by Matt Hammond
Traffic started to slow. People tried to tune car radios, hunting any station still broadcasting. A few had wandered onto the street, checking with neighbours why the power had suddenly been cut.
He accelerated around the slowing traffic, heading towards Monaco, a tiny peninsula projecting out into the bay at the end of the airport runway. This sea-level spit of land comprised just four streets occupied by expensive houses built to take advantage of the stunning sea and mountain views.
Brent had chosen Monaco carefully. The power company confirmed the single road onto the peninsula also carried beneath it Monaco’s main power cable. Engineers assured Commander Dalton they would be able to keep this single line live throughout the ninety minute national blackout.
The pub built to take advantage of wealthy locals and curious tourists was Monaco’s sole business and had the only EFTPOS machine in the country now operating.
Brent roared into the car park at 7.12am. The last thing on his mind was buying a beer. A light from an upstairs windows confirmed the pub still had power. It took several beatings on the front door before it was unbolted. A bleary-eyed landlord found himself confronted by a large Maori biker muttering something about national security. “I need to buy something.”
“Sorry, mate, we’re shut. Come back at ten.”
“No, you don’t understand. I need to process one transaction through your EFTPOS terminal. I don’t actually need you to sell me anything.”
“Like I said, mate, everything is off. The beer cooler’s off, the coffee machine’s off, now, unless you piss off as well, I’m calling the cops.”
“Go ahead, but before you do, do me a favour, turn on your radio.”
The landlord turned the volume and pressed the preset station buttons, confusion mounting as a haze of white noise filled the bar.
“Look, here’s my authority.” Brent flashed his ID card for the third time in the last twelve hours and prayed that Dalton had arranged for a phone engineer to be posted at the local exchange to keep the line needed for the EFTPOS machine open. “See? Nothing. The whole of the country is out, power and phones, everywhere except here. This one location, that single machine there on the bar, is the only one in the country able to process any transactions.”
He still looked confused. “So what exactly is it you need to buy?”
“Nothing! I don’t need to buy anything. I just need you to put one transaction through this terminal!”
“OK, mate, keep your hair on. Here, help yourself.”
The amount had to be six figures. The easiest six figure number he could recall was his own birthday: 2,4,0,9,7,1. He swiped the credit card, thankful the balance it carried was so high, and entered the PIN. He pressed ENTER and held his breath, silently praying that the electronic pulses would somehow find their way through the mass of useless copper wiring currently sitting redundant across the entire country.
Transaction Accepted
It had just cost two hundred and forty thousand, nine hundred and seventy-one dollars to save the country.
Now he had to make his way back to the centre of town and wait for the power to be restored.
The ride back proved difficult. Despite no electricity for people to take a shower or make a hot drink, many still continued with their daily routine as best they could in the hope power would be restored by the time they got to work.
Nelson only had a few sets of traffic lights. The fact they were not working quickly caused traffic jams. Frustration mounted as people decided the traffic was too heavy and turned back; convinced there would be no work to do when they got there. The mobile phone network was down. They couldn’t call into work or tune the car radio into any live broadcast that might give an indication as to the reason or likely duration of the outage.
Brent guided the bike slowly through the chaos, wary of the driving anarchy that was unfolding. People turned in the middle of the road, blocking traffic and mounted pavements, scattering pedestrians attempting to walk to work.
An hour had passed since the power went off. In thirty minutes it would be back online and he’d be able to access the Black Room.
* * *
Patrick O’Sullivan was eating breakfast when the television went off and the lights went out. Checking along the corridor, all power in the hotel had apparently gone off. He moved his chair closer to the window to finish eating and read the morning paper.
He browsed the business section and sighed. Hotel food always seemed to give him indigestion. The pain in his chest grew unexpectedly sharper as he breathed. Getting to his feet to ease the discomfort only made it worse. He yelled as a stabbing pain shot through his left arm. His mind raced. When did last have a medical? Had he felt unwell recently? What had he eaten that could now be causing so much pain?
Seated on the edge of the bed, he pushed both hands hard against his chest, trying to ease the viciously sharp pain. This wasn’t his stomach, this was his heart! How could he be having a heart attack?
Now he felt sick and was sweating, rapidly descending into a panicking whirl of delirium. Excruciating pain felt as if someone had put a hand down his throat and was trying to pull his heart out through his mouth. He fell backwards onto the bed, instinctively propelled by a reflex to recoil from the agonising throbbing now pounding across his chest and down his arms.
A final, single moment of clarity, revealed one thought - Anika.
If this really was his final moment, then she would ultimately forgive him. His bequest would finally prove his love for her.
* * *
Brent paced impatiently along Trafalgar Street, waiting for the power to be restored. Suddenly shop signs he’d not previously noticed sparked into life. It seemed every light in every building illuminated as electrical power surged through the country once again. People stopped walking and checked their phones as messages that had been delayed were finally delivered.
The Black Room sent the data collected in the previous ninety minutes to the satellite as it passed overhead. Three minutes later, the information reached the NSA Black Room in San Francisco and the keypad PIN was updated.
Brent had to gain access through the innocuous steel blast door of the Black Room as quickly as possible and disable the transmitter, with no idea what he was actually looking for. The satellite would be back in less than 90 minutes.
He keyed in the numbers he’d used in the bar a short time before, and pressed ENTER. Slowly he pushed the door. There was a hiss as if the space beyond had been pressurised. Pushing harder against the rush of air revealed a thick perimeter frame had made an airtight seal.
A narrow bare concrete corridor dropped away in front of him. He stepped inside and the door began to close. Realising he was about to be plunged into complete darkness, he felt along the walls on either side for a light switch and pushed on the first switch that came to hand, illuminating a small flight of steps leading towards a room beyond.
It was the size of a large garage. Three parallel banks of switchgear ran from floor to ceiling with barely room to move between them. Every panel was an intricate mass of writhing multicoloured wires. Brent had no idea what he was meant to be looking for. Carefully shuffling sideways, he looked for something different amongst the endless cabling and identical electronic circuitry.
On the third attempt, at the end of the final bank, he saw something. A bundle of cables configured in a slightly different way to all the others, its main trunk routed downwards through a rough hole cut in the concrete floor. Around the cable bundle, a clamp of tightly-woven copper wiring passed into a small black plastic box. Leading out from the other end of the box was a piece of blue flex. This had been neatly routed into a piece of conduit which disappeared through a hole in the concrete ceiling. He checked his watch once more. He still had seventy minutes - plenty of time.
* * *
In the unlit gloom of the hotel reception, two of O’Sullivan’s Party colleagues who were due to accompany him to the local radio interview fidgete
d impatiently. He’d agreed to meet at 8.15. It was now 8.20. The radio station building was only a two minute walk away and he was due on air just after the eight-thirty news bulletin.
Perhaps he had been caught in the shower when the power had gone off or slept in with no alarm call to wake him. Murray Ferguson gently tapped on Patrick’s door. There was no reply. Murray tapped again. “Pat, are you in there? We’re gonna be late for the interview.”
The lights in the corridor came back on. Ferguson checked his phone that had just gone beeped. The text was from the man on the other side of the door.
HELP.
The duty manager was reluctant to open the door. Ferguson showed him the text message and he swiped the card without hesitation.
They found O’Sullivan face up, spread out across the bed. The duty manager moved straight to the phone. The other two attempted to revive their stricken leader.
Patrick O’Sullivan was the fit healthy leader of a leading political party, a successful businessman and a popular and well-respected national figure. His untimely death was suspicious. Ferguson phoned Taylor Morgan.
* * *
Brent looked closely at the small black plastic box. It was the only one in the room, stamped with the words Atlaxtar Electrical Inc Illinois. He pulled out his mobile phone. If he made a call now he’d break the communications blackout. But if the call resulted in the Black Room being shut down, it would never reach the eyes or ears of the Americans anyway. He called Dalton. “Sir, I’m in the Black Room. I think I’ve found the transmitter but I can’t be 100% sure. I need you to check out who Atlaxtar Electrical are and call me back.”
There were 60 minutes before the next satellite pass. Dalton had all references to Atlaxtar checked. Brent considered ripping out the black box but if he destroyed the wrong piece of equipment, the previous forty minutes' worth of highly sensitive communication would still be available for upload. Brent’s phone rang. It was Dalton. “Atlaxtar produce electrical transponders and microwave transmitters for the US military. They’re on their approved contractors list.”
Forty five minutes remained. Brent had to be absolutely sure. “Look up the Atlaxtar 105B XPDR for me. I’ll hold.” He squatted down on the hard concrete floor listening to the sound of muffled voices and clicking of computer keys coming down the phone from Wellington.
“It’s a long range military grade device. It doesn’t carry its own power source. It piggy backs onto any nearby heat source for its energy requirements.”
Brent held his hand over the black box as he listened. The coil of wire generated enough heat for him to be able to feel it. “That’s good enough for me. As far as I can see the wire up to the antenna on the roof is just held in place by two screws. I’ll disconnect it and then get the hell out.”
In the distance there was a loud click. The switch he’d pressed was on a timer that had now expired. The room was completely dark. Without windows, no light could enter the concrete box he was now sealed into.
Brent fumbled for his phone. Using the illuminated display, he unscrewed the antenna wire with his penknife. Once it was completely disconnected, he sliced through the plastic tags holding it in place around the cabling and slipped it into his pocket. Twenty minutes left. Time to spare.
* * *
The paramedics lifted Patrick O’Sullivan’s lifeless body and placed it onto a stretcher before wheeling him down the corridor, into the service lift, out onto the loading bay and into the waiting ambulance.
Taylor Morgan replaced the receiver. This was unexpected, momentarily sad, but not entirely unwelcome news. O’Sullivan had carried out much of the early research into the whey conversion process but it was the mass production technique Morgan was personally developing that was driving the project forward.
The loss of O’Sullivan was unfortunate in terms of his political influence but it gave Taylor Morgan the opportunity to consolidate his position within Cowood. He would look into acquiring O’Sullivan’s share of the business. But first he had to deal with Turner.
* * *
Brent climbed the steps to the door and pulled. It was locked. He pulled harder but the door had sealed itself shut. Faintly lit by the phone still in his hand, he saw a large yellow sign.
Extreme risk of death HALOTRON
This was a fire retarding gas used in high risk areas where it wouldn’t destroy the sensitive electrical components it came into contact with. It worked by replacing the fire-feeding oxygen. The hiss he’d heard opening the door had been Halotron escaping out into the street, replaced by the air from outside.
He looked at his watch. The only way to escape was by re-entering the pass code into the keypad on the other side of the door. What would happen when the satellite next passed overhead? There was no way it could now receive information. Would there still be an automatic message sent overwriting his pass code with a new one?
Brent had sixteen minutes to get out. He punched a number into his phone. “Cass, its Brent. Where are you right now?”
“Hey, Bro', I’m sitting in the safe house in Tahuna eating my breakfast, man. The others have gone for a run on the beach.”
“Cass, I’m stuck in a sealed room in the middle of Nelson. I’ve got ten minutes before it fills with Halotron and the lock to open it is on the other side of the door.”
“Where is this room, man?”
“Do you know the post office in the centre of town? There’s a steel door. I’m stuck behind that.”
“I’m on my way, Bro'. Hang in there.”
Cass hung up, abandoned his breakfast, ran out to the Ute, reversed out of the drive and sped down the street towards the town centre.
Brent had eight minutes left. Cass hadn’t waited to be told the code to the door. Brent called him back but Cass ignored the ringing phone, intent on negotiating the traffic that had built up a result of the power cut.
Brent checked his watch. Seven minutes. Cass was stuck behind slow moving traffic along Rocks Road. Desperately Brent texted him the code. Perhaps there was another way out, one he’d not noticed before, an emergency exit or another door perhaps? Six minutes.
The line of traffic in front of Cass slowly edged forward. He checked his mirror and pulled into the oncoming lane. The approaching traffic hooted and flashed as he accelerated down the centre of the road, sending them swerving to the side.
Three minutes left. There was a loud bang followed by metallic crunching as he pulled the truck up the kerb and onto the grass verge now separating the two lanes of traffic. The clock face on the Civic Tower was now in sight as he swerved back onto the road and negotiated the roundabout. Two minutes.
Cass saw the NZ Post logo as he careered through a red light, clipping the rear bumper of a car passing in front of him. As he approached the Post Office, he saw the shiny metallic door Brent had described. He brought the 4x4 to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road and in an instant he was standing in front of the door.
Brent heard hissing as the tasteless, odourless gas began to seep into the sealed room. Instinctively he ran towards the door. Taking slow deep breaths, he tried staying conscious for as long as possible. In the darkness, he began to see flashes, stars and a warm fuzziness began to fill his head. He thought he heard Cass.
“Brent! Are you in there, mate?”
As he plunged towards the abyss of unconsciousness, with a last exhale he screamed, “Phone!”
Cass pulled out his phone and saw the text Brent had sent minutes earlier. He punched the numbers in, pressed ENTER, and pushed hard on the door. There was an outward rush of gas momentarily stinging his eyes.
Brent was slumped against the wall at the top of the steps. He inhaled deeply, slowly lifted his head and opened his eyes.
Cass grinned at him. “Happy birthday, boss.”
Chapter 25
Taylor Morgan read the text message.
Call the Office.
That was impressive. Patrick O’Sullivan’s was barely cold. Turner could wa
it. The message was more important. In his private quarters, he unlocked the safe, and took out the satellite phone.
White noise above the Pacific swished and crackled as the connection was made, a direct link to Washington. “Morgan something’s up. I need you to go into Nelson and find out what’s been happening near the post office.”
What! Was he some kind of errand boy?
“I’m busy.”
“Fuck busy, Morgan. Don’t forget who pays for you to stay busy. The project is in danger of being compromised. Now get your ass into town and take the sat-phone with you. I want a situation report when you get there, understand?”
* * *
David woke from the deepest, sleep he’d enjoyed in days to the urgent crunching of car tyres sliding over gravel.
The phone in the main office chirped. Taylor Morgan’s personal assistant answered. “Kutete Winery. Stacey speaking.”
“Miss Martin, I’ve sent Morgan into town. He should be gone for at least an hour. That should give you enough time. Do you understand?”
* * *
Morgan cursed and tutted as he slowed to join the tailback of traffic still lingering after the power cut. He never noticed the old grey ute as it passed him. Brent Piri instantly clocked the distinctive shiny black Toyota. “Hey, Cass, Morgan’s heading into town. That’s a good sign. Turner should be safe.”
