by Alex Shaw
His journey was not quite what Li Tam had expected. A few morning commuters were up and about; some waited in vain for buses, while others walked or cycled. The important Washington worker bees had not noticed that they’d been the victims of a targeted EMP. To them, the power was out and that was all. A man in a suit stepped into the road, directly in front of the taxi, and attempted to hail him. Tam drove on. In his rear-view mirror he saw the man waving his arms, his yells muted by the car’s thick, bulletproof glass. Tam chuckled; these Americans were overfed, overindulged, and overinflated fools. The man’s actions were a warning, however, that he had to get out of the city soon.
He turned the taxi into Corcoran Street NW and slammed on his brakes. The narrow, townhouse-lined thoroughfare was blocked by an ambulance and a pair of police patrol cars standing at irregular angles. The officers had been leaning over the hood of the nearest one, studying a map, but on hearing the taxi, their heads had snapped left. Tam put the car into reverse and pressed the gas. The taxi shot backward, barely missing parked cars on either side of the one-way street.
The officers held up their hands and started to shout. An object banged against the trunk of the taxi, and Tam felt the tyres roll over something soft. He jerked the wheel right, bouncing up over the kerb as he saw what he had hit. It was a body, a body dressed in a dark blue police uniform. Tam heard a shout and saw another officer on the sidewalk, his service pistol raised and trained at him. He was yelling, but Tam filtered out the words as he searched for an escape route. He tugged at his wheel, put the car into drive, and slammed the gas pedal just as something flashed in his vision. The taxi leapt forward, darted through a gap between the parked cars, and collided with a large, leafy tree.
Tam was thrown forward. No airbag inflated to arrest his progress and his forehead hit the wheel with a thud. The edges of Li Tam’s vision dimmed, became grey, and then his world went black.
*
‘What do we have here?’ Detective Jon Chang asked the patrolman as he regarded the unconscious suspect lying on the stretcher.
‘That jerk ran over my colleague with a darn taxi, Detective.’
‘How is he?’
‘His leg is busted up pretty bad; it’ll need to be set. Or at least that’s what the paramedic said.’
Chang pursed his lips. The ambulance had come to a halt in the middle of Corcoran Street NW, as had the two patrol cars following it, as though they had suddenly run out of gas; they certainly hadn’t been parked. The violent suspect they had been escorting at the time was still subdued and drooling, but now he and his stretcher had been placed on the sidewalk, corralled next to the taxi driver. Chang was tired. Unable to sleep after returning from the British Embassy, he had tried to catch up with paperwork at his home office when the lights all over the city had gone out. And then he had heard the commotion on the street below, as vehicles stopped dead in their tracks. Something was up. He glanced at the patrolman’s name badge. ‘Milligan, have you been able to raise anyone over the radio?’
‘No,’ Milligan replied. ‘And my cell doesn’t work either.’
Nothing made sense to Chang. ‘How many cars have you seen moving this morning, I mean since the power went out?’
Milligan pointed at the taxi. ‘This was the first.’
‘So everything that relies somehow on electronics has failed?’
‘Has it?’
‘Nothing in my house works, not even the toaster.’ Chang looked skyward. ‘The only thing I know that would wipe out all the electrics is the EMP blast from a nuclear detonation.’
‘As in a nuclear bomb?’ Milligan’s face lost its colour. ‘You think we’ve been nuked?’
‘No I don’t.’ Chang had recently been to an FBI lecture on developments in terror tactics; stolen nukes had been right at the top. ‘Look where we are, Milligan, in the middle of Washington within spitting distance of the White House. If we’d been hit with a nuke, this would be ground zero. We’d already have been vaporised.’
‘Then what?’
Chang raised his arms. ‘The chances are it’s an EMP. Someone has hit us with a non-nuclear EMP device.’
‘Isn’t that what they used in that old movie, The Matrix?’ the young patrolman asked.
‘I never liked Keanu Reeves, too oily, but the ex-wife did.’
‘Yeah, I remember now,’ Milligan continued. ‘They fired an electrical charge and it knocked everything out, except their own ships.’
Now it was Chang’s turn to frown. He stared first at the taxi driver and then at the taxi and somewhere inside his detective’s head a light flicked on. Chang took two brisk steps toward the taxi, reached inside, and pulled the hood release toggle. The hood, dented from the impact with the tree, moved but did not open fully. ‘Help me with this.’ Milligan took hold of the edge and heaved. There was a creaking and a scraping but it opened. Chang peered inside. ‘Do you know anything about cars?’
‘I know how to drive them. I prefer horses to horsepower.’ Chang gave him a quizzical glance. ‘I’m from Idaho – my parents were cowboys.’
‘Yeehaw,’ Chang said flatly and studied the engine bay. He pointed with his finger. ‘This part’s been reinforced. It’s meant to be a crumple zone and should have deformed on impact with that tree. It didn’t. The engine’s much larger than regular, that’s for sure. You see these wires?’
‘Yes.’
‘They are extremely well insulated; in fact, they look more like miniature undersea cables than wires.’
‘So what are you saying? This taxi was EMP proof?’
‘EMP proofed.’ Chang straightened and stretched. ‘The only vehicle you’ve seen that can move today has uprated features and non-standard wiring. My bet is that the driver knew what was coming, and he knew how to prevent it from frying his electronics.’
‘Are you sure? I mean an EMP attack. It’s a huge jump.’
‘Hypothesis, not assumption.’
‘What?’
‘It’s what we detectives do; it’s a hypothesis based on evidence.’
‘How would a taxi driver know about an EMP attack?’
‘A genuine taxi driver wouldn’t.’
‘Maybe he’s not really a taxi driver?’
‘You’re learning, Milligan.’ Chang climbed into the taxi and turned the key in the ignition. The car started on the first attempt, the engine producing a satisfying growl. He put the stick into reverse and backed away from the tree. Everything seemed to be working. Chang checked the wheel; yep, there was no airbag – more non-standard wiring took its place. He killed the ignition and got out. ‘This is not a real taxi; it’s not a civilian vehicle.’
‘What is it then?’
‘That is what I need to figure out.’ Chang stroked the roof. ‘But until then, it’s mine.’
Camden, Maine
It had been Sergei’s idea to change the plates on the SUV and add the sticker to the window. Oleg had held his breath when the Englishman had approached, but hiding in plain sight had seemed to work. “The best camouflage is often the simplest,” Sergei had assured him. And for once Oleg realised that the younger, brutish Russian had skills and knowledge that he himself did not. Oleg had been on the roof for the detonation of the EMP and annoyed that he was not in Washington. He had seen a purple shimmer on the horizon but then relocated into an empty ground-floor room.
By now, all of the guests had made an appearance, and Sara was talking to them. The chief of police left the reception building with the Englishman and the officer who’d arrived earlier on a child’s pedal bike. They had their heads down as they walked across the parking lot, but then the new arrival quickly looked up at the Tahoe. Time to go. He had a Glock 19 secured to his side in a pancake holster, which he would use if pushed. He watched the three men enter the other accommodation block. The two policemen took the ground floor while the Englishman went up the stairs to the top. They were being methodical and would eventually reach him or flush him out.
Oleg k
new what he had to do. He waited until all three men were inside rooms before he opened the door and bolted for the Tahoe.
*
Tate heard a car door slam and ran out of the room he’d been searching. He then heard an engine and saw the SUV start to move. Tate shouted, ‘He’s in the Tahoe!’
Guests drifted towards it, curious at first and then waving and shouting. The SUV continued to travel slowly across the lot as Tate all but fell down the stairs in his haste to reach it. Donoghue burst out of the ground floor, shortly followed by Edger, both brandishing their service Glocks. The guests scattered as Donoghue got in the path of the SUV and aimed at the driver behind the windscreen. The Tahoe stopped.
‘Step out of the vehicle. Step out of the vehicle, now!’
The Tahoe crabbed sideways and tried to go around Donoghue.
Edger then got in front of the SUV. ‘Stop or I will shoot!’
The Tahoe continued to move; Edger pulled the trigger.
‘No!’ Tate shouted, but it was too late. The 9mm round ricocheted off the hood panel and hit Edger. The policeman fell and the Tahoe left the parking lot.
*
The sun exploded above the horizon as Oleg hit Elm Street; meteorologically, a new and beautiful day had started, but he doubted many Americans would view it as such. He sighed. He had no choice in his actions; his employer was a partner in the attack on the hated US, and as a former serving member of the GRU’s weapons research directorate, he had been paid very handsomely to continue his work. Serving Oleniuk rather than the Russian state had its benefits, and now all he had to do was merely observe and record the aftermath.
He took no delight in the liquidation of other humans. His work had been geared to killing the machines of war, not the men inside them, but after years of research working alongside those who did, his compassion had been blunted. Wars and disease, which had ravaged the globe, taught those who survived that it was a dog-eat-dog world and those who did not fight would be left eating nothing but dog.
*
Tate knelt down beside Edger. ‘Stay still; I’ve had combat medical training.’
‘I wasn’t planning on running after him,’ the officer croaked.
‘You were lucky; the angle it hit your left thigh – a through and through. It may have clipped the edge of a bone, but I doubt it.’
‘And how is that lucky?’
‘If it had hit an artery, you would have bled out,’ Donoghue added.
Edger grimaced before he spoke again. ‘Why did my bullet bounce off?’
‘Armour plating,’ Tate said.
‘Is he OK?’ Sara asked, joining them.
‘He’ll be fine.’ What he didn’t add was on any normal day. ‘Chief, help me get him to his feet.’
Donoghue bent down and the pair hauled Edger to a standing position. The officer yelled as he put weight on his injured leg.
‘Don’t use your left leg.’
‘Thanks for the reminder.’
Tate looked at the crowd of guests. ‘Has anyone got any medical training?’
Like schoolchildren, a hand went up, then another. Tate pointed at the two volunteers. ‘Take him into a room and dress the wound.’ He turned to Sara; their eyes locked. ‘I presume you have a first-aid kit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give it to them.’
‘Hey, don’t I get a say in this?’ Edger grumbled.
‘No. Once it’s been patched up, you’ll be mobile but until then we’ve got to prevent any infection.’
‘My gun?’
Tate saw the Glock 17 lying a few feet away; it had been hurled from Edger’s hand by the fall. Tate took a step and picked it up. ‘I’ll be borrowing this.’
‘You what?’ The chief of police advanced on Tate.
‘Listen, you know who I am; you know my training. Look at what’s happening here. Who do you think is safer using this: me or him?’
‘I’m the chief of police!’ Donoghue bristled. ‘It’s my town, and I get to decide who carries a police-issue firearm!’
Tate didn’t need a pissing contest, not now. ‘So deputise me. Surely your Amended PATRIOT Act that you are so fond of gives you the power to do so?’
Donoghue shook his head. ‘Smug British … OK you are a deputy.’ Donoghue seemed to become aware that the guests were waiting for him to address them. ‘I need you all to listen to me. Some type of attack has happened on the United States, which has taken down the national power grid. An electronic blast of … er … electrons.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Secondly, we think that the Russian guests who were here are somehow involved. Any questions?’
‘How do you know this?’ a man in boxer shorts and a dress shirt asked.
Donoghue explained and then added, ‘The entire US has been unplugged. You must check your cars. If they start, I’d advise you to try to get home now. You’ve got the rest of today until people start to panic.’
‘And what if our cars don’t work?’ a woman with unruly red hair asked, aghast.
‘Then you have to stay here. As the chief of police for Camden, I can assure you that my citizens are on your side and will help you in whatever way they can.’
Tate looked around at the faces of the hotel guests, innocents attacked, and to what end? Donoghue’s words were true; when things went south, they went south fast. When the last spate of terror attacks had hit the UK, he’d been at the SAS barracks, sealed off from the real world. The British government used all available resources, including its small regiment of elite soldiers, to keep order among the civilian population and prevent any opportunistic attacks on the UK’s major cities. But as with Northern Ireland before, people resented troops on the streets. Tate took Sara’s arm and guided her away from the crowd of guests as a thought struck him. It was the first time he’d spoken to her alone, since the night before. ‘Have you checked your car?’
‘For what?’
‘Does it start?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s vintage, fewer electronic parts that could have been damaged.’
She looked at him with a strange expression on her face. ‘You scared me last night. The way you attacked Clint was—’
‘Necessary,’ Tate said, cutting her off. ‘He wouldn’t back down.’
Sara nodded. ‘No one ever says no to him.’
‘So he learned something. Now can I see your car?’
‘This way.’
They walked around the side of the reception building, and Sara pointed at a garage door. ‘It’s electric, too heavy for me to open.’
Tate turned the handle and pushed near the top of the “up-and-over” door. It shifted a bit; he pushed more and then crouched and pulled the bottom up. The door gained momentum, slid up and back on its runners and there was the early-model Mini. ‘Keys?’
‘In the car. This is Camden, Maine.’
‘Right.’ Tate opened the driver’s door, which was on the UK side. He racked the seat back as far as it would go and looked at the controls, ignition switch, and manual choke. He loved cars and that was one of the reasons he’d joined the mobility troop within the SAS. ‘Get in.’
‘Hold on a moment there – no one drives this but me! And I can’t leave my guests; and what about my property?’
‘Sara will be staying here,’ Donoghue said in his no-nonsense voice as he appeared in the open garage door. ‘Tate, you drive. I’ll ride shotgun.’
‘Hello?’ Sara raised her voice. ‘It’s my car!’
‘Sara, I’m sorry; this is police business and we need to commandeer your vehicle.’
‘Fine,’ Sara said, ‘but if it comes back with as much as a scratch on it!’
‘You’ve got my card details, Sara – charge me for hiring it!’ Tate said, with a wink.
‘You know the card reader doesn’t work.’
Donoghue eased himself into the dark red leather seat and shut the door. ‘We’re going to find the Russians?’
‘We’re going to stop t
he Russians.’ Tate let out the choke and then slowly placed his hand on the key. ‘Here goes; come on, old girl, do this for England.’
‘You do know that BMW now owns Mini?’
‘More’s the shame.’ Tate grinned and turned the key. The car coughed, then coughed again and then caught. He depressed the accelerator and the sweet sound of the Cooper S filled the garage. Taking off the handbrake, he manoeuvred the classic pocket rocket out of the garage and onto the road, unseen by the guests in the parking lot on the other side. ‘Which way would he go?’
‘Turn left. It’ll take you straight through town and out the other side, the way you came yesterday. No more large towns until you hit Belfast; keep going after that and you’ll eventually arrive in Canada.’
‘And right?’
‘A few small towns, some big ones, and then Boston.’
‘And a lot of worried people without power.’
‘And that’s going to be a huge problem.’
Tate shrugged. ‘I can’t think about that now, and neither should you. We have to cut away and focus on the mission.’ Tate accelerated north on Elm Street.
Chapter 13
Georgetown, Washington, DC
Simon Hunter stood in the bedroom, washed and dressed. He had to focus on finding the ambassador, but first of all, he needed to find his cell. ‘Have you seen my iPhone?’
‘No.’
Hunter was puzzled; if it wasn’t in his pocket, it was usually by the side of the bed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Are you accusing me of hiding it?’
‘Yes.’ Hunter continued to search and found it under a pillow. The screen was blank. He pressed the “on” button – nothing. Great, no power and no charge. No matter, he had to get to the embassy. Eric Filler had agreed to check the ambassador’s residence and was going to text him if their boss was still AWOL. Hunter cursed himself. Something wasn’t right. He should never have left the embassy or gone to bed; he should have been out looking, but Terri was waiting for him and damn it all, he had a life outside of work. ‘I’m leaving now. I have to get to the office – they need me.’