State of Emergency

by Sam Fisher

  The block of concrete crashed down, missing the Dragon by a fraction of an inch. He whirled around and Foreman seized his chance. He interlocked his fingers and with every ounce of strength in him he brought his fists down on the back of the Dragon's head, knocking him forward. He landed heavily on the jagged lump of concrete. The gun left his hands and slid across the floor of the car park.

  In a blind panic, Foreman searched around for something he could use as a weapon. He grabbed at a piece of metal, a severed door handle. The Dragon was pulling himself up. Foreman swung the handle through the air, but the Dragon was too fast. One kick to the abdomen and Foreman was flying backwards. He landed on a pile of rubble and cried out as intense pain shot through him.

  The Dragon was on top of the senator in a fraction of a second, one hand at the his throat, the other clutching the Yarygin PYa handgun he had pulled from his jacket. Foreman could feel the life draining from him. In desperation, he ran his hands over the floor beside him and touched metal, a pipe of some sort. He grasped it, brought it round and slammed it into the Dragon's head. The Dragon fell back, stunned, blood running from a wound just above his left ear.

  Foreman found reserves of energy he had no idea he possessed and flung himself at the assassin. But the Dragon brought his arm up, smashing his elbow into Foreman's face. Both men fell backwards. The senator stumbled over a pile of masonry, almost tripping over the door handle he'd used earlier.

  Grabbing it, he lunged forward again with all his strength. The Dragon was struggling to regain his balance, and the blow reached its target. This time the assassin went down like a sack of coal. Foreman brought the handle down again – hard – across the nape of the Dragon's neck, and then a third time across the top of his skull. The man fell forward and stopped moving.

  For a couple of seconds Foreman stood gasping for air. He was covered in blood, sweat and concrete dust. He ran a hand over his eyes, but this only made it worse. He pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket, a remnant from the tablecloths he had used to bind Dave Golding's wounds. He spat on it and rubbed it over his eyes to clear away the grit and dirt as best he could. Then he dabbed at the wounds on his face.

  He walked around the prone form of the assassin and picked up the Smith & Wesson Magnum. There was no sign of the Yarygin. The Magnum was heavy and felt unnatural in Foreman's hand. He had always hated guns. Bending down with the barrel close to the Dragon's head, he felt for a pulse. It was there – weak, but there.

  What was he to do? The man was a trained killer, a professional. A wild thought flashed through Foreman's mind. He could put a bullet in the bastard's brain or, better still, smash his skull with a chunk of rock. He would be just another casualty. But even though this man had tried to kill him, and would have shot him without a second thought, the senator couldn't do it.

  'Have to do something,' Foreman said aloud to the fetid air. Looking around him, he spotted a car stereo. It was smashed almost beyond recognition, but a bunch of coloured wires dangled from its back. He snatched it up and yanked at the wires. Crouching down, he pulled the Dragon's hands behind him and wound the wires around his wrists, knotting them four times. The metal shell of the stereo hung limp. Foreman remembered the man was wearing a tie. Tugging it free, he wrapped it tight around the assassin's ankles.

  The senator stood up. Pain from a dozen different places screamed at him simultaneously. Everything seemed to hurt. He pocketed the Magnum and headed back to the storerooms at the rear of B6, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would leap from his chest.

  73

  It took less than a minute for the Sonic Drill to cut a hole a yard wide in the wall between the drain and Level B6 of the California Conference Center.

  'We're through,' Josh announced into his comms.

  'Roger, Josh,' Tom responded from Base One. 'I still can't get a detailed fix on the location of Kyle Foreman or his party. And there's something else.'

  'What?'

  'We're picking up some pretty serious stress lines on B6.

  Must be loss of integrity up above, a knock-on effect. Advise extreme caution.'

  'Wilco.'

  Josh dismantled the Sonic Drill and retracted the legs as Mai went through the hole.

  Room B63 was a large storeroom. They had to step over a huge plasma screen that had toppled over from the vibration caused by the drill. The ultrasound beam had been so precise the plasma screen was otherwise untouched, even though it had been resting against the wall.

  Guided by the beam from his helmet, Josh found a light switch on the far wall. The fluorescent tube in the ceiling rattled into life. Against the side walls stood plastic containers with labels on their fronts. The boxes were covered in dust from where the ceiling and walls had shaken in the blasts. Josh wiped a label clean. 'Spare parts for audio visual equipment,' he said.

  Mai paced over to a roller-door in the right-hand wall and bent down to the handle. It came up easily, opening onto a dark corridor. They could hear strange creaking sounds, and then a far-off scream. The air was hazy with particles of dust and smoke from the dozens of fires still raging in the huge complex.

  Josh looked at a schematic on his flexiscreen. 'That corridor links to a passage with other storerooms off it. Beyond that there's a main corridor. We should take a right turn there. It'll lead us out to the car parking area and the ramp up to B5. We take a left after that, and we'll wind up at the large service elevator that goes straight to the Ground Level.'

  'It's inoperable.'

  'Yeah, but Foreman and the others might not know that. He may be close to it.'

  'Okay, let's check it first.'

  They took a left turn in the corridor outside B63. All the roller-doors were down. It was dark except for the beams from their helmets. They reached the main corridor and hung another left. A few seconds later they were standing in front of the smashed-up elevator and its dead occupant – the precise spot Kyle Foreman had been some twenty minutes earlier. They turned without a word and ran back along the passage.

  'Guys?' It was Tom. 'Status, please?' There was an edge of urgency in his voice.

  'We've checked out the service elevator. No sign of Foreman. Heading back to the corridor outside B63. Plan to press on into the main body of B6. What's up, Tom?'

  'Hold your position.'

  'Why?'

  'BigEye has just picked up a hotspot close to your position.'

  'A hotspot?'

  'It's broken through the interference. Must be a very hot fire, perhaps a short circuit in the electrical system. According to Sybil, one of the storerooms contains gas tanks –'

  The explosion threw them off their feet. Josh fell backwards onto a pile of empty cardboard boxes that had been left in the corridor, scattering them across the passage. The boxes cushioned his fall, but the wind was still knocked out of him. The Sonic Drill flew out of his hands. Before he could move, Mai landed on top of him, an elbow slamming into his face.

  Mai pulled herself up, covered in dust. She looked down at Josh, who was holding his nose. She could see, through the mask of his helmet, that blood was streaming down from his nostrils.

  'Josh? Mai? Status, please. Are you guys okay?'

  They were too stunned to respond immediately. But Mai replied as she pulled Josh to his feet. 'I think we're okay.' She checked the screen on her wrist and Josh shook his head and lifted his arm. It ached. He looked down the corridor and saw the back end of the Sonic Drill protruding from a huge pile of rubble. The device was smashed to pieces.

  'My suit's fine,' Mai replied.

  'Josh?'

  'I feel like my nose has snapped off, but apart from that . . .' Josh pulled off his helmet, coughing in the dense, fumy air. He ran his fingers under his nose and they came up bloodied. A couple of drops fell to the dusty floor.

  'It's not busted, Josh,' Tom said.

  'Well, that's good to know. Can't say the same for the Sonic Drill, though. It's pretty smashed up.'

  'Put your helme
t back on. You want some painkillers?'

  'That would be nice. So what the hell just happened?'

  'I'm sorry. We picked it up too late. You're so far down and with the electrical disturbances from the explosions –'

  'What was it, Tom?'

  'A gas tank at the other side of B6. Lucky you weren't closer.'

  'We're going to take the main passage, see if we can find Foreman. And Tom? Next time –'

  A loud rumble interrupted Josh. It started far off but grew louder, closer. Instinctively, Josh and Mai dived to the floor, covering their heads with their arms. The rumbling kept coming closer. Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped.

  'Tom?' Josh said.

  No response.

  'Mark? Steph? Anyone? Come in?'

  Nothing.

  Mai and Josh stood up, the air around them even thicker with dust and smoke in the light from their helmets. Josh checked his wrist computer, tapping at the keypad. 'The noise came from beyond B63 . . . in the drain.'

  Mai led the way along the corridor. A chunk of concrete the size of a fist shot down from the ceiling and landed an inch in front of her. Without missing a beat, she dodged a shower of pebbles and detritus and ran on. Josh was two paces behind her.

  Room B63 was filled with smoke. Stumbling over rocks and pieces of tile and concrete, they reached the opening.

  Josh peered in. Thanks to his visual enhancements, he could see through the intense gloom. The tunnel was completely blocked.

  74

  Dave and Marty heard the boom of the tunnel collapsing. The far wall began to vibrate, the ceiling juddered and the roller-door started to move in sympathy. And then – a sudden stillness.

  They looked at each other almost resignedly. Marty got up and walked to the door, straining to listen, but there was only an eerie silence from the corridor beyond. He sat down with his back to the wall and let out a heavy sigh. 'How's the arm, kid?'

  Dave shrugged. 'Oh, you know. You?'

  'My head's throbbing. And this air, the smoke . . .' Marty looked pained.

  They had locked the shutter, although neither of them knew exactly why. Dave reached for his bag and pulled out the bottle of Vicodin. He emptied a couple of tablets into his palm and tossed them back.

  'So what started you on those things?' Marty asked.

  Dave gave him an angry look and shook his head. 'Does it matter?'

  Marty looked away. A medley of sounds came from beyond the shutter. A loud creaking, as though the whole building was about to crumble to dust. From far off came the sound of falling debris.

  'Couldn't cope with life, I guess,' Dave said suddenly.

  'Yep, sounds about right,' Marty replied.

  'And what would you know about it, old man?' Dave snapped. He winced and grabbed at his injured arm. The cloth around it was drenched with blood.

  Marty looked at the young man for a moment then laughed. 'I was in Nam,' he said quietly. 'Almost 45 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. If you hear old-timers like me tell you it was pure hell there, you'd better believe 'em, Dave. I haven't been to hell – not yet, anyway – but I can't imagine it being any worse than Quang Tri Province in April '68. My three best buddies died the same day. Operation Pegasus, it was called. We were part of III Marine Amphibious Force, sent in to save a base in Khe Sanh. It was about to fall to the Vietcong. I made it back to Saigon without a scratch and was given leave. It was worse than the front. I was eaten up with guilt. Survivor guilt, they call it now. Probably suffer it again if we make it out of this place.'

  Dave was studying the old man's face. It was grimy and he seemed to have aged ten years during the past hour. It struck him suddenly just how much living Marty Gardiner had over him.

  'So what'd you do?'

  'Same as half the US army – got smashed on bad local drugs, got so drunk I lost track of two whole days, and almost certainly did other stuff I'm glad I can't remember.' He gave Dave a pained smile, his teeth ridiculously bright against the smudged dirt over his face.

  Dave looked at the floor and shivered. 'My parents died in a car smash,' he said. 'It was my fault. I'd gotten into trouble at college. Got mixed up with the laziest mother-fuckers in the year and nearly flunked my exams. My parents were on their way to see me and to talk to my tutor. Dad is – was – a professor at MIT, super-smart. My sister's a surgeon. So, no pressure,' he smirked.

  'And you blame yourself for them getting killed in a car crash?'

  'If I hadn't been such an asshole, they wouldn't have been coming to see my tutor, would they?'

  Marty looked at him for several seconds, remembering what he had said only an hour ago, crouched over Nancy's dead body. It seemed as though only now the reality was sinking in. He had been in such a state of shock that he hadn't really processed the full horror of it all, and he knew the true pain of his loss would hit him very hard later – if he ever got out of this place alive. 'Some people think when you're time's up, it's up,' he said quietly.

  'I've been through it all a thousand times in my head,' Dave went on. 'I can't shake off the feeling I was responsible for their deaths.'

  'That's crap. Look, kid,' Marty said, and placed a hand on Dave's good arm. 'Hasn't this tragedy taught you anything?'

  Dave stared at him.

  'We have no control over anything. Oh, we might think we do. I chose to come here today. I persuaded Nancy to come. But when someone with his own agenda decides to put a bomb under the auditorium, I have no control. No more than you had control over the crash that killed your mom and dad. No more control than they had.'

  'So the only one who had control today was the bomber?'

  'No, not really. He, or she, couldn't control everything. Any number of things could have gone wrong for him. The cops could have spotted him before he pushed the button. The bomb might not have gone off. He could have miscalculated and killed himself in the blasts. None of us has control, Dave. We might think we do. We reassure ourselves we do. How else can we get through the day? We have to believe we're special, because the alternative is too horrible to contemplate.'

  'But in that case, what's the point of doing anything? Thinking anything? What's the point of free will?'

  'Because we have to keep going. What else can we do?'

  'Makes no sense to me, Marty. Why be a OneEarth supporter if you believe you have no control?'

  'Individually we have no control. But likeminded people can make things happen if they put enough energy into it.'

  'So you reached this conclusion in Vietnam?'

  'That was the start of it. I came back a wreck. I was an alcoholic for years. Then I met Nancy. She saved my life.'

  'So you did have some control.'

  'No. I lucked out, Dave. You see, that's the other great secret of life. Meet someone to love and who loves you.'

  Dave was about to reply when they were both shocked by the sound of frantic banging on the roller-door. 'What the –' He leapt to his feet, shifting all his weight onto his good arm.

  'Dave? Marty? It's me.' It was Kyle Foreman's voice.

  Dave helped Marty up and between them they lifted the roller-door a couple of feet. Foreman swung underneath the half-opened shutter and they saw his face in the dim light. He was covered in dust, his lips cracked, his left eye puffy and bruised. Blood from his broken nose had started to flow again, forming two red tracks in the grey powder covering his face. He still had the Smith & Wesson in his hand.

  'What's happened?' Dave said as he and Marty helped the senator straighten up.

  'Pull the shutter down again,' Foreman snapped. He found the large padlock at the bottom of the sliding door, clicked it shut and pocketed the key.

  'Where's Goddard?' Marty asked.

  The senator leaned back against the door, panting for breath. He coughed and spat blood onto the dust-covered floor. 'He tried to kill me,' he said. 'He's an assassin.'

  75

  Aboard the Big Mac, Stephanie had just made a sweep of the ar
ea of B6, where it was thought Foreman and his companions were located, when her comms sounded. It was on 156 megahertz, the frequency commonly used by the US army.

  'Yes?'

  'E-Force? Major Larry Simpson, US Marines, requesting to come aboard.'

  'What for?'

  'We need your urgent assistance.'

  She hesitated for a moment then clicked on the external viewer at the main door. She could see two men in fatigues. One was speaking into a small radio. The other was looking around, an M16 assault rifle over his shoulder.

  'Sybil,' she asked the computer. 'ID check on our visitors, please.'

  Sybil's quantum processors took less than a millisecond to scan the faces of the two men outside the Big Mac and check them in the E-Force database. 'Major Larry Simpson, US Marines, age 32, born –'

  'Okay, Sybil. The other one?'

  'Sergeant Vincent Paolomo, US Marines –'

  'Thanks.' Switching on the external speaker, she said, 'Come aboard,' and opened the door.

  The two soldiers came through the door and Stephanie took the elevator down to the lower deck. She met the marines in the main corridor. Close up, she could see they were covered in dirt, their faces blackened. They smelled of smoke and concrete dust. She took Major Simpson's grimy palm and he turned to introduce his companion. 'Sergeant Paolomo.' The other Marine nodded and shook Stephanie's hand, his face expressionless.

  'May I see your IDs, please?'

  'Sure.' Simpson took out his and Paolomo followed suit. They were credit-card-sized pieces of plastic providing name, rank, serial number and scrambled personal information. Stephanie studied them. Using her enhanced visual abilities, she checked across the wavelengths and picked up each card's authenticity strip – a line of ultra-thin gold, invisible to the naked eye, that ran down the edge of the ID.

  'How may I help?' she said handing them back.

  Simpson was gazing around at the smooth plastic walls of the Big Mac. 'One hell of a plane you have here, ma'am,' he said, appreciatively. 'A real beauty.'