by David Barker
One of the ministers shook his head. “Shocking. Young people of today…”
“Err, we did have a back-up plan. A bomb had been smuggled up there. It seems that British Intelligence got wind of this somehow. An OFWAT agent stopped the attack.”
“I trust you will be dealing with this interfering son of a whore?” said the Chairman.
“You have my word on that. Now. I believe we still need to find a way to boost your oil revenues, yes?”
Heads nodded vigorously.
“All this clean energy. It’s a dirty trick to play on you all.” Mattias smiled and waited, hoping that his audience’s grasp of English was good enough to get the pun. “Electricity, especially from solar panels, has replaced a lot of the demand for oil in the past twenty years, has it not?”
“We don’t need a lecture on the global supply-demand mix for energy, thank you.”
Mattias recognised the heckler as the chief economist from their last meeting. Others joined in the show of displeasure. He waved his hands for quiet. “What if I told you I’d found a way to turn off all the solar panels?”
“You’re no magician, Mr Larsson,” said the Chairman. “An attack on that scale would be unprecedented.”
“Unachievable,” said the chief economist.
Mattias was beginning to dislike the economist. He reminded him of his dad, always sucking the energy out of a situation. “No magic involved. And no swarms of suicide bombers either. But I am going to need one very large bomb. This is going taking careful planning, meticulous execution and plenty of money.” Mattias proceeded to explain his plan to the gathering. He watched their faces as the realisation dawned on them. It was feasible. Chaotic, yes. Some parts of the world would suffer catastrophic consequences. Other countries, especially those represented at this table – and this is where Mattias’ plan really started getting approving nods – would benefit. Especially with the forewarning now being afforded them. Mattias could not help grinning as the vote was put to the committee and every single response was a ‘yes’. Operation Ashes to Ashes was given the go-ahead.
Mattias slalomed through the German defence, played a one-two with Zlatan and buried the return pass into the far corner of the net. The crowd went wild.
CHAPTER 7
Sim was hanging out the washing in the back garden. Light fluffy clouds gambolled across the early summer sky. Rosie was watching Sim through the open back door.
“I’m not an invalid, you know?”
“That bag of washing was heavy,” said Sim coming back in. “Besides, you need your rest.”
“Och, the doctor said I was fine. The morning sickness will pass soon. And the scan was A-OK. Stop your fretting.”
Sim held up his hands in mock surrender. He started to prepare some lunch. As Rosie went to sit down, he pulled out the chair and plumped up the cushion before guiding her into the seat. A growl like that of an angry badger emitted from Rosie’s mouth.
“If you don’t get back to work soon, Mr Atkins, so help me, I am going to scream this house down.”
Sim started to protest, but Rosie cut him off. “Strangers are not going to start bumping into me on the pavement just because my tummy is a bit rounder. I managed to feed myself perfectly well while you were away on the Moon. The only thing that’s bad for my blood pressure right now is your molly-coddling.”
Sim returned to Overseas Division headquarters, in Birmingham, at the end of the week. He had reluctantly agreed to get back to work. Part of his reluctance was because he knew that the lust for revenge still ran deep in his veins. Back in the field, with access to kit and information, he doubted he would be able to resist following the path to payback. And that meant leaving Rosie on her own again, for who knew how long? Maybe not even coming back this time. Two missions, two near misses. Would the third be so lucky?
Sim strode into Wardle’s office. “So, all that stuff about being extremely grateful, when you persuaded me to go on the Moon mission, that was just bullshit was it? Sir.”
Wardle looked up from his desk and swiped the glass top clear of virtual files. “Welcome back, Atkins. Not wanting to skulk around in the satellite department, any more, I trust?”
Sim’s original job at OFWAT had been keeping tabs on the satellites that helped Overseas Division fulfil their monitoring role. A job that he had reverted to after the Himalayas mission six years earlier. The mission to the Moon two months ago had fallen to Sim because of Elsa Greenwood’s specific request, but even so, it had been voluntary. Wardle had used all his oily charm and precious promises to get Sim to say yes. Now Sim wanted to be included in the follow-up investigation.
“The CIA have already said no to my involvement. I need you to reverse that decision. I deserve some answers. It was my son that got killed, sir.”
“Along with ten other people, yes, I know. All the more reason not to get involved in the follow-up. Personal agendas and professional discipline don’t mix well. I should know.” Wardle swirled ice cubes around the tumbler and stared at the frozen water.
Sim paused for a moment, processing that last statement.
“Care for a drink, Atkins?”
“It’s a bit early for whisky, isn’t it, sir?”
“Oh, don’t you start. Look, I know what happened at Moon Lab One was tragic. But you saved the base. If we’d lost that facility… the resources, the research. Well, who knows how big the indirect effects would have been? But you should be very proud of what you achieved. The CIA will deal with the investigation. And I will let you know, as soon as I get their findings. That I promise.” Wardle put his glass down, swiped into a file and started reading its contents.
“Sir.” Sim turned to leave, formulating a plan even by the time he had passed through the door. There was somebody else who owed him a favour.
The curve of the Earth, viewed from a passenger plane at extreme altitude, still caused a murmur from those lucky enough to have a window seat. And a grumble from those with cheaper seats in the centre aisle. Crossing the Atlantic only took three hours these days. And Sim had seen enough views to last a lifetime. He leant back and closed his eyes. He was already feeling guilty about the lie he had told Rosie. About needing to fly to America on another mission. Well, that was kind of true. A mission Sim had assigned to himself and one that Wardle knew nothing about, yet. Of course, the subcutaneous tracking device resting in Sim’s arm would soon alert Wardle of his journey. Those reprisals Sim would deal with when he got back.
Diane Butler had been easier to persuade than his boss. She had headed up the equivalent department in the CIA when Sim and Freda had teamed up with the Americans back in ’28. The American agents had been repatriated; both of them buried as heroes. But Sim knew that one had been a traitor. Chung had killed his compatriot and nearly killed Sim and Freda. Sworn to secrecy, the deception still caught in his throat every time Sim thought about that man. But the overall success of the mission, despite its tragedy, had led to Diane’s promotion. And Sim was a major part of that success.
Wanting to make the call as personal as possible, Sim had got through on the real-time holo line. The brief call to Diane had been enough to refresh her memory of the salient facts. It was so much harder to say no when it seemed like the person was standing in front of you, in the same room. It hadn’t got him onto the Company team in charge of investigating the incidents on Moon Lab One. Diane had not risen to her elevated rank by being a pushover. But Sim would be granted access to the team leader and time at the Johnson Space Centre to interview key personnel. Maybe that would be enough.
The George Bush Intercontinental Airport was the wrong side of Houston for the space centre. But Beltway Eight, on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, made short work of the final part of Sim’s journey. The computer in charge of the taxi tried to make polite conversation with the British agent, but Sim soon stopped responding to the AI’s inane questions. What was the point of replacing real drivers with robots, if the robots were just as annoying as the h
umans? Beltway Eight, Gulf Freeway and finally Nasa Road One. Sim liked to memorize routes, even sitting in the back of a driverless car. Without a visual sense of where he was on the map, he felt untethered. Unsafe.
Sim tapped on his wrist watch to pay for the journey and headed for the Space Centre’s reception with a small rucksack over one shoulder. He had spent a week here only two months ago, training for the mission to the Moon. The various buildings that made up this hi-tech village, the cloudless skies and sweltering heat, all those memories came flooding back to Sim.
The man on the reception desk recognised him at once. Although space tourism was now big business, most of the time that involved low-Earth orbits in rockets that really were just glorified aircraft. Sim was one of only two people who had been allowed up to the Moon on a tourism pass, and that made him something of a celebrity. He smiled and shook hands with the man on reception even though he could not remember his name. But maybe Sim would need another favour. No harm in making friends. He suggested that they meet up for a drink later, promising to tell his new friend all about the Moon flight. Well, nearly everything.
The CIA had set up an incident room in one of the vast training buildings. The head of the team had clearly been instructed to share with Sim their findings so far, but maybe Diane had forgotten to say they should treat him with any respect. Jet-lagged and hungry, Sim was in no mood for verbal sparring. After waiting for twenty minutes outside the operations area, he was shown into a meeting room. The drinks machine in the corner was ignored and the plate of biscuit crumbs spoke of earlier visitors hosted with courtesy. Sim sat down at the conference table, opposite the big American agent, Steve Roberts.
“Tell me what you’ve got on Moon Lab One.”
Roberts shrugged. “We interrogated the staff who flew back to Earth early. Instructions from Adams Holdings. Just obeying orders from their employer. Nothing to link them to the bomb.”
“And Richard Taylor?” The boss of Adams Holdings, who had ordered the base to be blown up, had been captured by the British but taken to a secret base in Greenland.
“I woulda thought you knew all about that, Agent Atkins.”
“You guys are the experts at enhanced interrogation, aren’t you? Did he confirm the plot as an insurance scam?”
The American nodded and looked at his watch.
“What does he know about Yusuf?”
“Who?”
Sim slammed his hand on the table. “Stop pissing me about. You know who. The guy who walked onto a NASA rocket carrying the Ebola virus. The guy who would’ve spread the disease throughout the base if he hadn’t changed his mind at the last minute. The guy who killed…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Rich Taylor knows nothing. We’re pretty sure he’s telling the truth about that.” The corner of Roberts’ lips turned up by a few degrees. “All of the NASA medical staff are being investigated. All the pre-flight records double-checked.”
“Somebody must know something.”
“Look. It’s been a long day. Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning? We’re interviewing Yusuf’s handler at O-nine hundred hours. I’ll let you watch, OK?”
Sim’s shoulders slumped even as he rose from his seat. “Yeah, thanks,” shaking Roberts’ hand. Sim was shattered and wanted to get some sleep. But first, he had promised a beer with the guy on reception. He hoped that the bar sold stim drinks too.
Director Wardle was too busy to notice Sim’s tracer was pinging on the other side of the Atlantic. After the debacle on the Canary Islands, the Joint Intelligence Committee was taking no risks with the iceberg that Hamilton had discovered. 42 Commando had been sent in, with HMS Duncan for back-up. The destroyer had an anti-air missile system capable of dealing with any attempts to escape via Hydras this time. Wardle watched the operation unfold from the communications centre in Overseas Division headquarters. As the commandoes approached in rib boats, concealed machine-gun turrets rose out of the snowy plateau on the right-hand side of the iceberg and opened fire on the craft. The boats swerved, slicing S-shaped curves across the grey sea as their motors screamed even harder. Two men fell. Lucky shots that found gaps between the bulletproof vests and helmets.
Rocket-propelled grenades from the commandoes arced towards the berg and exploded against the ice. The machine gun turrets kept firing. HMS Duncan trained its laser tower on the iceberg and a deadly ray lashed out, silencing the turrets. As the boats closed in, grappling hooks shot upwards and dug into the top of the ice. Even as the commandoes began climbing the ropes, several drones took off from hidden openings in the iceberg’s bulbous left-hand peak. The little helicopters dropped tiny bombs around the grappling hooks, one of which came loose. There was a yell as a soldier fell backwards into the freezing cold ocean.
Again, the destroyer’s death ray beamed across the sea and cut the drones from the sky. Eighteen commandoes approached the icy hillock at a stooping run. No more bullets or bombs. The only sound was the howl of the wind across the plateau. The soldiers approached the hillock and broke in with explosives. Beneath a carefully constructed outer shell, they discovered the airship that had been hijacked by the Terror Formers several weeks ago. The decomposing remains of many Russian aircrew were still on board, not even given the dignity of a burial at sea. It had cost three commandoes their lives and the British were still no closer to capturing the terrorists.
CHAPTER 8
Houston, Texas
Frank Herbert was a nervous guy. Nervous because he had something to hide or just because he was sitting in an interrogation room opposite a two-way mirror? Sim was watching from the darkened side of the glass, trying to interpret the NASA medic’s body language. Roberts entered the brightly lit room and noted the time and date into a mic on the table. He shuffled an old-fashioned file of papers that Sim could see were blank, but that remained hidden from the interviewee.
“So, Frank, you like your work here at JSC?” asked Roberts.
“Sure, I guess.”
“I prefer it when you don’t guess. Yes, no or don’t know. Understood?”
Frank started to jig his legs up and down, underneath the desk. “Yes.”
“Describe exactly what happened the day you prepped Yusuf for launch on Orion Twelve.”
Frank looked puzzled for a minute as if the memory was translucent, ephemeral. “20th May, right? I didn’t work that day.”
Roberts shook his head. “Frank, don’t lie to us. We have your security card swiping in to the JSC car park that morning. CCTV shows your car pulling into your usual space. And then you get out of the car and use your swipe card to enter the medical centre. Did you think we hadn’t checked?”
“I wasn’t there. I’m telling you. I was on vacation. Sailing, up on Lake Livingston. There was a competition on that weekend.”
“You expect us to believe that? Your word against all this evidence?”
“Why don’t you check the Cape Royale Boating Association’s results site. Me and my crew came second. And while you’re at it, see if CCTV picked up my car heading along the Eastex Freeway. Must be a tape of that somewhere, right? NSA archives everything, doesn’t it?”
Roberts turned to look into the mirror, then terminated the interview. He left the room and came to see Sim.
“What do you think?”
Sim stared through the mirror again. The NASA medic’s legs had stopped jigging. With a few glances at the watch, he looked more annoyed than nervous now. “I think he’s telling the truth. Maybe somebody cloned his security pass. Bought some fake plates that matched his car. And came in that day to inject Yusuf with the virus.”
“That would require a lot of planning and resources,” said Roberts.
“Delivering a version of Ebola even more deadly than the usual strain? To Moon Lab One? Evading all the security checks here? Yeah, I think amateur hour finished long ago.”
Frank Herbert’s story checked out. He had been sailing, eighty miles away from the space centre on May 20
th. Thorough analysis of the CCTV tapes had shown that the car driven to JSC on the day in question day was sprayed with a slightly different version of Toyota red paint. Ruby Flare, instead of Ooh La La Rouge. Honestly, who thinks up these names, thought Sim. And the man entering the building, trying to hide his face from the cameras, was at least three centimetres shorter and four kilos lighter than Frank. It took another day for the National Security Agency to come up with a match. The culprit had taken out a six-month lease on a property in Fairview Road, Alvin back in March.
“Chances of him still being there?” asked Sim.
“Yeah, well, maybe forensics will find something useful.” Roberts grabbed his jacket and beckoned for Sim to follow. “He might have left a forwarding address.” Sim didn’t bother laughing. He was just grateful to be involved in the case still. He doubted it would last.
The culprit was still there, as it turned out. It seems he hadn’t moved for several weeks, judging from the stench that greeted their nostrils as the front door crashed open. Agents swarmed into the house, as the flies tried to swarm out. The body, hidden inside a chimney cavity, had been an ideal hatchery for the larvae but difficult for the forensic team to extract. As if that hadn’t been bad enough, the aircon had packed in long ago. Several weeks of a Texan summer can do awful things to a human body even without the help of the flies. Sim hurried outside and retched in one of the dried-up flower beds. As his vision cleared, he noticed something metallic sticking out of the soil. A key ring. Staying bent over, Sim placed his hand over the object and gently teased it out. There was a single silver key attached.
Roberts came out and patted him on the back. “Doubt he’ll tell us much now. We’ll get everything bagged up. But I’m not hopeful. Like you said, we’re dealing with professionals here.”
