The Tesla Legacy
Page 27
‘I’d like to have rung the precinct first,’ said Detective Vears. ‘Just to be sure.’
‘No. Come on. We can have this creep processed and be sitting down to breakfast by six. On me.’
‘Okay, Joel. If you say so.’ Detective Vears patted his chest. ‘Shit!’ he half-smiled. ‘They say bad luck comes in threes. My cellphone ain’t working. The car radio’s screwed. And I forgot my Kevlar.’
‘So what? Come on.’ Detective Halavic checked his weapon and opened the car door.
Back at the precinct, bull-necked Sergeant Barney Schuman was pissed off and he was letting the whole station know it. A woman had rung in from Carnasie saying she’d just seen a group of Hispanic men entering the rear of an apartment block carrying an assortment of weapons and the phone had dropped out before she could give him the address. Now the radio was out. Yeah, well. Just another night in New York City for the embattled NYPD, Sergeant Schuman grumbled to himself. At least the lights and the coffee machine still worked. Just.
Deep beneath Cheyenne Mountain at NORAD HQ in Colorado it was 2.06 am. Amongst all the other confusion around him in the control bunker, silver-haired Air Force General Davis L. Wainright couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Every computer, radar screen, satellite monitor and targeting link had just crashed. NORAD had power, the lights were on and the bomb blast doors still opened and closed. But no computers or monitors. The general swore under his breath and turned to the nearest officer in charge.
‘Lieutenant, patch me through to Washington. I got to let them know we have a situation here.’
‘Sir,’ replied the fresh-faced lieutenant. ‘All, I repeat all, communications are down, sir.’
‘What?’ thundered the general. ‘Well, send a message in freakin’ morse code if you have to. But get me through to Washington.’
‘Sir. With respect, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I must reiterate. We have zero communication capability.’
‘Sir,’ another officer interrupted politely. ‘We’ve just lost Aquacade.’
‘What? Jesus Christ!’ cursed the general. ‘What about Stryker?’
‘That’s offline too, sir.’
‘Goddamn.’
General Wainright had to think for a moment. He was a God-fearing Southern Baptist and a neo-con who would gladly blow up half the world if it was in the interest of freedom and democracy and the USA. The general had an idea what was going on and he was going to have to take bold steps.
‘Sir,’ asked the officer in charge, ‘what are your orders, sir?’
The florid-faced general stared directly at the young officer. ‘I know who’s behind this,’ stated the general. ‘The Russians. They’ve jammed our systems and the sneaky sonsofbitches are up to something.’ The general nodded conclusively. ‘Trust their timing.’
‘I’m not sure…?’
‘Can we still program the missiles manually?’ asked the general.
‘Yes, sir.’
The general looked at his watch. ‘Okay. I’m going to give this twenty minutes. If I haven’t heard from Washington by then, I’m going to initiate a launch sequence.’
‘But, sir. What about the President?’
‘Screw the President.’
Four thousand metres up and fifty kilometres out from Moscow, it was heavily overcast and 1.02 pm. Air Force One was approaching Sheremetyevo Airport from the north-west. The plane had picked up a tail wind and was ahead of schedule. On board was the President of the United States, the First Lady, his immediate staff and a phalanx of secret service people, along with the upper echelon of the White House press corps. Waiting on the cold misty tarmac was the Russian President, his wife, half the Politburo, a brass band, an honour guard and a twenty-one gun salute: all being closely scrutinised by several advance teams of American secret service people. The red carpet was out and soon there would be a flyover by twenty-five of the Motherland’s latest MiG jet fighters. It was the first visit to Russia by an American President for some time and the Russians weren’t going to miss an opportunity to impress.
The specially equipped jumbo jet was preparing to land when Captain Kyle O’Connell slapped his headphones and turned to his co-pilot, Glenn Lidster. He was about to speak when he was interrupted by the ship’s navigator, Rusty Skepper.
‘Kyle. I’ve just lost radio contact with Moscow,’ said Rusty.
‘Funny you should say that, Rusty,’ said Captain O’Connell. ‘We’ve just lost radar and a few other things.’
‘If you ask me, Kyle, it’s just a temporary bug in the main computer,’ Glenn said casually. ‘If it doesn’t clear itself, I should be able override it easily enough.’
‘No problem, Glenn,’ replied Captain O’Connell. ‘Okay, gentlemen. In the meantime I’ll throttle back and put the ship down manually. The weather’s bad and I’m not going into a holding pattern with the President on board and no radar or communications.’
‘Visibility’s extremely poor down there, Kyle,’ warned Glenn. ‘And there’s more clouds coming in.’
‘Yeah. But the lights will be on. And we’re cleared for landing. If it comes to the worst, I might overshoot the runway a tad.’ Kyle turned to the navigator. ‘Rusty, will you inform the President we’ll be landing soon and it could be a little bumpy. Make sure everyone’s buckled up.’
Rusty put his pen down. ‘Sure, Kyle.’
Idling on the adjacent runway, Captain Erwin Dorpmuller, pilot of Lufthansa Airlines Flight 133, was shaking his head. He took his headphones off and rubbed his eyes.
‘Of all the times for Moscow control to stuff up,’ he said irritably. ‘I’ve got Air France and Aeroflot up my backside. No radio contact with the tower. No permission to take off. And now, it appears, no radar.’
‘And Air Force One will soon be approaching,’ added his co-pilot, Wilhelm Stumpfegger.
‘I cannot understand what is wrong with the radio,’ said navigator Gregor Kaulbach.
‘Good old Moscow,’ sighed Captain Dorpmuller. He stared out the cockpit. ‘And visibility is getting worse too. Okay, Wilhelm. I’m not sure what’s going on. But I’m not going to sit here blind and twiddling my thumbs. I’ll taxi to the end of the adjacent runway and we’ll wait there till this all sorts itself out. At least I can see the lights.’ Captain Dorpmuller flicked sourly at the intercom. ‘Gregor, will you tell the head steward to inform the passengers there will be a short delay? This damn thing doesn’t appear to be working either.’
‘I will do that now, Captain.’ Gregor rose and exited the cabin.
‘It would not surprise me if the Americans were the cause of this,’ complained co-pilot Stumpfegger. ‘They’ve probably jammed everything so Air Force One can land safely.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Captain Dorpmuller, bringing the big jet slowly around. ‘Nothing else matters when it comes to the glorious President of the United States.’
‘Stupid bloody Americans,’ said co-pilot Stumpfegger. ‘They’re no better than the Russians.’
Mick and Jesse dropped their backpacks and leant tiredly against the old Commodore. Despite being stained with sweat and covered in dust, and Jesse smeared with blood, they still managed to raise a smile.
‘Well, thank Christ that’s over,’ said Mick. ‘I’m not in any hurry to go back there again.’
‘Yes. You can include me out too,’ said Jesse. She reached into her backpack and took out her mobile phone. ‘I’m going to ring Mum and tell her we’ll be home tonight.’
‘Yeah. I might call my sister and say hello.’
They both dialled and while Mick was waiting, he unlocked the car and wound down the front windows to let the heat out. He looked up and noticed Jesse shaking her head.
‘What’s up?’ he asked her.
Jesse held up her phone. ‘No signal.’
‘Yeah. Mine’s the same,’ said Mick. ‘Must be a bad reception area.’ He dropped his phone back in his shredded backpack. ‘Oh well. Doesn’t matter. We can ring up from the motel.
’
‘Yes. That’ll do,’ said Jesse.
Jesse put her phone back in her bag. Mick took her backpack from her and placed both bags on the back seat, then they climbed in the front. Mick started the car and while the engine was warming up he switched on the radio.
‘May as well listen to the news,’ said Mick. ‘We might even be on it,’ he chuckled. Mick waited a few moments then started twiddling the dial. All he got was light static. ‘Hello. Looks like the radio’s decided to go on the blink. Oh well, I didn’t want to listen to the news anyway.’
‘Wait till we get back to the Buick,’ said Jesse. ‘Then we can listen to some nice music.’
‘Right on,’ replied Mick, switching off the radio. ‘And you know what the man said, Oz.’
‘No,’ replied Jesse, buckling up her seatbelt. ‘What did the man say, Mick?’
‘Music makes the world go round.’
‘I thought it was love.’
‘No. It was definitely music. Though it could have been money. But,’ smiled Mick, ‘if you say it was love, let’s leave it at that.’
Jesse returned Mick’s smile. ‘Good thinking, Ninety-Nine.’
Mick buckled up his seatbelt, slipped the old Commodore into drive, then nosed it out of the parking area and headed for Scone.
About The Author
Robert G. Barrett was raised in Sydney’s Bondi where he worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer. He is the author of twenty-one books, including Goodoo Goodoo, Leaving Bondi, The Ultimate Aphrodisiac, Mystery Bay Blues, Rosa-Marie’s Baby and Crime Scene Cessnock.
To find out more about Bob and his books
visit this website:
www.robertgbarrett.com.au
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Also by Robert G. Barrett and published by HarperCollins:
So What Do You Reckon?
Mud Crab Boogie
Goodoo Goodoo
The Wind and the Monkey
Leaving Bondi
The Ultimate Aphrodisiac
Mystery Bay Blues
Rosa-Marie’s Baby
Crime Scene Cessnock.
Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2006
This edition published in 2010
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
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www.harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Psycho Possum Productions Pty Ltd 2006
The right of Robert G. Barrett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Barrett, Robert G.
The Tesla legacy.
ISBN: 978 0 7322 8368 1 (pbk.)
ISBN: 978 0 7304 0047 9 (ePub)
1. End of the world – Fiction. I.Title.
A823.3
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