smaller type of what would befall anyone who put the disc to unauthorized use. She handed the case to Allocco.

  “Go over it one more time,” she said.

  Allocco gestured toward the ride entrance. “Like I was saying, this guy’s a clever bastard. He picked Galactic Voyage for the drop because it has the least security of any ride in the Park. But what he didn’t know was, right beside the Crab Nebula turn—the spot where the cars will stop, where he’s making the pickup—there’s a blind.”

  “What’s this?” Barksdale asked, surprise writ large on his face. “A blind?”

  “A maintenance conduit, big enough to conceal one man. My operative’s already in place. He’ll see John Doe grab the package. Then he can tail him. Or—if we get really lucky—he can take him down.”

  Sarah frowned. “We discussed tailing John Doe out of the Park before making an apprehension.”

  “This guy’s slippery. Remember what happened back in the Hive? If he seems to be working alone, if we get any signals that this is in fact just a ruse, we should snag him while we can.”

  Sarah considered this. John Doe’s threats could not be treated lightly. He had to be regarded as deadly serious. Her first responsibility was to their guests. And yet the idea of subduing this threat—of neutralizing him now, rather than letting him roam through the Park like a loose cannon—was very attractive. Her sense of anger and outrage ran steadily, like a turbine. Her cheek burned where he had stroked it.

  “It’s too dangerous.” Barksdale spoke with uncharacteristic vehemence.

  “My guy’s good, an ex-cop like myself. He’s taken down hundreds of perps over his career. He’ll be under strict orders not to do John Doe unless there’s 100 percent certainty of success. I’ve got another man concealed near the ride exit.” Allocco motioned discreetly toward a plainclothes security specialist standing by the loading dock. “And Chris Green, here, will be watching from within the entrance. They’re three of my best. Together, they’ll set up a three-way tail. Or, if John Doe can be safely contained, they’ll neutralize him, escort him to Security.”

  Allocco nodded at the security specialist named Green. The man nodded back, then slipped throu
gh a partially concealed door beside the loading dock. None of the guests in the queuing line so much as glanced in his direction.

  “This is irresponsible,” Barksdale went on. “We can’t take the chance.”

  Sarah checked her watch again: sixty seconds to make a decision.

  “Look,” Allocco said. “You’ve ruled out a police response, so it’s up to us to take action, while we still can. Assume for a moment this whole thing isn’t a ruse. Who knows what else they really have in mind? Who knows what they’ll demand next, what hostages they’ll take? One thing we do know: John Doe’s the ringleader. If we can cut off the head, the body will die. This is the perfect chance to take him without any casualties.”

  “Do you want the responsibility for what happens if we take him?” Barksdale asked.

  “Do you want the responsibility for what happens if we don’t?”

  Sarah looked from one to the other. She hesitated briefly. And then she turned to Allocco.

  “Your operative is not to take John Doe unless he’s absolutely positive of success. On the first sign of trouble, anything unexpected—anything—you call your men off. Even if it’s just a tail. Agreed?”

  Allocco nodded vigorously. “Agreed.”

  “Then get started.” She turned to Barksdale, who was looking at her with an expression akin to horror. “Fred, come over here a minute. Please.”

  She led Barksdale a few steps away, toward the wall opposite the queue line.

  “Sarah, don’t do this,” Barksdale said. His intense blue eyes held hers almost pleadingly.

  “It’s done.”

  “But you don’t know what you’re dealing with, what you’re up against. Our first responsibility is to the guests. They’re paying us not just to entertain them, but to keep them safe.”

  Hearing Barksdale echo her own thoughts brought an unexpected mix of emotions to Sarah: irritation, impatience, uncertainty. She pushed them away. “Look, Freddy,” she said in an undertone. “Do you remember our first dinner together? At Chez André, in Vegas?”

  Barksdale’s narrow, handsome face grew puzzled. “Of course.”

  “Do you remember the wine?”

  He thought a moment. “Lynch-Bages, ’69.”

  “No, no. The dessert wine.”

  Barksdale nodded. “Château d’Yquem.”

  “Right. Remember how I’d never even heard of a dessert wine before? How I thought all sweet wine tasted like Manischewitz?”

  Barksdale allowed himself a brief, wintry smile.

  “You explained to me about Botrytis cinerera, remember?”

  Barksdale nodded again.

  “Noble rot. It attacks the skin of the grape, enriching the sugars, creating the best sweet wine in the world. I couldn’t believe it when you told me—a fungus the growers actually encouraged. I made you explain it twice.” She leaned closer, fingered his lapel. “Freddy, we have a rot in this Park. Here, today. And there’s nothing noble about it. If we don’t do something—if we let ourselves look vulnerable, an easy target—who’s to say it won’t happen again? And again?”

  Barksdale looked at her silently, jaw working.

  She applied gentle pressure to the immaculate lapel. Then she turned away and walked back toward Peggy Salazar and Allocco. After a few moments, Barksdale followed.

  Together, the group approached the loading dock. A Hispanic woman with twins was being shown into a car.

  Sarah waited until Dispatch had sent the car on its way. “Send on two empty cars, and cue up a third,” she said to the loading attendant. He nodded, middle-aged face oddly magnified by the Plexiglas helmet.

  The two cars went bobbing off into the darkness at the end of the ramp, and a third car shot up the bus bar from the unload boosters. Allocco stepped forward, leaned over to note the number of the car, then placed the disc on its floor.

  “Send it,” Sarah told the attendant, and the car trundled away. She watched until it disappeared from sight around a dark corner, into the ride.

  “Now, send on two more empty cars,” she said.

  Behind her, there was a discontented murmuring from the party waiting to board. Sarah turned, flashed them a smile, then told the load attendant to proceed as usual.

  A trip through Galactic Voyage took just over six minutes. The empty cars would reach the Crab Nebula in four.

  Sarah stepped back from the dock and looked around the pre-show area. A baby was crying somewhere, its wails cutting sharply through the crowd chatter. A maintenance specialist stepped out of one of the ride’s side portals. As always in public areas, he was in costume: only the color of the nightingale pin on his space suit indicated his occupation. Sarah scanned the faces in the line: excited, impatient, bored. The scene looked utterly normal. Everything was business as usual.

  Except for the package. And the person waiting for it, deep inside the ride.

  “Let’s get to the tower,” Allocco said.

  Still, Sarah waited, scanning the bright space. Then she turned toward him and nodded.

  —

  THE CONTROL TOWER for Galactic Voyage was a cramped space even for the operator: with three additional visitors crowding inside, Sarah found it difficult just to draw breath.

  “We don’t have a whole lot of leeway,” Allocco was saying. “The ride’s completely computer-controlled. We’ll have to cut juice to the bus bar temporarily.”

  He leaned over the dispatcher. “Keep an eye on the mimic diagram. When car 7470 reaches the Crab Nebula, I want you to shut it down.”

  The tower operator looked uneasily from Allocco to Sarah and back again. He’d been eating pistachios and reading Roquefort for Dummies, and clearly hadn’t been expecting managerial company.

  “Hit the E-stop?” he asked.

  “No, no. Not all the power. Just do a service interrupt. As if there was an exit alert. Ninety seconds, no more, no less. Then put it on-line again.” He took the radio from his pocket. “Thirty-three to Forward, you in position? Very well. Do not, I repeat, do not apprehend the suspect unless you have 100 percent confidence.”

  He glanced at Sarah. “I instructed the spotters near the entrance and exit to maintain radio silence.”

  For a minute, then two, the tower was quiet as everyone watched the white call numbers of the cars make their way along the fluorescent curves of the diagram.

  “Ten seconds,” said the dispatcher.

  Allocco raised his radio again. “Forward, acquisition in ten seconds. Get ready.” This time he did not lower the radio.

  Sarah watched the digital label numbered 7470 continue its slow progress along the diagram. She realized that, unconsciously, she was holding her breath.

  “Springes to catch woodcocks,” Barksdale murmured beside her. His voice was tight, strained.

  “Now,” said the dispatcher, leaning forward with a red scatter of pistachio shells and punching a button on the tower console. An alarm sounded. The cars stopped their progress along the mimic diagram; the call numbers turned red and began to flash.

  “Ninety and counting,” murmured the tower operator.

  Sarah found herself staring at car 7470, now motionless beside a label marked Crab Neb. Somewhere beyond the control tower, in the actual world of the ride, men were hiding in the blackness surrounding the empty car. She took a deep breath. One way or another, it would all be over in less than two minutes.

  “Forward?” Allocco said into the radio. “Anything?”

  “I’ve got a visual,” a voice squawked from the radio. “There’s somebody in the car.”

  “You mean, removing something from the car.”

  “I repeat, in the car. Sitting in the car.”

  Allocco turned to the dispatcher. “You sure you stopped the right car?”

  “Positive.” The dispatcher pointed at the mimic diagram as proof. “Fifteen seconds.”

  “Forward? How many passengers in the car?”

  “Looks like one.”

  “Roger. Come forward an
d examine. Slow.”

  Sarah put her hand on Allocco’s arm. “No. Maybe it’s John Doe.”

  “And just what the hell would he be doing? Enjoying the ride?”

  “Waiting for a trap. To see if we’re going to try something.”

  Allocco looked at her a moment. Then he spoke into the radio again. “Forward? Cancel that. Remain in position.”

  “Time,” the dispatcher said, pushing another button. The car numbers on the mimic diagram stopped blinking, went white, and began to move again.

  “What just happened?” Sarah asked.

  Allocco glanced up toward the mimic diagram. “I think our boy messed with that board, just like the monitors in the Hive. Made us stop the cars in the wrong position, or something. No doubt the bastard’s already nabbed the disc and left.” He raised the radio. “Alpha, Omega, this is Thirty-three. Subject may have already acquired the item. Maintain your positions. Report any sightings, but do not apprehend. Repeat, do not apprehend.”

  “Omega, roger,” came a voice.

  Allocco let the radio fall to his side. “That disc is long gone,” he said, voice suddenly weary.

  “Let’s check unloading,” Sarah replied. “Just to be sure.”

  —

  BY THE TIME they made their way through the back of the ride to the unloading area, the woman with twins was already being helped out of her car. Sarah could hear the elderly unload attendant apologizing for the delay during the ride.

  “Watch yourselves,” Allocco said to Sarah and Barksdale. “I don’t think John Doe is stupid enough to just come strolling out the ride. But at this point, nothing would surprise me.” The first two empty cars came trundling along the bar, and he moved up the unloading ramp toward them.

  Sarah motioned to Barksdale, and together they followed Allocco up the ramp. Sarah, there are to be no tricks. This isn’t the time for cleverness. She became aware of an emotion she had little experience with: uneasiness. She glanced over her shoulder. Except for the woman with twins, the corridor leading back to the concourse was empty.

  As she turned back, the third car lurched into position at the unloading dock. A lone man was sitting within it, and for a moment Sarah froze, thinking it was John Doe. But the man was too short, too heavyset. He was slumped forward, as if sleeping.