State of Emergency

by Sam Fisher

  'Okay, maybe we should start again,' Mark said. He walked over to Erickson with his hand out. The boy was reticent but took it limply, his long, thin fingers barely touching Harrison's.

  'So what brings you to sunny Aldermont?'

  'I have an offer I think will be mutually beneficial.'

  'Don't tell me – another state-financed cluster-fuck. You have "government lackey" stamped on your forehead, dude.'

  Mark looked confused.

  'It goes like this,' Erickson sighed. 'The suits in Washington have got themselves in the shit again and will promise to knock a couple of months off my sentence if I solve their latest IT screw-up. You must know it wouldn't be the first time.'

  Mark lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. The boy glared at him. I can understand your frustration, Mark thought. Such wasted talent. It would make anyone furious with the world. 'Well, I'm happy to say you couldn't be more wrong,' he replied after a moment. 'Take a look at this.' He handed Erickson a CD.

  An image appeared on the boy's laptop. He looked disinterestedly at the screen, then frowned. His fingers skittered over the keys and his expression changed to one of sceptical curiosity. On the screen, a set of specifications and schematics flowed down as Erickson moved the mouse. Finally, he looked up, his head tilted slightly. 'Nice fantasy, Mr Government Man.'

  'Reality.'

  Erickson flicked a glance back at the screen. 'You're fucking with me.'

  'No,' Mark said, folding his arms. 'What you have there is a spec for the most sophisticated computer ever built, a prototype quantum computer.'

  'But we're – what – twenty years away from such a thing!'

  'Clearly not.'

  'Look, what's this all about? Assuming a quantum computer exists – which I doubt – what do you want me for?'

  Mark told him the basic facts about E-Force. The boy stayed silent. When he had finished, the only sounds were from outside, a shout in the distance and the slamming of a heavy door.

  'Okay,' Erickson said finally. 'So I wasn't that far wrong. You've hit a problem with your goody-two-shoes scheme. What you offering for my services? Three months for good behaviour?'

  'You know,' Mark said, fixing his gaze on the strange kid in the wheelchair, 'for such an intelligent guy, you can be remarkably slow. I want you with us at Base One – permanently. Tom, I'm offering you a way out.'

  8

  Two weeks later

  A conventional jet would take two and a half hours to get from southern California to Tintara. But the passengers leaving an isolated base near San Diego were not aboard a 747. A plane like theirs would not be in regular service for another couple of decades. It was a VTOLPA – a vertical take-off and landing passenger aircraft – one of only seven in the world. Known as the Hummingbird, it could carry 22 passengers and crew in considerable comfort at 40,000 feet, with an average cruising speed of mach 6, a little under 4000 miles an hour. This meant it could cross the stretch of the Pacific Ocean to Tintara in twenty minutes.

  Maiko Buchanan, Stephanie Jacobs and Pete Sherringham hardly knew one another, but they now had common ground. Each of them had agreed to join E-Force. That first evening on Tintara, two weeks earlier, none of them had been able to express how they felt. It had taken time to sink in. So they had simply enjoyed a friendly dinner, drinks and, of course, the grand tour. Most importantly, though, they had all got on well.

  Maiko had been the first to make a commitment. Mark had met her five years earlier at NASA, when he had helped with the agency's IT upgrades. Even back then, before Buchanan had her own mission command, he had been impressed by her abilities and commitment. But the thing he liked most about her was her open-mindedness. She could see the big picture. This was the crucial reason he had invited her to join the team.

  It was her ability to visualise that had made it so easy for Maiko to take the leap. That, and the fact the invitation had come at a great time. Her role at NASA had become a little nebulous. She was one of their most experienced pilots, but the sense of adventure was slipping from her grasp.

  Maiko's life had been relatively uncomplicated until about six months before. She lived in Sugar Land, outside Houston, with her mother and her sixteen-year-old daughter, Greta. But her mother had now moved to a nursing home, and Greta was going through a rebellious phase. Maiko was still not sure what the root of the problem was, except that Greta was determined to reject her heritage wholesale and to be considered completely American, which of course she was. Maiko, though, still felt drawn to the country of her birth, the place where she had spent the first decade of her life. It was something Greta could not grasp, and Maiko disliked the fact that her daughter seemed to be ashamed of her family's roots. Greta had now moved in with her stepfather, Howard Buchanan, the man Maiko had divorced five years ago. Which left Maiko facing the prospect of living alone in her large house, going through the motions of a career that had peaked, and with no sign of a love life. It hadn't taken much to persuade her to pick up the phone.

  The Hummingbird took off smoothly. Through billowing vapour from the engines, they could see the ground falling away. At 20,000 feet, the plane climbed on a steep diagonal before levelling off at cruising altitude. Once they were out over the Pacific, they felt a serge of acceleration as the engines thrust the craft forward to a comfortable cruising speed of mach 4.4.

  Stephanie Jacobs peered out the window. She was feeling suddenly unsure of herself, isolated. Have I made the right decision? she wondered, then tried to smother her doubts. Maiko had told her she had joined up because of good timing. Perhaps the same was true for her. Stephanie's lab in Sydney was relocating to a dedicated facility close to Avalon, a surf town 20 miles north. And as she watched the clouds rush by, she wondered for the first time whether perhaps Mark Harrison had actually known all about this. Perhaps it had informed his decision to contact her in the first place. Never mind, she thought. It doesn't matter. I've made the commitment and that's that.

  'So, what made you say yes, Pete?' Maiko Buchanan asked. Stephanie Jacobs turned away from the window.

  'Asked myself the very same question at least 20 times,' Pete replied. His strong Geordie accent sounded oddly quaint in this setting. He ran a hand through his thick sandy curls and fixed the two women with his intense bright-blue eyes. 'Our Colonel Harrison is obviously a very persuasive fella.' He smiled, but behind the nonchalance lay pain.

  A month earlier, Pete had split from his second wife, Donna. She had wanted children, he hadn't. In his eyes, the world was a very nasty place, and bringing a new, innocent life into that world would have been cruel. He could never understand how intelligent people – who could see how corrupt the world had become – still chose to fill it with more people. He had loved Donna, but he had known that if he had let her have her way, he would never have forgiven himself.

  'It's interesting there're only the three of us,' Stephanie said suddenly, snapping Pete out of his reverie.

  'Not really,' Maiko replied. 'I never thought for a minute Josh Thompson would commit.'

  'You know him, right?'

  'Yeah, and he's a great guy, but he's his own man. He's also kinda famous now.'

  Stephanie shrugged. 'I'm sure Harrison has a Plan B. To be honest, I thought Josh Thompson was a bit full of himself.'

  Maiko grinned. 'He's certainly one for the ladies – so I'm told!'

  They heard a sound from the direction of the flight deck and turned to see Mark Harrison approaching. Behind him a young, long-haired man rolled along in a motorised wheelchair.

  'I'm glad you could all make it,' Mark said. He moved to one side as the youth came forward. 'This is Tom Erickson,' he added. 'Our IT guru.'

  Peter Sherringham was the first to respond, shaking Tom's hand warmly. The two women looked stunned – they instantly recognised the infamous hacker.

  'Well, I hope you're all enjoying the flight,' Harrison said, easing himself into one of the armchair-sized seats. He handed each of them a white envelope
. 'Your contracts, and a down payment on your services.'

  Pete was the only one to open his. He gave the contents a quick glance, but the others could tell he was pleased by what he saw. He folded the envelope and put it in his jacket pocket.

  'I can't help noticing that there are only three of us from our first visit,' Stephanie Jacobs said.

  'Yes. Regrettably, Josh Thompson has decided not to join us. But there are contingencies. Now, I wanted to just give you a quick briefing en route to Tintara. Once we arrive I want us to get straight down to business. Tom here will be overseeing every aspect of our computer systems. I can't emphasise enough the importance of this role. It's quite possible our lives will depend on Tom's talents.'

  'Don't take this the wrong way, lad,' Pete interrupted, looking directly at Erickson. 'But aren't you supposed to be behind bars?'

  'I was, until this nice man from E-Force came to visit,'

  Tom responded, nodding towards Mark. 'Looks like you're going to have to trust an old jailbird, dude.'

  Mark handed each of them a leather folder. 'Basic stuff,' he said. 'Specs of the equipment, background info on the set-up.'

  They flicked through sheets of data on the island and schematics of the base. Base One was the centre of operations, and for obvious reasons its whereabouts was a closely guarded secret. Tintara was little more than an atoll, three and a half miles long and 1500 yards across, girdled by pure white sand.

  'This place is a freaking cliché,' Tom said, looking at an aerial photograph of Tintara. 'Palm trees, fantasy beaches, the works!'

  'Yep, there's even a bar on the north beach run part-time by a couple of very enthusiastic technicians. They do a mean caipiroska,' Mark replied. 'There's almost nothing to see from the air, though. Some of the key buildings are on the surface, but camouflaged. As you saw on your first visit,' he added, turning to Pete, Maiko and Stephanie, 'a lot happens underground – we have living quarters, operations rooms and technical support, including an amazing complex of labs. The computer nexus is here,' he said, pointing out the location for Tom's benefit.

  'We're over 200 miles from the nearest island – a long way from prying eyes. But, even so, security is tight. On missions, the aircraft are sealed against unauthorised access, and the skin of all vehicles and machinery has been coated with Camoflin.'

  'Which is?' Maiko asked.

  'Another wonder from CARPA. It's a paint that camouflages our equipment and blurs any photographs or video footage taken by nosy individuals. We use the same stuff for the buildings on the island. On the base, all access is controlled by retinal-scan technology. You each have quarters in the main accommodation area, here.' He tapped the map to show them.

  'Now, as you know, nothing has been tested in the field yet and we won't be fully operational for three months. Once your training is complete, you'll return to your day jobs. But you'll be on-call to respond to any appropriate emergency. We'll be ready to tackle a broad spectrum of operations anywhere in the world. We can reach any point on the globe within two or three hours.

  'Potentially, there will be five of us on a mission, but maybe not all at the same time. Tom will remain at Base One. As the computer expert, he'll be there to support us during a mission. Any questions?'

  'How do you know if E-Force is needed?' Tom asked.

  'BigEye, a set of satellites that monitors activity on the Earth's surface. Look in the file – pages 105 to 123, I think.' Mark paused for a moment. 'Okay, the training plan itself. You'll each be put through a core programme, which will involve an advanced survival course and instruction in how to use all the equipment at our disposal, including piloting the fleet of aircraft.'

  Mark flicked a switch on his armrest and the cabin lights dimmed. A screen lit up in front of them. 'Just a quick survey of the equipment,' he said, and an image of a futuristic aircraft appeared on the screen. It was the Hummingbird. 'This is the plane we're sitting in,' he said. The image changed. 'And this is the Silverback. You three saw it on your first trip. We have four of these – John, Paul, George and Ringo. Top speed of mach 10. Crew of two. These can carry 500 pounds of equipment. They're designed to get one or two members of E-Force anywhere on Earth, ultra-fast.'

  'You serious about those speeds?' Tom asked. He was shaking his head in disbelief.

  'Yep,' Mark replied. 'All these planes are VTOL, for which they use conventional jet engines. But once they're at operational altitude, they shift to scramjets.'

  'Scramjets?' Maiko said. 'We use them at NASA.'

  'Of course. NASA's plane, the X-43A, is famous. Broke the air speed record in 2004. Mach 9.8. Our planes use a very advanced version of the same technology. Scramjets take in oxygen from the air at supersonic speeds and use it to burn fuel. They don't need to carry most of the propellant. They just suck up the oxygen as they move through the air. A bit like a whale eating plankton.'

  The image changed again. This time a massive, almost spherical aircraft appeared. It was silver, with a flight deck high up on the sphere. It looked for all the world like a giant burger. 'The Big Mac,' Mark said. 'Our main cargo workhorse. It carries the heavy stuff; four-seater submarines, heavy digging equipment, winching machinery. We use the Big Mac to transport an array of equipment. This includes the Mole, a 2000-horsepower burrowing machine, the Cage, a protective framework for working in extremely unstable conditions, and the Firefly, a two-seater firefighting vehicle that can tolerate an outer-skin temperature of 1000 degrees Celsius for an hour. Aside from these, we have an assortment of heli-jets that can fly at mach 2, ground vehicles, boats and high-speed subs.'

  The screen flicked off and the lights came up.

  'You said there was a core programme,' Stephanie said. 'What else is there?'

  'I was just coming to that. You'll have a further programme tailored to each of you. Those who've not had military training will be put through a course based on one used by the Green Berets. Those without medical training will be given a crash course in essential procedures.' Mark paused for a moment and looked into each of their faces.

  'I won't pretend. It's going to be tough, very tough. Any questions?'

  'Yeah, just one,' Tom said. 'I take it I'll be exempt from the hundred-yard sprint through mud and horseshit?'

  9

  The four men met in the flesh only rarely. Most of the time they merely shared pixels. Today's encounter was another of those virtual meetings.

  At first glance, there was little that linked them. Granted, they were all overachievers. Two were politicians of significance, one was a resources billionaire, and the last a media mogul. All were aged between 50 and 70. One was very tall, six-foot-five; another very short, just five-foot-four. Two were fitness freaks and buff. One, the 70-year-old, weighed in at over 25 stone, with barely an ounce of muscle on him. The fourth was broad-shouldered with a paunch. Outward appearances, then, were entirely deceptive. Only one thing drew these four men together – money. They had met at a World Bank dinner for insiders, adjourned for brandy and cigars in a side room at Gleneagles one warm summer evening, and bingo – they had bonded.

  At their next meeting, they decided what it was that they would do together. And at the same gathering they had shared a little black humour. They dubbed themselves Death, Conquest, War and Pestilence – the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  Between them, these men were worth more than $100 billion. They controlled three of the most important sectors of 21st-century life – finance, the lifeblood of the world; the media, the neural net of the age; and the politics of the world's only superpower. At their meetings they each donned a tie with the colour of their attribute – pale green for Death, white for Conquest, red for War and black for Pestilence. It was probably a little OTT, but what the hell?

  The Four Horsemen had a very simple agenda. Money was not just power, it was everything. Ergo, anyone who threatened their ability to make money was an enemy and must be stopped. At their third meeting in Cincinnati, soon after 9/11, they had joked
about the old Wall Street war cry that it was not enough to win, you had to destroy your enemy. For them, the aphorism didn't go nearly far enough. The enemy must be utterly annihilated, their families destroyed, eviscerated, their corpses pissed on.

  'So, what's the latest?' Death asked, his face large on three wall-screens, in Berlin, Shanghai and Dallas.

  'We have to make a decision. Our friend the senator is growing more powerful by the day,' Pestilence responded.

  'Very well,' Death replied.

  'Is your plan really the only option?' Conquest adjusted his white tie as he spoke.

  'You seem nervous.' Pestilence smirked. 'Most unlike you, my friend.'

  'I'm not nervous – I just want assurances.'

  'Oh, come now, Conquest. When is that ever possible? Nothing in life comes with assurances, does it? But at least we know we work for a noble cause. Human existence has shown there is no greater God than the greenback.'

  'Yes,' chuckled War, his chins wobbling. 'Just take an L from gold and what do you have?'

  The others stared at him stonily. They had heard it before.

  'So, the plan,' Death said. 'You intend using the Dragon, I take it?'

  'Who else?' Pestilence said. 'Actually, he's sorting out a minor irritation as we speak – that little shit, Gordon Smith. But after that, he could begin preparations. Disposing of the senator will be an altogether trickier proposition.'

  'So. When, exactly?' Conquest asked, and adjusted his tie again.

  'Soon. Do I have unanimous approval?'

  The others nodded in turn.

  10

  Museum of Modern Art, West 53rd Street, New York

  'Champagne?'

  Josh Thompson turned to see a smiling waiter holding a tray of drinks. He had arrived late. The event was the launch of the latest book by the art historian Anna Fitzgibbon, with whom he shared a literary agent, Carl Reed of Reed & Stringer. He noticed Carl accompanying a statuesque woman to a podium at one end of the room. A who's who of the New York literary and art scene were here to sip Veuve Clicquot, eat expensive canapés, and cheer the celebrated author. Away from the stage, they huddled in groups, sticking in the verbal knife in hushed tones.