by David Barker
His fists balled tight. Looking across, he saw his friend’s eyes were already closed. There was no way Gopal was going to be able to help. Idiot-proof instructions and Rabten couldn’t even manage that. He felt so slow, like his mind was wandering through thick fog. He tried to stay calm. He shook himself and went to fetch his wrist tab. HQ will know what to do. Plenty of time...
CHAPTER 38
Bjørnøya
On the surface of the bleak island, Sim and Freda hunkered down, trying to stay out of the biting wind. Just inside the air vents aperture, they could see the faint red glow of a laser grid that monitored the secret way into the bunker.
“Were we fast getting here, or are they being slow?” Sim asked.
“Give him time,” said Freda.
Sim peered down into the duct for the eighth time. As he was watching, the red lights went out. “Right, let’s go.”
They removed the grille at the top of the duct and fastened ropes to the rock next to the hole. Freda insisted on going first and she began to abseil down. Progress was slow because every jolt to the side of the metal tube reverberated. She prowled down the air vent like a cat stalking a bird backwards. After about twenty metres, the light from above was beginning to fade. The duct split in two at this point. Freda stopped.
Sim, a little higher up, was just about to ask which way when his wrist tab beeped. A message from Wardle. Good timing, he thought. He clicked the screen off and put it into silent mode.
“Will you stop messing about,” Freda whispered through gritted teeth. There was a noise coming from the branch on the left, and then something from the right-hand one too. “We need to split up. Take them by surprise. I’ll give you ninety seconds to get into position, OK?”
Freda disappeared around the bend on the left and Sim lowered himself down the right-hand tube. The duct levelled off and became horizontal after another few metres, so Sim unclipped his carabiner. He slid along until he reached a vent into one of the rooms. Peering through, he saw the top of Larsson’s head. He wasn’t sure, but there did not seem to be anybody else in the room with the Swede. Sim glanced at his watch. He did not have time to unscrew the covering so he levered himself above it and jammed his feet down as hard as he could.
The cover gave way far more easily than Sim had expected. He fell through the opening and landed awkwardly onto the floor, ten feet below. His grip on the pistol came loose and it skittered across the polished tiles. Larsson turned around and put his foot on the gun as it slid towards him. He bent down just as Sim jumped up and threw himself at the Swede. Larsson staggered backwards, unable to pick up Sim’s pistol. But he brought his fists crashing down onto Sim’s back and knocked the wind out of him.
Sim released the hold on his opponent and rolled to his left, momentarily disoriented. Where was the gun? Sim looked up. The room had a big leather sofa opposite a screen that dominated one of the walls. The pistol might have ended up underneath the settee.
Larsson stood opposite him and raised his fists, smiling. “Sim Atkins, I presume?”
Sim advanced and jabbed with his left fist, connecting with Larsson’s mouth. The Swede felt his lips and looked at the blood on his fingers. “You punch like a girl.”
Sim swung with his right hand, harder, but more obvious. Larsson swayed backwards and the punch missed his face. “Your people should be grateful for what I’m doing.” His right foot lashed out and connected with Sim’s thigh. The leg buckled for a moment, but as Larsson’s guard dropped, Sim pushed off with his left leg and punched the Swede in the belly.
Larsson gasped and doubled up, backing away. He stood up and smiled again. “That bomb is the only we’re going to stop run-away global warming. You must know that by now. Your egg-heads must have crunched the numbers.”
“And don’t worry about the millions who will die?” asked Sim.
Larsson had backed into a pool table and felt behind him. His fingers gripped around a cue. He whipped it around in front of him and held it like a sword. It was Sim’s turn to back away, glancing around for a weapon to defend himself.
“Kill millions, to save billions? Of course, that’s a trade I’ll make any time,” said Larsson, swishing the cue inches from Sim’s face.
“What about the moon base? What would destroying that have achieved? Just for fun, was it?”
Larsson shrugged. “We should be colonizing the moon, not raping its resources. It’s not like many people died.” He raised the cue above his head and brought it crashing down. Sim managed to put his forearm up and block it. The end of the cue broke off and Sim felt something crunch inside his arm. But he did not feel any pain. Instead his whole body felt hot and stretched like an over-inflated balloon as his mind filled with pure anger.
“One of those was my son, you murdering fuck.” Sim darted forward, grasping hold of the broken end of the cue even as his hand filled with splinters. Sim yanked the cue forwards and as Larsson lurched towards him, unwilling to let go of the weapon, Sim smashed his forehead into Larsson’s face.
Sim pulled back, slightly dazed, but when he looked up he could see Larsson clutching his nose, blood dripping freely between his fingers. “That hard enough for you?”
“I had no idea there were children up there. What sort of place is that to bring up a child?” said Larsson.
“And the Turkish children you experimented on? To perfect the virus. Go on, pretend you didn’t know about them as well?”
Larsson dropped his hands and grinned. He licked the blood from his lips, savouring the taste. He reached down to his boot and pulled out a thin handle. At the push of a button a blade appeared. Larsson waved the knife towards Sim. “OK, I’m bored now. This conversation is over. You can surrender or die.”
The door next to the giant screen burst open. Freda advanced into the room, her gun raised. “Drop it, Larsson.”
Sim looked across at his partner. Her bottom lip was bleeding and he could see that she was limping as she advanced into the room. Something had slashed across her abdomen, cutting her clothes, but hopefully not her stab vest.
Larsson dropped his blade. “Ahh, Ms Brightwell. You seem to have bested my Precious. Not an easy thing to do. Congratulations.”
Freda hobbled further into the room, keeping her gun trained on Larsson. “You alright, Sim?”
Sim bent down to pick up the discarded knife. “I will be soon.” His knuckles turned white as he gripped the handle and brought the tip of the blade up to Larsson’s throat. He held it there for a moment. “On your knees.”
Larsson obeyed and Sim pulled the man’s head back by his hair. The vein in Larsson’s throat pulsed and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a couple of times. Sim closed his eyes for a second, remembering the moment when his son’s life had slipped away from him. All because of the bastard kneeling in front of him. He opened his eyes and flexed his fingers on the knife handle. He pressed the blade against Larsson’s flesh. A single drop of blood appeared where the tip was resting.
“Get your hands off him!”
Sim turned his head towards the noise. Precious Osundare staggered into the room, one hand clutched to a bloody wound in her belly. She held a knife in the other hand and flung it at Sim. Time seemed to slow down as Sim was caught between killing Larsson and defending himself. The knife was tumbling through the air, end over end, heading inexorably towards his chest. Freda reacted first. Her arm flashed out and she knocked the blade out of the air as it passed in front of her. She winced as the blade nicked the fleshy part of her palm. And then she turned to face Precious, firing twice. One whistled past, missing its target but the other found its mark. The woman’s head jerked as the bullet passed straight through her left eye and blew away the back of her skull. Her limp body dropped to the ground.
Sim had let go of Larsson and the Swede rubbed his neck. “That is a pity.”
“You expect us to show you any pity?” asked Sim.
“I meant, it’s a pity for Freda. Precious doesn’t fight
fair.”
Sim looked at Larsson for a moment, eyebrows creasing in confusion. And then across at Freda as she gasped and doubled up. “Freda? What is it?” Sim pushed Larsson to the ground, face down and lashed his hands together with some cord from his belt.
Freda collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. She closed her eyes then re-opened them wide, staring at Sim. It looked like she was trying to speak, but her facial muscles were not cooperating.
Sim turned to Larsson and kicked him in the stomach. “What’s happening to her?”
Larsson rolled over onto his back, grinning. “Right now, the toxin that Precious uses on her knife is working its way through Freda’s nervous system, shutting down muscles. Soon it will reach her lungs.”
“Shit.” Sim kicked Larsson again. He bent down to cradle Freda’s head. Her breathing had slowed already. Her mouth was changing colour, bluish-purple like a gothic shade of lipstick. But her breaths remained shallow and infrequent. She looked up at Sim. He could see the pain and fear behind her eyes.
And then a thought struck him. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the tubes he had retrieved from the ESCO laboratories. His hands shook as he carefully unwrapped each one, reading the labels. There was a truth serum and a hallucinogenic concoction. The third one listed some chemical compound and included the word ‘antidote’. Sim didn’t know if it was the right sort, but he popped the top off and poured the tiny portion of liquid into Freda’s mouth. He sat her up and tilted her head back slightly, encouraging her to swallow. By now, she was completely floppy and Sim could not hear any more breaths.
“Come on, Freda. You can do it.” The blue tinge to her lips had spread across her face and neck by now. Her skin was cold but damp with perspiration. Sim laid her down and pinching her nose, he breathed into her mouth, watching for the rise of her rib cage. He did it again.
“Antidote or not, her heart’s going to give way any minute now.”
Sim looked across at Larsson, who was sitting up, hands still tied behind his back but a look of smug satisfaction on his bruised face. “Shut the fuck up.” Sim gave another two rescue breaths. He knew there should be some improvement by now. He felt for a pulse but got nothing. He stood up and ran through the inner sanctum of this bunker. He untwisted the big lock on the inside of the blast door that separated this section from the rest of the base. The captain was waiting for him on the other side.
“Freda’s been poisoned. I think she’s gone into cardiac arrest. See if you can find a defib unit.” Sim dashed back to his partner, without waiting for a reply from Hamilton. Back at Freda’s side he began CPR. Chest compressions and a breath. Repeat. Repeat. He could hear feet running about behind him and then somebody shouted their success. Chest compressions and a breath.
The medic from Hamilton’s crew knelt down next to Freda, opposite Sim, and ripped open her top. The small box that was going to save her life was placed on the floor by another person. They were cutting into Freda’s stab vest, stripping away her layers.
“Careful,” said Sim as the blade they were using threatened to slash across her skin. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see the captain standing over him.
“They’ve got this, Sim. Give them the space they need to do their stuff.”
Sim paused. He nodded, wincing from his own wounds as he stood up. He turned away and tried not to listen to the pair of Hamilton’s crew, fighting to save Freda’s life. Instead, Sim’s eyes focused on Larsson. His mouth began to froth as the anger inside him tried to find a way to vent itself, like a pressure cooker looking for a release valve. Sim walked across to the captive, picked up the knife and once again held it against Larsson’s neck. The smiled disappeared from the man’s face at last.
Sim thought of all the moments he had wanted to avenge his son’s death. To get revenge, not on Yusuf, the man who had carried the disease to Moon Lab One. But on the person who had instigated the whole plot. The person who had ordered his goons to kill Freda, and maybe at last had succeeded. The person who was trussed up in front of him, like a bird for the slaughter house.
And then another image entered Sim’s mind. His wife, Rosie. Pregnant, thinking she was a widower. He ached to get back to Scotland, to explain the deception, to ask her forgiveness. He wanted to be a proper husband, a decent dad. How could he if, deep down, he knew he’d killed a defenceless prisoner? His grip on the knife handle relaxed and then tightened in rhythm with his heart beat. He stared into Larsson’s eyes.
“Hey, Sim?”
A voice made him drop the knife and turn with tears in his eyes. Freda. He knelt down and hugged her. She was pale and cold, wrapped in a blanket, but it was her. Back from the dead. He squeezed his eyes closed as he rubbed her back.
Freda looked at his wrist tab, inches away from her face as Sim’s arms stretched around her. “Didn’t you get an urgent message from Wardle?”
“Oh crap, yes.” Sim let go, and tapped on the tiny screen. His eyes opened wide as he read the words scrolling across. “We need the code to the bomb. Rabten can’t disarm it without the code.”
“You’re not getting it from me,” said Larsson.
“We’ll see about that,” said Sim, reaching for the test tube labelled truth serum. “Captain, get The Endeavour back to the surface. We need to send a very important message halfway across the globe. Now, open wide, Larsson.”
EPILOGUE
The Endeavour was heading back towards Britain. They had managed to transmit the code to Rabten in time and the bomb had been disarmed. The look of defeat on Larsson’s face when they had received this news helped to dissipate Sim’s anger. At first, he had been disappointed with himself for not being able to kill the head of the Terror Formers. Now, things had changed. He would never stop mourning his son. But maybe he could focus on cherishing the few days they had spent together on the Moon, instead of letting rage eat away at his memory of James.
The last they had heard, Rabten was still very anxious about Gopal. Hypothermia had set in by the time the bomb had been disarmed. Before he had slipped into unconsciousness, the Gurkha had insisted that they should stay hidden from the Chinese authorities, in case their interference cost Rabten the chance to deactivate the timer.
Freda was still very weak from the effects of the poison. The medic on board the Endeavour hooked her up to a heart-rate monitor, and insisted that she rest for the whole journey back to Britain.
Sim barely left her side, but the captain was a frequent visitor to the sick bay too. “That was a close thing when you went all Mary Elizabeth on us,” said Hamilton.
Freda thought for a moment and then her eyebrows raised and she smiled. “At least we didn’t have to rely on aliens to save the day.”
“Hah, Aliens. Cameron. Nice one,” the captain replied with a wink.
“What are you two on about?” asked Sim.
“Just a film joke,” said Freda.
“You two speak a different language, you know that?” said Sim.
Freda and Hamilton just smiled at each other.
The Endeavour was allowed to dock at Faslane, the Royal Navy’s submarine base in Scotland. Standing on the bridge, Sim was surprised to see that Captain Hamilton’s eyes were moist as his boat manoeuvred to the quayside. Freda leant over and whispered to Sim how the captain had been thrown out of the navy and had even been hunted by his ex-colleagues not that long ago. Hamilton had admitted to Freda how much he had longed for a chance to restore his reputation and return with character unblemished. While she was telling Sim this he could see her looking over at the captain, with a gleam in her eye.
When they landed, Sim was eager to set a date with Freda for when they could meet up again. He needed to get back to Rosie as soon as possible. But afterwards, when things had calmed down, he didn’t want to lose touch like last time. Freda’s response was lukewarm. She needed to spend some time with her dad, after all these years. But there was more to it than that. Sim couldn’t help noticing the frequent l
ong chats she was having with Hamilton too. He couldn’t begrudge his partner a happy ending. Good luck to them, he thought.
Wardle arrived at the dockside.
“Any news on Gopal, sir?” asked Sim.
“He’s fine. Apparently, the Chinese authorities saw Rabten’s fire almost as soon as it was lit and rushed Gopal to hospital. Where he’s making a full recovery, minus a digit or two.”
“They’ve not been arrested, have they?”
“Quite the opposite. Once the authorities realised what they were doing, what the pair had prevented… Well, feted as heroes by all accounts.”
Freda had wandered over to listen. “Hope they gave Rabten a slap-up meal in his honour. He’d have liked that.”
Wardle was beckoning for Sim to join him. Sim looked at Freda and jerked his head towards the captain. “Not the only one who likes his food. Why don’t you take Hamilton for lunch. I know a great place not far from here.”
Freda strolled over to the captain as Wardle pulled Sim to one side. “We need to talk. About how to handle Rosie.”
“What’s to talk about? I’m going to see her right now.”
“Slow down, Sim. That might not be wise. It’s going to be quite a shock. And in her state, maybe we should find a way to break it to her gently.”
Sim felt tired as he digested Wardle’s suggestion. “I guess you’re right. But how long?”
“Let’s leave it a week. Give your hair a chance to get back to normal. You can ditch the contacts. And I’ll see if the surgeon can do something to help break down your facial implants.”
Seven days dragged by. Sim kicked his heels in a private hospital just outside Birmingham. Finally, Wardle showed up in a big limo with tinted glass. They drove up to Dornoch together. Sitting in the back of the car, Sim asked about Overseas Division’s future.
“The accountants have already made up their minds. We’re being shut down.”
