Trade-Off

by Trade-Off (retail) (epub)

  Reilly lifted the box and extended a short retractable aerial, then flipped a switch on the side. In the centre of the box, a small red light glowed.

  ‘But the detonators you used,’ McGrath said. ‘They weren’t the radio-controlled type. They were conventional, current-activated.’

  ‘See,’ Reilly said, turning to Hunter. ‘I told you he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. That’s what they was supposed to look like, so that if some boy scout came along and cut the wires, they’d still work. That sort were specially made for Special Forces’ guys out in ’nam. The wire just acts as an aerial.’

  Reilly extended his forefinger to the button below the switch.

  ‘Stop!’ McGrath cried out. ‘You can’t do that. The information we’ve been getting from Roland Oliver is priceless. You just can’t destroy it all.’

  ‘Just watch us,’ Hunter said. ‘Whatever you’ve been getting, the price is too high. Do it, Dick.’

  ‘No,’ McGrath shouted and lunged forward, grabbing for the box.

  Hunter raised his Glock and caught McGrath just behind and below the left ear, and he slumped to the floor of the aircraft cabin.

  Reilly looked down at him. ‘Fuck you, McGrath,’ he said, ‘and fuck the horse you rode in on,’ and he pressed the button.

  * * *

  As the leading grey alien pushed the door fully open, the first of Reilly’s charges went off, and the doorway instantly collapsed. The joist above the entrance fell vertically and almost decapitated the alien, but the blast had already killed him, and the three others behind him.

  Ketch was sitting at his desk when the first charge detonated, and was still alive when he reached the door. He died less than a second later, as the floor below him collapsed and the weight of the perimeter armour-plating caused the walls to fall inwards, crushing him to death.

  Just beyond the compound fence, Keating watched in horror and amazement as the building, that William McGrath had told him was to be preserved at all costs, simply crumpled and fell in on itself like a house of cards.

  * * *

  On the main runway, the Janet Boeing 737 turned into wind and began accelerating to take-off speed. From one of the side windows, Hunter watched as the base fire service vehicles left the shelter of their buildings and began racing towards the site of the explosion, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

  On the seat across the aisle, Reilly grinned at him. ‘Guess we showed ’em, didn’t we?’

  ‘I guess we did, sheriff,’ Hunter said, put his arm round Christy-Lee and sank back into the seat.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Monday

  Oval Office, White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

  ‘James,’ Charles Gainey said, ‘I frankly don’t care about your opinion. William McGrath offered two possible options to me.’

  ‘McGrath is an idiot,’ James Dickson snapped, his face flushed with anger. ‘He should never have been made Acting Director of the FBI. He –’

  ‘James,’ Gainey said firmly. ‘I’m talking. You will listen, and not interrupt. William McGrath suggested two possible options. The first would have basically restored the status quo and allowed Roland Oliver to continue its operations, but would have required the killing of Steven Hunter, who I remind you again is English, not American, with all the potential diplomatic issues that that might have raised. We would also have had to kill Sheriff Reilly, FBI special agent Kaufmann, Doctor Richard Evans and forty-three women whose only crime was that they happened to be under thirty, more or less unattached and healthy. That I was not prepared to agree to.’

  Gainey was stretching the truth to within an inch of its life, but he knew that Dickson would never realize it.

  ‘So you wrote off Roland Oliver instead. You let your conscience dictate your actions. You didn’t think through all the consequences, and as a result we’ve lost the single most valuable source of technological development this country has had for half a century.’

  Charles Gainey nodded.

  ‘Quite right. I did let my conscience decide, but I did think through the consequences. I believe that Roland Oliver had reached the point where it was hindering, rather than helping us. For the last fifty years, American industry has got used to being handed new ideas on a plate every few months, and it’s effectively stopped bothering about research and development. The same applies to our academic institutions. It’s time they all stood on their own feet and stopped waiting for handouts. I think we’ll be stronger, not weaker, as a result of abandoning Roland Oliver.’

  ‘I can’t agree with you, Mr. President,’ Dickson said, his face taking on an even deeper shade of red. ‘I think you were wrong, and I’m frankly appalled that a decision of such moment was apparently taken by you alone and without any form of consultation or proper consideration.’

  ‘I consulted William McGrath, and we considered it together. And,’ Gainey went on, ‘it wasn’t a difficult decision to make. McGrath and I have both seen the video of the processing operation – you haven’t. If you had, I very much doubt whether you would be sitting here in front of me complaining quite so loudly.’

  Dickson made an impatient gesture.

  ‘And finally,’ Gainey added, ‘the buck stops right where I’m sitting. Ultimately, the decision was mine to take, whether you or Congress or anybody else likes it or not.’

  Dickson sat silent for a few moments.

  ‘What’s done is done,’ he said at last. ‘We can’t change your decision, even if we wanted to, but I would like my objection noted.’

  ‘So noted,’ Gainey said. ‘In fact,’ he added with a slight smile, ‘I’ll make that two objections from you, as I’ve also decided to confirm William McGrath as the new Director of the FBI.’

  Beaver Creek, Western Montana

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ Reilly muttered to nobody in particular. He was sitting in the Main Street Diner, his white Jeep Cherokee parked outside, waiting for his lunchtime order of double ham and eggs to arrive.

  On the table in front of him he had a piece of paper on which he was jotting down the things he had to do. Top of the list was redecorating his living room.

  ‘Here y’ go, Dick,’ the waitress said, plopping a plate of protein and grease in front of him. Reilly looked at it with enthusiasm and picked up his knife and fork.

  ‘You have a good holiday?’

  ‘Holiday?’ Reilly asked.

  ‘Yeah. Didn’t see you all last week, so I figured you’d taken off somewhere.’

  Reilly leaned back in his seat, looked up at her and chuckled. ‘I did take off somewhere,’ he admitted, ‘but I sure wouldn’t call it a holiday.’

  She could still hear his laughter when she got back to the counter.

  Helena, Montana

  Christy-Lee Kaufmann replaced the telephone handset on its rest and walked back into the bedroom. Steven Hunter was lying in bed, one hand behind his head, the other holding a small metallic object, shaped something like a pistol, which he was looking at closely.

  ‘I wish you’d stop playing with that damned thing,’ Christy-Lee said.

  ‘I was just looking at it,’ Hunter said defensively. ‘It might come in useful in the future, if ever we have to prove what happened at Groom Lake. Being able to demonstrate a genuine alien weapon to the world’s press would be a pretty big attention-getter.’

  ‘Right, but just stop playing with it, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Hunter said with a grin and placed the object carefully on the bedside table. ‘That was Michaelson, our esteemed leader, on the telephone, I presume?’

  Christy-Lee nodded, and climbed in beside him.

  ‘He wanted to know where you were, and when I thought I might be going back into the office.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. I said I had a migraine and that I hadn’t seen you since last week.’

  ‘You think he believes that?’

  ‘Probably not, but he’s too stupid
to make the obvious connection.’

  ‘Screw him,’ Hunter said.

  ‘No,’ Christy-Lee replied. ‘Screw me.’

  Oval Office, White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

  ‘Not quite the result we had hoped for, William,’ the President said, as he and McGrath settled into two comfortable armchairs in the Oval Office.

  ‘No, sir, it wasn’t.’

  A steward appeared with a tray of refreshments, and Charles Gainey waited until he had left before speaking again.

  ‘I read between the lines when we talked on the telephone,’ Gainey said. ‘You obviously had to alter the original plan more than somewhat?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Hunter is really sharp, or extremely cautious, or both, and Reilly’s as cunning as a fox. I suggested moving the Roland Oliver subjects out, then destroying the building and the aliens as a team, and Hunter simply wouldn’t wear it. From the look he gave me, I think he guessed that we’d decided he and Reilly should never leave the compound. As the two of them were packing enough artillery to take on a squad of men by themselves, there wasn’t much I could do about it.

  ‘And Reilly’s radio-activated detonators were a real shock. If it hadn’t been for those, we could have saved Roland Oliver and nobody would have been any the wiser.’

  ‘What happened at McCarran when you landed there?’ Gainey asked. ‘I know the Roland Oliver building was destroyed, but surely you could have held Hunter and Reilly?’

  ‘That was the final part of the plan, Mr. President, and it would have worked well if we had actually landed at McCarran. Hunter knocked me unconscious before we left Groom Lake, and when I came round he’d already told the pilot to divert to Pulliam Airport in Flagstaff, Arizona. By the time I realized we hadn’t landed at Las Vegas, it was too late to do anything about it.’

  ‘C’est la vie,’ Gainey muttered. ‘As it is, if any of this ever leaks out, at least I’ll be able to claim a political victory as the man with the courage to shut down Roland Oliver because the price of keeping the program going was unacceptably high. You and I will know that my intention was completely different, but it’s what people think, not what they know, that’s important.’

  Gainey picked up a glass from the table in front of him and took a sip of scotch.

  ‘Do you think Hunter or Reilly will be a problem to us?’

  McGrath shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. They know better than to open their mouths. Hunter told me that if we didn’t cause him any trouble, he’d forget what he’d seen. And there’s something else. Hunter told me he’d removed the hard drive from Ketch’s office computer – in fact, he even showed it to me. The drive contains the names and personal details of everyone who’s been processed to date, right back to the start of Roland Oliver, and a whole bunch of supporting data. I have no idea where Hunter has stored it, but I’ll bet it’s already in some computer somewhere, and that he’ll be making a whole lot of copies of the data for safe-keeping. If we make waves, that information will appear on the Internet and in the press, and that will finish us.’

  ‘We could have Hunter and Reilly taken care of,’ Gainey suggested.

  ‘No, sir, definitely not. Hunter’s final message to me was quite unequivocal. He said that he, Dick Reilly and Christy-Lee Kaufmann would be keeping in constant contact with each other. If any one of them died anything other than a natural death within the next ten years, the remaining two would ensure that you and I both suffered the same fate.’

  ‘That’s preposterous. They couldn’t possibly reach either of us,’ Gainey said, but his voice trailed off at the end of the sentence.

  ‘Exactly, Mr. President. They managed to eliminate my immediate predecessor, and to get into the very heart of the most secret and secure military establishment we operate. I think if either Hunter or Reilly really wanted to take either of us out, they’d find a way to do it. They’re both very resourceful and Hunter, in particular, is quite ruthless. It’s far better to have him as a friend – or at least neutral – than as an enemy.’

  ‘OK,’ Gainey said. ‘It’s not the ideal solution, but I guess we can live with it.’ He took another sip of his drink, then continued. ‘I had James Dickson in here draining all over me this morning. He thinks Roland Oliver was the greatest thing since sliced bread.’

  ‘He was right, in a way, Mr. President,’ McGrath said, reaching for his glass. ‘It was an unrivalled source of technology, but we both know that the cost was far too high. In every sense of the word. I wonder,’ he added, ‘if the Secretary of Defense would have been quite so enthusiastic if his daughter had been chosen for harvesting?’

  ‘Interesting thought,’ Gainey said. ‘I’ll mention it next time he gets on his high horse.’

  Both men drank in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Actually, I’ve got a real sense of relief about this whole thing,’ McGrath said. ‘Just knowing that the operation’s been closed down permanently is enough. I’m sure I’ll sleep better in the future.’

  ‘I know I will. I know it’s not your concern, but the whole thing was political suicide. I mean, if the American people had found out what was going on, they’d probably have lynched me, or at least tried to.

  ‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ the President added, warming to his theme. ‘I actually don’t think Roland Oliver was that much of a benefit. I got fed up with those slant-eyed, stumpy, little grey bastards drip-feeding us the technology that they thought we should have.’

  McGrath smiled.

  ‘But there’s a downside as well,’ Gainey added, ‘and that’s what really gives me the shivers.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Suppose the bloody aliens haven’t gone. Suppose they’ve just opened up their deli somewhere else.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘Like India, for instance. Plenty of live-stock there that nobody would miss. The population’s – what – about a billion?’

  ‘A little less, I think,’ William McGrath murmured.

  The President shook his head irritably. ‘Whatever. The point is, if they do the same deal over there – technology for food – we could see the biggest economic turnaround in the history of the world. And that’s not to mention the defence implications.’

  ‘You mean –’

  ‘Yup. We had no option. The aliens wouldn’t give us weapons technology, so we had to be satisfied with peaceful applications – fibre optics, lasers and so on. Now that human flesh is a traded commodity out there with a growing demand for it, the Indians might be able to strike a better bargain.’

  Eleven weeks later. Sunday

  Chang Village, north of Mangnai Zhen, Central China

  Several of the villagers had reported seeing a falling star the previous night, but that was a common enough occurrence. What marked these particular reports as being somewhat different was the insistence of three females – two middle-aged women and one girl barely out of her teens – that this particular star had fallen to earth.

  Chiang Ho-Sek had been born in the village in 1975, and had been an academic rising star. Quickly out-growing the local education system, he had taken a degree in geology at Beijing University, and had followed that up with post-graduate studies in the geology of the solar system at Berkeley in America. It was to him that the three women turned, arriving at his small three-roomed house just after seven in the morning.

  Chiang had several times paid bounties to local farmers for the discovery of fragments of meteorite on the lands they worked, and it was well-known that he had an extensive collection of ‘star-rocks’ in his modest residence at the southern edge of the village.

  Chiang listened with interest as the women described exactly what they had seen. They talked rapidly, and with obvious excitement, frequently elaborating, or sometimes flatly contradicting, what each other claimed. The light had been white, or blue, or perhaps yellow with a blue tinge. The star-rock had made a roaring sound, or a whistling noise, or had been completel
y silent, as it fell.

  But what they all agreed on, without hesitation, was that the object had fallen to earth somewhere in the low hills that lay to the northeast of the village. All three offered to accompany Chiang if he wished to search for the object, but he declined. His head already spinning slightly from the incessant chatter, Chiang announced that he would search the area himself, but agreed that all three women would be rewarded equally if he found and recovered the star-rock.

  Chiang Ho-Sek had returned to Chang Village after Berkeley for the time and peace he needed to complete his thesis on asteroid geology. During the week he taught at the local school, the school at which he had once been the star pupil, but at weekends his time was his own.

  After a hasty breakfast, Chiang assembled the tools of his trade – a collapsible shovel with a rudimentary pick opposite the shovel blade, a Fuji bridge camera with an extra data card and two sets of spare batteries, a notebook and two pencils, a hammer, a dozen marker pegs, a tin of red spray paint, powerful binoculars and heavy gloves – and packed everything securely into a well-used rucksack. He added a two-litre container of water and three of the candy bars for which he’d developed a taste whilst at Berkeley, and which he obtained in bulk from a colleague whose girlfriend worked as an airline stewardess.

  By eight fifteen he was ready, and five minutes later was peddling his bicycle, a ten-year old model originally designed for a female rider, away from the village and along the dusty track that led away to the northeast.

  He had no accurate bearings to follow, because none of the chattering women had thought to take one during their observations, but they had all thought that the object had fallen somewhere between the two most westerly summits, so that was where Chiang was heading. He was hoping that the meteorite was fairly large, because that would make the impact crater much easier to find, and would also considerably increase its commercial value.