by Andy Farman
Turning back into Tooley Street Svetlana drove east keeping conscientiously five miles above the speed limit. Police out at this hour would have an eye out for those motorists who had too much to drink. The school she had attended after being recruited from University in Moscow had taught many things about the west, some were common sense whilst others required an adjustment in thinking. Putting yourself in the place of those you wished to avoid or deceive was a fairly easy task; she had not had any alcohol that night but had no wish drawing attention to herself. A drink driver would be driving both far too fast and erratically or determinedly sticking to the speed limit knowing they were 'over the top'. Svetlana chose the middle ground and turned left driving through the Rotherhithe tunnel beneath the river Thames. The old narrow tunnel would make for a very tight schedule for whatever was planned by her masters, cameras in the tunnel were their precisely for the purpose of spotting traffic related problems and the Metropolitan Police Traffic Division would have a motorcycle on scene within minutes. As she drove up the incline into North London she checked for notices warning motorists of planned works, as with the Southern approach to the tunnel there were no notice boards in evidence.
Back in the private residents’ car park Jubi had found the Roadsters car keys inside the magnetized box the girl had planted. He was jubilant that he did not need to 'barrel' the ignition. His only regret was that the time of day meant he could not drive to his school and strut about in front of the others. He would have spun a story about buying it, hinting at drug money. Jubi wanted a car like this, a 'gangsta' rap record in the charts, a girl pop star in his bed, automatic weapons and several 'bitches' earning him regular money, just your everyday teenage dream.
Arriving at her Kensington flat Svetlana powered up her computer and selected a classical music CD that she placed in the drive before carefully removing her hand made Italian shoes and unpeeling like a second skin the Emilio Pucci sheath dress to stand naked but for sheer black hold-up stockings.
The dress, like her looks, was a tool of her trade. Lingerie would have been visible through the £2000 garment and spoilt the desired effect had she been stopped by the police.
As the music began sounding through the speakers either side of her PCs base unit, Svetlana leaned across the keyboard and carefully placed fingers over three separate keys, and paused, letting the music flow forth. If anyone else had been present they would have observed an exquisitely formed young woman in her mid-twenties, clad only in stockings and whose tan lines and full Brazilian showed a preference for G-strings as beach wear. The gleam of Chinese gold at her nether region where a stud pierced a particularly sensitive item, and a pair of tattooed dogs paws on her right buttock gave hint of a somewhat kinky vein running beneath that chic and elegant surface.
Apparently overtaken by the strains of Bizet’s Farandole from ‘L’Arlesienne’ and frozen in some Pre Raphaelesque pose, Svetlana closed her eyes as she listened. Thirty-nine seconds into the piece she depressed all three keys simultaneously before logging online. With the anti-tamper software thus neutralised and therefore no chance of the powerful electromagnets incorporated in the speakers from being activated and frying the hard drive, the auburn locks bouncing on her shoulders and tattooed buttocks as she strode elegantly on thick piled carpets through the flat to the shower.
Half an hour later and dressed in a Terry robe, Svetlana towelled her hair whilst checking her email. She quickly decided she had no use for a penis extension, was unlikely to ever buy Viagra online and the ambiguously entitled’re:- what you said', from [email protected] was undoubtedly trash mail. She consigned those emails to the 'waste bin'. The remaining two messages were from work colleagues at the bank who had no idea what ‘Christina Carlisle’s’ real job, or name, was. She read the gossip from one, pressing 'send' on a suitable response and accepted a party invitation from the second. Ejecting Mozart she replaced it with a disc containing a high encryption program that enabled messages to be encoded using a high tech version of the 'pre chip age' one-time pads. Messages could not be composed for later transmission; a hidden signal was transmitted over the Internet identifying the particular code settings in use to the receiving station. Non-standard hardware within the machine prevented the same settings being used twice. Typing quickly she confirmed collection of the car from the short stay car park at Manchester’s Ringway Airport and receipt of a large aluminium suitcase from a seaman in Liverpool. She did not add that she had been unable to lift it into the car without his assistance though. Finally she added the result of the reconnaissance.
Tired after many hours’ driving Svetlana logged off and after concealing the disc she retired to bed.
Politburo offices, Beijing. 0900hrs GMT 21st March
Whilst the remainder of the planet acknowledged the dangers of smoking, that particular message had not yet reached the halls of power in such places as the People’s Republic of China. A blue grey layer of cigarette smoke hung above the dimly lit room’s occupants, it undulated like a liquid surface, reacting to the movements of the occupants and temperature changes. Smoke hazed the interior; sunlight streaming through the narrow floor to ceiling windows was highlighted by the smoke and almost gave the setting a solemn Cathedral like atmosphere, almost.
Colonel General Serge Alontov waited until the expert on current Western European political trends and his interpreter had finished his presentation and regained their seats before standing himself. Bowing first to Premier Chiu at the head of the long table he addressed the gathering in excellent, though slightly accented Mandarin. “Comrades, past conflicts in interests had a negative effect on the ambitions of our two countries in spreading true communism to the world. In effect, the West was able to relax somewhat when we two were at our most powerful militarily. They knew that the threat we posed was negated by we ourselves. They knew that whilst the People’s Republic of China and the Soviet Socialist Republic held cocked guns to one another’s temples over our back garden’s fence, we could not afford to look away and extend our own front lawns”. There were some smiles at the analogy and others nodded sagely, he paused for a moment before continuing
“And what has happened since that threat passed?” with a raised questioning eyebrow he regarded the Politburo members before answering his own question. “They have fallen over themselves in the rush to sell us refrigerators and pop videos. Their own armed forces, which had steadfastly held themselves ready to fight a war of attrition, a war the like of which the world had never seen before, were abandoned”. He nodded to a technician and a huge digital screen at the far end of the room lit up.
“The Arms reduction treaty between what was the Russian Federation after devolvement of the Warsaw Pact, and the West, have little bearing on today”. On the screen, footage was shown of NATO army’s tanks being destroyed in front of Russian military observers. Lines of United States tactical and strategic warplanes in the Nevada desert, laid out in rows to enable counting by Russian surveillance satellites. US Navy ‘Boomers’, the ballistic missile submarines being stripped of offensive hardware and mothballed, or decommissioned. “They have dispensed with all but the minimum of protection, and in that they are begrudging. The British Army of the Rhine, for example, its disbanded regular unit’s equipment was to be used in upgrading poorly equipped reservist forces of their own country. Instead it was sold to third world countries. Not content with that, their Territorial Army armoured units were stripped of what little armour they did possess, none of it heavy and also sold. These units were re-equipped with ‘Multi-role combat vehicles’. In reality, Jeeps with a machine gun stuck on them, gentlemen!” The laughter that statement provoked was derisory.
“The minefields and tank traps we both laid at the border of East and Western Europe has gone. NATOs nearest tactical nuclear weapon to that border is in the county of Wiltshire in England. There are no more warriors in the West’s governments. America’s president is a drunken playboy in the pay of big business concerns.
The premier of France is financially corrupt; the Italian is obsessed with teenage prostitutes and Britain’s premier, who felt himself too good to wear his countries uniform as a young man, does not shirk at sending those that do wear it into harm’s way, in order to play at being a world statesman”. Alontov spat out that last word with contempt. Although the NATO army’s had always been ‘the enemy’ he empathised with their servicemen and respected their abilities, to do otherwise would have been foolish. He had spent an enjoyable two years as a military attaché to the embassy in London in the mid 1980’s. The British Army had described itself then, with some justification, as the best-trained and worst equipped army in the world. Posing as a tourist he had at times visited pubs frequented by soldiers, sailors and airmen of that country, in main the fighting core of which, with their varying levels of education, joined willingly from the council estates of the United Kingdom. All had been committed to holding the line, whilst not prepared to wager on the outcome had the Red Army rolled westward.
A later assignment to the United States, on that occasion as an ‘illegal’, had given him a similar opinion of that nations fighting men and women. Louder and more brash than their cousins ‘across the pond’, as they termed the Atlantic Ocean. They had nonetheless convinced him that a war against a NATO back then, would have been a hard fight.
“Comrades, moving into position now are one hundred, small, tactical thermonuclear weapons. Although too small to be ‘city killers’ those that are targeted against such will tear the hearts out of them. If you will turn your attention back to the screen you will observe the effects of one device against the city of San Francisco in the United States of America”.
When formulating their plans it had been decided that as ‘A picture paints a thousand words’ a high tech demonstration would assist in swaying the sceptics.
“For operational security purposes each scenario, including the one you are about to view, have been hidden in plain sight within a seeming innocent computer game demo, so please bear with us. The effects and end result are scientifically correct... but I think we can promise that the game will not be available in the shops by Christmas.” He added with a wry smile.
A number of independent computer game designers had been first examined for feasibility purposes and then dismissed. Eventually a young effervescent redhead had been the final choice. Anatoly Peridenko, former KGB head under the final government of the old CCCP, was in charge of security for the project and found her at Caltech. After her graduation from that noted centre of learning she had been hired by a front company and brought to Moscow. Alicia O’Connor gave lie to the myth of all ‘shed heads’ being Geeks. From her flashing green fourth generation Irish American eyes to the tip of her toes she looked out of place at a workstation. Alicia had thought she was employed by an embryo Russian game company attempting to crack the virtual reality game market. There had been nothing to cause her to question her employer’s motives in wanting only what were in effect 100 doomsday scenes of technically correct real life locations. She had been convinced by handlers that they were necessary in generating interest by financial backers in order to obtain the funds needed to produce an ass kicking game product. Posing as the ‘Silent partners’, Alontov and Peridenko had been present in the bogus boardroom when she had presented the completed project. On that occasion the city had been Sydney, Australia. The two conspirators had looked at one another as the end credits scrolled up on the screen. Scepticism had been present in both pairs of eyes, which was until the vivacious Miss O’Connor had taken the floor.
“Too flashy” Serge had said in flawless English. Alicia had given him a considering glance before asking
“Too flashy for whom, exactly?” He considered the security aspects of his reply before deciding it was a minimal risk.
“Our intended financiers are Chinese”.
She had shrugged and stated.
“Don’t you think it would appeal to their sense of the dramatic?” Peridenko had burst out with a guffaw of laughter, soon joined by Serge despite himself. All he could think of were the wasted months on this project because this pretty, young American ‘beach bunny’ thought inscrutable Oriental’s could be dramatic! Thinking back to that day Alontov could clearly remember the lovely Miss O’Connor sitting totally unfazed by these two men laughing at her best efforts.
Both men had calmed down enough to dab handkerchiefs at eyes damp with mirth when she then stated quite simply
“Those guys probably invented the theatre, they sure as fuck invented gunpowder and fireworks….of course they know dramatic”. Both men had frozen in place; two pairs of eyes fixed on her smugly smiling face.
Sold to the guys in the black hats!
Here in the Politburo offices, Miss O’Connor's handiwork began with the approach to the planet from behind earth’s moon. It was not to Alontov’s down to earth soldiers taste but it was not for his benefit anyway. Skimming the Moon’s surface the viewer approached the Earth at dazzling speed. The largely blue planet filled the screen before the viewers were plunged through clouds and there before them lay the Californian coastline with the entrance to San Francisco Bay rapidly approaching at its centre. Swooping under the Golden Gate Bridge, passing over the carrier USS John F Kennedy as she steamed toward her waiting escorts and the Pacific Ocean, her flight deck bare of the combat aircraft, which would fly on once she, was at sea. A Coast Guard cutter escorting her on the way out of the bay.
The viewers were sped East past Marina and Fort Manson. A hard right turn South over Fisherman’s Wharf actually had at least one elderly Politburo member grasps at the table’s edge for support. Alontov saw the head of Marshal Lo Chang, commander of the People’s Liberation Army turn to regard him with the ghost of a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth, and a look that said it all.
“Is this showmanship really necessary?”.
Alontov canted his head slightly to one side shrugging a resigned “Yeah, well” by way of apology.
Over-flying the city, the viewers were swept southwards with Nob Hill and Union Square close by their flight path.
Serge had to allow that the quality of the virtual scenery was awesome. Pedestrians and traffic cast their own shadows, light reflected from windows and pools and smog tinged the horizon a light tinge of brown. A CNN ‘eye in the sky’ helicopter and SFPDs ‘Sky One’ hovered above some drama unfolding on the ground. Even birds took to the air in fright at their approach.
The Minister for Cultural Affairs nudged his neighbour, pointing to the left of the screen and exclaiming animatedly that a distant relative lived just over there, in China Town and with that an alarm bell rang inside Alontov’s head. He berated himself for not spotting that potentially damaging item. During the choosing of a scenario to convince the Chinese the effectiveness of their plan, they had overlooked the presence of that large enclave, housing as it did the numerous Chinese residents of that city. He noticed several politburo heads turn to regard him with suspicion; he could almost read their thoughts,
“Are the Russians subconsciously indicating the ease with which they would kill Chinese?” However, the die was cast and Serge determined to cross that particular hurdle in all good time, there was nothing he could do about it now. The viewers were now approaching Route 101 and the course adjusted to follow the raised Highway toward San Francisco International. Small shapes of aircraft, taking off and landing, grew larger and more defined as the scene raced southwards. The complex, spaghetti-like elevated junction with Route 280 flashed beneath, followed by the off ramp to Bayview. On passing the hill which was Bayview Park the view ahead suddenly shot skywards, passing back through the clouds but decelerating rapidly and emulating a craft performing an Immelman turn, the view rotated sickeningly to the left until facing back earthwards. Dropping once more through the clouds the viewer’s found themselves heading directly for the northbound traffic lanes on the Highway. Vehicles could be clearly seen travelling at their varied speeds, some cha
nging lanes. The viewers all came to realise that they appeared to be approaching one vehicle singled out from the remainder, a bright red pickup truck. When it was close enough that the bed of the truck almost filled the screen, everyone in the room could clearly see a large aluminium suitcase with a large, ostentatiously obvious ‘Ban the Bomb’ sticker upon it, the pickup then dropped away as the view seemingly gained altitude. Keeping the pick-up in the centre of the screen the viewers reached and maintained an altitude comparable with 1000ft ’. The red pickup continued upon its journey for several miles, with it the viewers retraced their steps back past the Route 280 junction. The red vehicle motored on. Passing between the impressive San Francisco Hospital and Potrero Hill it swung west and appeared to be aiming for the off ramp at Dubose and Mission when the two-kiloton device in a Cobalt sleeve to produce a ‘dirty’ explosion, detonated.
Every person in the room, including the Russians who had all seen this scenario and others several times before, reacted to the light which flash covered the screen. No digital simulation could hope to imitate even the effect of an ordinary common or garden flash bulb, certainly not the instantaneous photonic release of a hundred suns. However, the talented O’Connor had created enough of a pixel whiteout, and then its reversal, revealing a convincing enough nuclear fireball to have all comers jump in their seats. Expanding to approximately 700m in diameter it would have attained, briefly, a temperature of about 10,000,000’ centigrade, it would flash vaporise all metal and of course flesh to a distance of 1000 ft. As far away as 16th and Valencia to the south, and north to Market and Van Ness every single brick, steel girder, vehicle, man, woman and child would either vanish in a cloud of heat and ions or as pulverised dust, to be sucked up into the atmosphere and scattered as highly irradiated particles downwind. Iron and steel for a further 300m would simply melt in place. On screen the effects decreased progressively with distance, but a mile away in Buena Vista Park, real sunbathers would have received instantaneous first-degree burns. It would be explained later, to those who did not already know, that such a bomb would only expend about 33% of its energy in radiated heat.