State of Emergency

by Sam Fisher

  Pete Sherringham sat at the controls of the Mole, poised at the top of the ground-floor down-ramp that led to the car park on the eastern side of the CCC. He gave verbal instructions to the computer system and the machine edged forward, beginning its descent down the slope.

  The walls of the ramp had been badly damaged by the blasts. Lumps of dusty concrete were strewn across the floor, and some of the tarmac had buckled. Pete drove down the first spiral and was soon parallel to B1. There was no off-ramp here, since the first parking level was on B2. He swung the Mole around the next curve, and twenty seconds later he was at the entrance to the car park.

  At first glance, the car park looked like a building site. Pete flicked on the Mole's powerful beams. They cut through the smoky gloom and the cameras charted the devastation. There were burnt-out cars and automobile parts scattered across the floor. Every windscreen had shattered. Great expanses of the ceiling had caved in. Huge energies had undone the work of many man-hours.

  He pulled the Mole into the car park and paused for a moment. 'Anybody there?' he called through the external speakers. Nothing. The sensors in the skin of the Mole could pick up any sound from outside. Pete had the filter set to stream the sound of a human voice only. But nothing came through.

  He moved forward, between the rows of smashed-up cars. A flame shot out from the shattered passenger window of a Cadillac CTS Sport and the engine exploded, sending the hood crashing into the ceiling before it cartwheeled along the aisle. It slammed into the Mole and rolled to a stop near the ramp.

  The floor was slick with oil and water, but it meant nothing to the tracks of the Mole. Looking west, Pete could see the devastation was worse. Many of the cars had been ripped apart. At least a quarter of them had been upended. Nudging forward, in a few moments he had reached the top of the down ramp from B2 to B3. Where once the ramp had led smoothly down to B3, now the way was blocked by a massive pile of boulders, steel girders and a clutch of mangled vehicles.

  Pete manoeuvred the Mole towards the lip of the ramp and stopped a few feet from the obstruction. The blockage was so complete that even with the powerful lights of the Mole, he couldn't see anything on the other side. He called through the speakers again, 'Is anyone there? The other side of this blockage?' Nothing.

  'Base One,' Pete said into his comms.

  'Yeah, Pete,' came Mark Harrison's low voice.

  'Can BigEye get any detail down to B3?'

  Mark looked at one of the technicians who shook his head. 'That's a negative, Pete. Too much interference. What's your situation?'

  'I'm at the top of the ramp going from B2 to B3, but the way is completely blocked. I'm a little nervous about smashing my way through in case someone's alive the other side.'

  'Any other way down?'

  'Negative. The west end of B2 is smashed up so bad there's a danger the Mole could go right through the floor.'

  'Well, you don't have much choice then, Pete.'

  'Wilco.' Pete cut the link and surveyed his sensors. He could hear nothing around the frequency of a human voice. The infrared sensors were overwhelmed by the heat of the fires in the car park, so he couldn't separate out the body heat from anyone who might be the other side of the blockage.

  Pete made his decision. The Mole started to move forward.

  66

  Base One, Tintara

  A few minutes from sunset and the slowly descending orange sun lit up the expanse of the Pacific Ocean like a vermilion disco ball. Tom Erickson was in his private quarters overlooking the west of Tintara, the full splendour of the clear evening sky framed by his window. He had a console in his room that was almost as versatile as the one in Cyber Control, and from here he had complete access to Sybil, the quantum computer at the heart of the entire system.

  As much as he had grown to love being part of the team at Tintara, Tom valued his privacy. It might have been something to do with the months he had spent at the Aldermont Correctional Facility, where his only friend had been his laptop. But now he had found a home, people he could identify with. Sure, he enjoyed teasing them, but he had never met a group of people he respected more. And now they needed him. This mission would fail unless he could find a way for the team on the ground to reach Senator Kyle Foreman.

  'Sybil – bring up the schematic of the CCC, please,' he said. The holoscreen was aglow in front of his wheelchair, and the virtual keyboard was projected over his lap. The 3D schematic appeared two feet in front of his face. 'Music, please, Sybil,' he said, staring fixedly at the image.

  'I have 3,257,419 individual pieces of –'

  'Yes, Syb, baby, I imagine you do. Any Barry Manilow? Just kidding. Play . . .' He looked out at the sky now dominated by crimson and orange. 'The White Stripes, Seven Nation Army – loud, Syb.'

  'Please specify –'

  'Er, crank it up to eleven.'

  'I'm sorry. That –'

  'Sybil – volume nine. I'll let you know if it's wrong.'

  The throbbing bass notes kicked in, then the drums, and Jack White's rasping bluesy voice. Tom pushed his head back against the rest of his wheelchair and closed his eyes. He tried to clear his mind and let the music wash over him. The heavier the sounds, the calmer he became.

  Tom opened his eyes and looked at the schematic. At first glance it was just a maze of lines. He surveyed the ten floors of the building. Much of B1 was a mess, and B2 – the first level of the car park – was strewn with damaged vehicles, random fires and other hazards. A bad fire was raging on the eastern side of B3.

  'Where's Pete, Sybil?'

  A small dot appeared on B2. But Pete Sherringham's way was blocked. He was about to guide the Mole down through a major obstruction and it would take him a while to get through. Furthermore, there was no way of knowing where Kyle Foreman and the others would be by the time he got through. Tom had no choice – somehow he had to get Josh, Mai and Steph down there.

  'Okay,' Tom said. 'Okay, so what now?' The music was good and loud and reaching a crescendo. 'Come on, man, think. Think!' He ran a hand through his long, greasy hair. 'What do buildings need? Electricity. Right. Gas. Right. Water. Sewage . . . Sybil – is there a schematic on the net for the sewage system of the CCC?'

  A few seconds passed. 'Yes,' Sybil responded.

  'Good. Can you superimpose it on the schematic of the building, please.'

  A mesh of green lines appeared, linking the floors. They ran to a main artery to the east of the building, just below B6. From there, a thick green line extended eastwards. It was useless – the threads from the sewage channels from the building were no more than two feet in diameter. The main sewer in the area was four feet wide, but the compact CCC pipes didn't link to it until more than 50 yards east of the CCC. 'Damn it!' Tom exclaimed above the pounding music.

  He stared out the window. The sky was turning purple and a few stars were beginning to appear.

  'Sybil – superimpose all services to the CCC on the schematic.'

  New lines appeared – yellow for gas pipes, black for electricity, red for mains water. None of them included maintenance conduits running to or from the CCC. There were no manholes or access tunnels big enough. But suddenly Tom had an idea.

  'Sybil – can you find an image of the foundations? Either from BigEye or anything on the net?'

  This time the delay was a little longer.

  'BigEye can't reach that far down, Tom,' Sybil said. 'But there is an image of the site taken when the CCC was being constructed in 1996.'

  'Alright,' Tom said. 'Bring it up, please.' He looked at the still image. It was a vast construction site. Three huge trucks in the foreground. Then he noticed something. 'What's that, Sybil? That opening at the far side of the foundations?'

  'You could be referring to any of three different openings, Tom.'

  'Sure. The one that's level with the top of the foundations. Top-left of the image.'

  'That is a municipal drain. It was first constructed in 1934 to take rainwater to the ocean. It
was decommissioned when the CCC was constructed.'

  'Decommissioned? But not demolished?'

  A pause. The image changed. The schematic of the CCC appeared: a new set of lines lay to the rear of the building.

  'Close in, Sybil. Top-left corner of the foundations, please.'

  The image changed again. The bottom left corner of the CCC took up the entire holoscreen.

  'That drain, Sybil. Is there an entry point at ground level?'

  The view transformed yet again, following the drain a hundred yards to the west of the building.

  'It emerges here, at grid reference –'

  'That's alright, Sybil. I can see where it comes out. And this is the $64,000-question, Syb. How close does it run to B6 of the CCC?'

  'The closest point is at grid reference D17 on the image. Separation of drain wall and wall into B6 is 38.41 inches. Soil type: compacted rock, sand and clay.'

  'Syb, baby, I love you!' Tom said.

  67

  For someone so young, the woman who called herself Francine Gygax – in homage to Gary Gygax, the creator of Dungeons & Dragons – had an almost invincible sense of self-confidence. She knew the men only by the collective name of the Four Horsemen – an epithet she thought rather ridiculous. But she didn't feel the slightest bit intimidated by them, and hadn't even bothered disguising herself on screen. The four men had, however. All she could see of them were blurred faces, while they could see each other clearly.

  War was still on his lounger on the deck of the Rosebud, moored off Naladhu. The sun was hot and lemon rays danced on the calm water. Death was still in his Washington DC office, and Pestilence was aboard the Hawker 400XP, now closer to LaGuardia in New York. Conquest had arrived at his Mayfair penthouse, poured himself a generous brandy and was sitting on an antique cream sofa. It was 8.30 pm in LA, 11.30 pm in Washington, 4.30 am in London and 9.30 am in the Maldives. Francine was nowhere and everywhere. In cyberspace there are no time zones.

  'You come highly recommended,' Conquest said, as four faces appeared on the huge screen on a wall of his apartment.

  Francine produced a barely discernible smile. 'I would imagine I do. I'm the best there is,' she replied matter-of-factly.

  Francine was twenty years old and had known great power for the past five. Five years that were a stark contrast to the first fifteen of her life. She had once been a shrew, an insignificant, plain young girl whom the other kids either ignored or verbally tortured. Now she understood how to manipulate. She knew the power she could exert, especially over men.

  Blonde and statuesque, with jet-black eyes, thanks to extensive plastic surgery, Francine bore little resemblance to the mousy-haired, spotty teenager she had once been. War had been rendered almost speechless as Francine appeared on his screen. He felt a stirring in his loins and giggled to himself.

  'I read the brief,' Francine said, concentrating on Conquest's distorted image. 'Looks like you need some help.'

  Conquest bridled, but quickly brought his features under control. War was not so subtle and burst out laughing.

  'You find something amusing?' Francine asked, turning her black eyes to the large wobbling shape on her screen.

  War roared with laughter and gave a wink intended for his three cohorts. 'I love this girl,' he announced. 'She's giving me a hard-on.'

  Francine's faint smile reappeared. Without looking down, her fingers flitted over a keyboard just out of sight. Suddenly, on the Horsemen's four screens in dispersed locations around the globe, War's face began to alter and it appeared out of the blur on Francine's screen. The plentiful flesh of his jowls and his thick neck began to vibrate. His lips trembled and he dribbled onto his massive white chest. His eyes started to bulge. Then, as quickly as it had begun to change, his face returned to something close to normal. But he looked drained and hideously pale.

  The other three Horsemen were stunned. They had each seen many horrible things. They had each inflicted terrible pain upon others, but this was something new.

  Death was the first to recover his composure. 'What did you do?'

  'Oh, now, that would be telling.'

  'I demand that you explain yourself.'

  Francine fixed him with cold eyes and gave a nonchalant shrug. 'I don't respond to demands.'

  'I'm intrigued,' Conquest interjected, his voice calm, placating. 'Humour us.'

  She sighed. 'I simply sent your fat friend a few interesting visuals. Certain images can be, well, very powerful.'

  Death glared at the girl, barely able to comprehend. 'You hacked into his computer?'

  'I told you I'm the best. It wasn't difficult.'

  Conquest glanced at War, who for the first time since he had known him was not seeing the funny side. The fat man looked petrified.

  'Impressive,' Death said finally. 'But –'

  'You have the brief,' Pestilence interrupted. 'As agreed, the first payment will be in your account in –' he glanced at the foot of his screen – 'a little under 30 seconds. The rest will be paid on successful completion of the project.'

  Francine nodded.

  'Any questions?' Death asked.

  She had none.

  68

  California Conference Center, Los Angeles

  They heard a voice – someone was shouting to them up the ramp. Marty was the first to turn. Through the haze he saw a dimly lit figure. His hands were cupped to his mouth and he was bellowing to them above the sound of fires and the groaning of concrete and steel. 'This way!' said the voice. The man was wearing a dark suit. About average height, he had jet-black, greased-back hair. Now he was beckoning to them, urging them away from the impassable tangle of metal.

  A few seconds later, they were back down on B3. The man was a dozen yards ahead of them. He was running down the ramp to B4. They followed blindly. There was nowhere else to go.

  'Keep going,' the man called back to them.

  They reached B4, then on to B5, and still the way was clear. The damage was far less dramatic here. They paused for a moment to catch their breath. Marty looked completely finished. He sat down for a moment. Dave collapsed next to him. He had a nasty cut across his forehead, and blood was running down his cheek. He lifted his T-shirt, dabbing at the wound, and saw an even worse gash along the inside of his forearm, a jagged rip from elbow to wrist.

  Foreman reached the man first. 'Thank you,' he said, looking at the ID tag around the man's neck. He was CIA. 'Mr Goddard.'

  'Please – call me Jerry. Glad to be of help, Senator. I was on a special security attachment to your group. You wouldn't have noticed me, I hope.'

  'Watching over the security people?'

  'Something like that,' Goddard said, smiling briefly, his teeth perfect. He was still wearing a knotted tie, his jacket buttoned. But the suit was soiled with oil and caked with dust. The left leg of his trousers was ripped from the knee down, and his calf was smeared with blood.

  'I take it your cell is dead?' Foreman said.

  'Lost it in the blasts.'

  'So, what now?' Marty asked.

  Goddard considered the old man. 'Have you gotten all the way down here from Ground Level?'

  Foreman nodded. 'The bombs went off in the middle of my speech. The auditorium is totalled. There was no way out the front. Some crazy bastard with a semi-automatic was making that a little difficult.' He looked away and sighed. 'Why did you bring us down here?'

  'I think it's the best chance any of us have.'

  'How come?' Dave asked.

  Foreman noticed the blood streaming down the young man's face. He walked over, pushed Dave's back gently and took a closer look.

  'Part of my prep was to study this building inside out. It's not on the public maps, but there's a secondary service elevator that goes straight from B6 to Ground. B6 is where a lot of the heavy equipment for big shows and stuff is stored.'

  Foreman looked up at Goddard. 'Where is it on B6?' he asked, helping Dave and Marty to their feet.

  'Back of the building,
smack in the middle,' Goddard replied, pointing down the ramp to the floor below.

  'Will you be able to make it?' Foreman asked his two companions.

  Dave nodded.

  'Lead on,' Marty rasped.

  Goddard walked ahead down the ramp, limping slightly. Foreman noticed that he walked with the trained caution of a law-enforcement officer. You could tell it a mile off.

  The air was clearer down here and it was cooler. Every car was dented, their windows nothing but frames, not a windshield left intact. But quite a few ceiling lights were still working and cast a hazy glow. A stream of filthy water ran down the left side of the ramp, pooling in newly-made holes.

  The ramp opened out onto the lowest level of the car park. This was different to the other four floors. Here only half the floor space was car park; the back, or north side of the building was a vast storage area. Ahead of them a wide corridor stretched into the gloom. They could just make out the end where it curved to the right.

  They walked along the corridor, their footfalls echoing around the concrete walls. From behind them came the sounds of fires still burning out of control. To the left and right were wide roller-doors, like those used in warehouses. One was open. Goddard flicked a switch and the light came on, revealing a huge storage room.

  They took a couple of steps inside. Wooden frames, partitions twenty feet wide, were stacked just beyond the roller-door. To one side of the room lay a row of massive stage lights. Beyond these were a pile of metal flight cases. On the other side of the room dozens of chairs were stacked, and on the floor beside these lay thick electrical cables and more lights.

  They retreated back to the corridor. 'The service elevator is around this corner,' Goddard said, without slowing.