That damned newspaper editor James Rushton, too. Anderson wished he had pulled the man in when he’d had the chance. When Alyssa Durham’s distress message had come over the radio, Rushton had seized on it instantly, appealing directly to the mayor for his help and convincing him to keep the news helicopters flying.
The mayor could not withdraw permission for the special ops chopper to approach the Landers Building – Secretary of Defence Jeffries had stepped in and declared the situation to be an issue of national security – but he was still in a position to authorize flyovers by media news crews.
Anderson sighed, and put another call through to General Tomkin.
Alyssa, Jack and Stevens waved their arms at the TV news helicopter, showing the world at large that they were helpless, unarmed. The cameras picked up everything.
And then another helicopter arrived, and Alyssa noted with dismay that it was military. It pushed its way past the civilian chopper – which moved round, cameras still on the scene – and then it hovered over the roof’s expansive flat middle section, dust kicking up high into the air.
None of the three fugitives attempted to flee as the doors of the helicopter opened and a team of eight special operations personnel fast-roped down to the rooftop, weapons up and aimed as soon as they landed; they just raised their arms in surrender.
The media chopper kept on filming, and Alyssa knew that WBN would be sending live footage out over the satellite network. Would they all be gunned down live on TV?
She swallowed hard as the men approached, wondering what orders the soldiers had been given.
Seconds later, the lead man was upon them, hand up to halt the men behind him. He looked at the three people over the top of his assault rifle. ‘Alyssa Durham, Jack Murray, Ray Stevens,’ he announced coldly over the continued thrum of the helicopter rotors, ‘you are under arrest.’
Relief flooded Alyssa’s body so powerfully that she collapsed on to the rooftop.
PART FOUR
1
ONE HOUR LATER, Colonel Anderson’s airplane touched down. He had to show his military credentials to be allowed the continued use of his cellphone, although he still experienced a dead spot as he was ushered through the airport.
When he reached the arrivals lounge, there were several military officers waiting for him. ‘Where are they?’ he demanded before anyone had the chance to introduce themselves.
‘Due to the helicopter being forced to circle for so long, fuel was a problem,’ the nearest officer said. A tall, athletic man in his mid-thirties, he led the group through the glass doors and outside to a waiting army limousine. Other men moved ahead to open the doors for them.
‘They had to land at DuPont Airfield, just outside the city,’ the tall man continued when they were inside the car. ‘The airfield’s only about ten miles from the city’s internment camp where the rioters and protesters are being held. It’s the most secure place in the area at the moment, so the prisoners are on their way there now.’
Anderson considered the situation. He would have liked Durham, Murray and Stevens to be isolated, but it could have been worse. At least they were in custody, and on the way to a secure location. He could deal with Durham and Murray, but Stevens posed another set of problems entirely. How much did he know? And what could be done about him? It was clear that the mayor was taking a keen interest in this, and Anderson didn’t want the situation getting blown out of all proportion. Would a ‘tragic accident’ be too obvious?
The majority of the government wasn’t involved in the Spectrum Nine programme. Almost nobody had any idea it even existed, and that was the way Tomkin wanted it kept. So yes, Anderson decided, an unfortunate accident for Ray Stevens seemed best. Anderson was pretty sure that Tomkin would authorize the same fate for the mayor himself if he continued to pry too deeply.
There was James Rushton too of course, the editor of the Post. What should be done about him? Urgent action was required. It just wasn’t worth taking the chance that Rushton would say or, even worse, print something about what he thought he knew. Any hint of what was really going on would cause untold damage to the plans.
From the car, Anderson called Tomkin. There was going to have to be a media curfew put in place, connected to today’s ‘terrorist’ incident; and then he would need authorization for James Rushton to be dealt with.
‘My hands are tied, James,’ said Harry Envers, the city’s mayor, regretfully.
James Rushton was sitting on the other side of the desk in Envers’ large, well-appointed office. ‘I understand that, Harry,’ he said reasonably, ‘and I appreciate what you’ve done so far, I really do. But is there really nothing we can do to get them out of there?’
Envers raised his palms. ‘My remit is this city, James, you know that. Only this city. And hell, martial law is in action here anyway, it’s amazing I’ve got any pull left at all. But outside the city limits I’ve got no authority at all. And that camp is way out of the city limits.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s under full military jurisdiction too. You know I’d help if I could. Hell, I’ve known Ray Stevens for over thirty years; I’ve had his wife on the phone most of the morning wanting to know what I’m doing about it – that is, when I’ve not been trying to explain things to the board of York Investments.’
Rushton looked down at the desk. He knew Envers was right; there was nothing he could do. But there was something Rushton himself could do. He still had no evidence, no cold, hard facts, but he now believed in his heart of hearts that Alyssa was right. Elements of the government were using the HIRP base as a covert weapons programme. She’d gone up there to investigate – with my blessing, damn me! – and then days later had become a ‘dangerous terrorist’, at least to hear the authorities tell it. He’d known Alyssa Durham for years and knew she was nothing of the sort. It was obvious what had happened – she had found out too much and was being silenced.
Well, to hell with it. He was going to run the story anyway.
Still sitting across from the mayor, Rushton pulled out his cellphone and called his office. His deputy editor, Hank Forshaw, answered.
‘Hank,’ he said, ‘I want you to compile everything we’ve got on the story Alyssa’s been working on and get it in this evening’s edition.’ He paused as Hank spoke excitedly on the other end of the line. ‘What?’ he asked in anger. ‘When?’ He listened for a few more moments, then hung up.
Envers looked at him. ‘What’s wrong?’
Rushton shook his head in disbelief. ‘They’ve shut us down,’ he replied.
‘The Post?’ Envers asked.
‘All of us,’ Rushton answered. ‘Jeffries has declared a national emergency due to the terrorist threat and ordered a total media blackout.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ Envers exploded. ‘That’s completely unconstitutional!’
Rushton opened his mouth to add his own vitriolic opinion when the large mahogany double doors behind him burst open and armed military police marched into the office.
Behind them, the mayor’s secretary looked close to tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘they just walked straight past me.’
They approached Rushton, who jumped up out of his chair and backed away as two of the men reached for him, ignoring Envers’ shouts of outrage.
‘James Rushton,’ the lead officer pronounced, as his men managed to secure the newspaper editor and cuff his hands behind his back, ‘you are under arrest for assisting in the planning and execution of terrorist attacks against your country.’
‘What?’ Rushton cried out as he was escorted from the office. ‘Harry, do something!’ he yelled.
The lead officer nodded to two more of his men, who went round the desk towards the mayor, handcuffs at the ready. ‘Mayor Envers,’ the man intoned, ‘I hereby arrest you for the crime of treason.’
Harry Envers, the anger leaving his body to be replaced with the cold, helpless feeling of total despair, uttered not a further word of protest as the arresting officers led hi
m away after his friend.
The prison bus bounced along the dirt road that led from the well-paved highway to the makeshift internment camp just a few more miles away.
‘Don’t worry,’ Stevens said to Alyssa and Jack from his seat behind them. ‘I know the mayor, known him thirty-four years. There’s no way in hell he’s gonna let anything happen to us. That’s why we got arrested and not just shot. He—’
‘No talking!’ came a shout from the front, and Alyssa watched as a uniformed guard strode down the bus, brandishing a night stick at Stevens. ‘You shut your mouth, you hear me?’ He regarded the three prisoners with contempt; hatred, even. ‘You traitors make me sick,’ he said with true vehemence, following up with a gob of spit to their feet.
He walked away, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Alyssa wanted so badly to speak to Jack but she wasn’t willing to risk the wrath of the guards. They’d obviously been told what she and the others were supposed to have done, and with things as heated as they were right now, it was possible that someone would just lose it and shoot or beat them to death. And so she remained quiet.
But what would happen next? The relief when the handcuffs had appeared and they had merely been arrested instead of executed was wearing off now. Stevens seemed confident of the mayor’s intervention but Alyssa wasn’t so sure. She thought it more likely that they hadn’t been killed because they were being filmed at the time. When the cameras were off, and they were ferreted away in some government installation somewhere, what would happen then?
To make matters worse, in the frantic race for the rooftop, Jack had left the flash drive still connected to the computer in Stevens’ office, leaving them once again with no evidence. She prayed that someone might pick it up and hand it on to the authorities but didn’t hold out much hope.
But maybe the right people had been watching the broadcast from the news helicopter; maybe Rushton, or even the mayor himself. But then again, maybe—
The next thought never materialised in her head however, as an explosion burst from underneath them and sent the bus spinning on to its side, sliding across the wasteland next to the track. The impact knocked the breath from her, and she thought that she must have lost consciousness at least for a short while, because when she opened her eyes, there were masked gunmen on board the bus, coming towards her.
She looked to her left and saw that Jack, too, was only just regaining consciousness, blood leaking from a gash to the side of his head. They both hung down from their tipped-up seats, their hands still secured to the guard rail of the bench seat in front.
She looked beyond the gunmen and saw the driver and three prison guards lying in pools of blood on the side of the bus interior, executed by the men who were now approaching.
She again peered beyond the men with guns, tensing as she prepared to take the bullets she knew were meant for her, and saw a curious sight: other gunmen, instead of executing the prisoners, were freeing them with bolt cutters.
The masked man nearest to her and Jack now did the same thing, slinging his rifle and using a pair of bolt cutters to free them of their cuffs. He must have seen the quizzical look on Alyssa’s face, and he winked at her over his mask. ‘We’re the Resistance,’ he said conspiratorially.
‘The Resistance?’ Jack asked from beside her, rubbing life back into his wrists.
The man nodded as he moved past to free Stevens. ‘You better believe it. You think we’re just gonna take this federal government crap?’ He shook his head. ‘No way, pal. In that camp up there,’ he continued, gesturing with the bolt cutters towards the windscreen and beyond, ‘they’ve got over two thousand red-blooded patriots, imprisoned illegally. And we’re not gonna take it any more. Soldiers on the streets? Dammit, we’re gonna take the streets back.’
The man released the prisoners behind them and headed back to the front, where he turned to them. ‘Well, what you waiting for, a signed invitation? You’ve been rescued, say thank you and get your asses off the bus!’
Alyssa took the lead, murmuring thank yous as they followed the other prisoners down the sabotaged, half-destroyed bus, careful to avoid the flames that licked at the broken windows.
Out on the road, Alyssa could see the camp in the distance, a huge place for a temporary internment camp, covered with barbed-wire fences and gun posts. She watched as the gunmen made their way towards the camp; some on foot, some in vehicles, but all armed to the teeth.
Alyssa shook her head. ‘What the hell is happening to this country?’
Jack put his arm round her and checked behind for Stevens just as the ground shook beneath them.
Alyssa recognized the impact as being from an artillery shell, and realized that the camp must have seen the ‘Resistance’ coming. She heard Jack gasp and then she turned to look for Stevens too.
But instead of the big, heavy, well-dressed banker, what she saw was a horrific mass of blood, internal organs and widely-strewn body parts. Stevens had been hit by shrapnel from the shell, and the result was devastating.
Alyssa noticed that Jack’s eyes were wide, and knew that the sight of all that blood and gore might well cause panic to set in, and so she grabbed him by the arm and started to run, pulling him with her.
To all sides she saw masked members of the Resistance, along with many of the transport’s escaped prisoners, fall like leaves from the trees under a hail of gunfire; cars, bikes, trucks and people were shredded by more artillery shelling, until the scene was exactly like the worst parts of her tour in the Middle East. It was a slaughterhouse out there, plain and simple.
She thought she saw some of the masked gunmen make it as far as the fences, their impressive numbers making up for their suicidal tactics, but had no time to watch any more; she was leading Jack over the broken wasteland, stumbling over rotten dirt tracks and unused paths until the sounds of battle started to grow fainter and fainter.
They were in a protected lee now, the low lip of the bank providing some much-needed protection. Alyssa had no idea for how long they had been running, but the other prisoners were all gone, either run off in their own direction or killed by the horrendous cross-fire, and Alyssa and Jack were alone, their breathing ragged and hoarse.
‘What are we going to do?’ Jack whispered to her.
Alyssa looked at him with steely determination. ‘I think we should count our blessings,’ she said calmly, ‘and get the hell out of here.’
2
‘THIS WHOLE THING is getting out of hand, David,’ John Jeffries said, looking his old friend in the eye. General Tomkin stared straight back, until Jeffries had to turn away.
The two men had decided to meet in private and were now ensconced in a duplex apartment which Jeffries kept for his mistress, who was out of town for a few days. The apartment was registered in a false name, and had no connection on paper to either of the two men. Tomkin had still insisted that his own bodyguards conduct a thorough check of the building for both physical and electronic surveillance, but the place was clean.
‘It’s too late for second thoughts now, John,’ Tomkin warned. ‘Way too late. We’re past the point of no return, I hope you understand that.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ Jeffries replied. ‘I don’t think we’ve gone too far yet. The weapon’s been tested, yes. But we still haven’t gone ahead with the plan. We don’t have to.’ He shook his head. ‘We don’t.’
Tomkin sighed inwardly. He had been waiting for this moment; it was bound to come sooner or later, and he was surprised it hadn’t been sooner. The week’s events had been enough to test any man. First, the repercussions from the testing of the device; not only the strange phenomena themselves but the chaotic, violent backlash that had been unleashed across the globe as a result. People were literally scared for their very lives, thinking the world was about to end. Tomkin sympathized with Jeffries on that score; there was a hell of a job on to control the rioters and protesters.
And then there were those two fugitives that Anderson
was chasing, the only people who had so far made the connection. The newspaper editor and the mayor had been taken care of, and bits of Ray Stevens had been identified scattered about the wasteland near the prison camp, after an unsuccessful attempt to liberate it by a group calling itself the ‘Resistance’. The existence of such a group was another major worry, of course, but of more concern was the fact that no remains had so far been found of Alyssa Durham or Jack Murray. He had to assume that they were still alive, and potentially dangerous.
Still, at least the media was now under control. Tomkin relaxed into one of the comfortable leather couches which dotted the apartment’s oak-floored living area. With the mayor under arrest, Jeffries had been worried about the political implications, but the attack on the internment camp had played right into their hands. ‘Evidence’ was fabricated that linked both Envers and Rushton with the resistance movement, and they had since been transferred to a tactical base for further investigation, a decision backed by the President himself. Other figures, in media and politics, would be scared to move against the authorities now, even if they knew anything, which they probably didn’t.
So, while Tomkin understood that the past few days had been testing, he did not see the problems as insurmountable. In fact, a lot of it played into their hands; when the entire thing was over, his country would have not only a military grip on the rest of the world, it would be able to claim the moral and even spiritual high ground.
Tomkin knew what was really bothering his friend. He took a sip of his drink. The fact was, Jeffries was getting cold feet about the agreed utilization of Spectrum Nine. Tomkin knew that it was one thing to talk about things in the abstract, but to see the results – as they had with that little island recently – tested the mettle of even the strongest man.
Extinction Page 20
