“You killed my friend, Hank,” he said, his voice shaking with barely suppressed emotion.
“Max,” Patrick said, half kneeling, his hand outstretched. “Give me the gun.”
Part of Ellie hoped that the boy would simply squeeze the trigger and end the threat. Part of her was horrified at the thought.
For his part, Jager lay completely inert, looking into the business end of the gun.
“He killed Hank!” Max snarled. “He wants to kill us all!”
Patrick reached out, but he was too far away to grab the gun. “Son.”
“No.”
That one word from Jager silenced them. “I was not going to kill you.”
“LIAR!” Max roared, and the gun began shaking in his hands.
Ellie’s eyes fixed on the boy’s trigger finger. She watched it slowly tighten as the gun rocked in his hand. Any moment now, it would be over.
“Max! No!”
A new voice.
He looked across and, in that moment, Jager had the gun and was rolling away before getting to his feet.
Ellie gasped as Jodi strode into view. “Oh, thank God I got here soon enough. Professor Rath sent me,” she said, looking at Jager.
“Jodi!” Max sobbed. “He killed Hank.”
She ran forward and took him in her arms. He didn’t shrink from her. “I’m so sorry, Max. But we gotta hold it together, or the bad guys win forever. We gotta help Buzz.”
Helmut Jager checked the clip and returned the Glock to its place. “So, we are clear?”
Patrick, who’d spent most of the past hour with his jaw open, turned the plastic card in his hand. “I guess so.”
“Why him?”
For the first time, Jager smiled. “Because he is an actor, is he not? And it was easy to get his image.”
Ellie scowled, but she couldn’t deny it. Truth was, she was torn between anger that Reid was getting the pivotal role and fear for his safety. She wasn’t sure that she was in love with him. But she thought it could happen, and she’d prefer not to discover that she had fallen for him when it was too late.
She took the ID card from Patrick. It showed a picture of his head Photoshopped onto the body of a man in an engineer’s coveralls. It had been nicely done. “James Newton,” she said.
“He worked there a few years back,” Jodi said, reading the typed sheet she’d found inside an envelope in the glove box. “Rath says it was easier to edit an existing record and restore Newton to active duty than to add an entirely new one.”
“But he’s an actor! He’s pretended to be an engineer, sure, but you’re asking him to actually be one. It’s insane! He doesn’t know one end of a wrench from another.”
Patrick took the card back. “I know enough to know it’s called a spanner in civilized countries. I’ll manage. But I’m touched by your concern.” He smiled in that infuriating way and she turned away to stop herself smiling back. She hadn’t stopped being angry yet.
“When’s the launch?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” Jodi said, referring to the sheets again. “Jeez, I wish I could have asked more about the plan. All we’ve got is a list of instructions.”
“Why didn’t this Rath person just tell you?”
“He knew he was being surveilled,” Jager said. “We have all been. Like you, I received written instructions I do not pretend to understand. I was to bring you here, but at all times giving the appearance that I was going to kill you.”
“You could have told us once we were in the truck!” Ellie said. “We thought we were dead!”
Jager shrugged. “The car may be bugged. As it happens, we were lucky your friend arrived in time. And now, I must get back and continue to play my role.”
“Why are you doing this?” Ellie asked as the German got up.
“I trust Frederick Rath and I understand enough of what your friend is trying to accomplish to know that I wish him to succeed. If the water is pushed back, that is a good thing, is it not?”
Patrick got to his feet and held out his hand. “Thank you, Helmut.”
“Good luck, Mr. Reid. It would make a good movie, no?”
“If it works,” Patrick said, as the German walked back to his car. “If it works.”
Chapter 22
Minotaur
“It is done,” Frederick Rath said, gesturing at the microscope view on the computer screen.
Tiny things moved seemingly at random, looking like the creations of some cosmic watchmaker. Or Frankenstein. Either way, they had a strange beauty.
President Buchanan peered at the screen. “So, these are the results of Doctor Baxter’s research.”
Rath nodded. “Yes, Madam President.”
“And they will eliminate the existing strain—the one you created—and replace it with a version that raises the temperature at which ice will form?”
“Essentially, yes, that is correct. This will have the effect of rapidly reforming the Antarctic ice sheet, thus lowering sea levels to something close to their previous levels.”
“Rapidly?”
Rath nodded. “In perhaps a decade or two, we would expect to see the ice sheet restored to its historic level.”
“So, we have to survive for twenty years?”
“We expect to see effects within a much shorter time, with the sea level dropping gradually and opening up previously submerged areas. Doctor Baxter’s technique is nothing short of a miracle, Madam President.”
Buchanan glanced back at the view on the screen, and then at the others in the room. “Well, ladies and gentleman, we stand at the turning point. Humanity has been brought low, but now begins the slow recovery. Doctor Baxter, are you satisfied that everything’s ready for the launch tomorrow?”
Buzz, who’d stood back while Rath held forth, stepped forward a little and gestured at the screen. “The xenobots are performing as expected, Madam President. I am confident that, once released, they will achieve their mission.”
“Good,” Buchanan said, then began to turn away.
“But…”
She turned back, as the others in the room froze.
“I’m afraid that I discovered some errors in the delivery capsule. Errors that would almost certainly result in the failure of the mission.”
The room erupted.
Lundberg was the loudest, protesting in the most vehement terms that Baxter must be mistaken. It was quite the performance.
“Are you suggesting that Doctor Rath miscalculated?” Buchanan said.
“No. I believe the errors to have been introduced deliberately. They are calculated to ensure that the xenobots die before delivery.”
Rath had gone white and stood, shaking his head. “No, it is not true!”
The president snapped to Lundberg. “Professor, it seems your attempt to sabotage the mission has failed.”
Lundberg went to open her mouth, but Rath spoke first, his face suddenly relaxing as if he knew that there was no further point in pretense. “No, Madam President, Doctor Baxter is correct, but this was entirely my plan. It was not authorized by SaPIEnT.”
Buzz saw Lundberg’s expression tighten as if she were holding her breath.
The president jabbed a finger at him. “Why?”
“I respectfully decline to answer.”
Buchanan gestured at Agent Pope. “Take him into custody.”
“Madam President, we would like to conduct an internal investigation. Please allow our security people to handle this.”
“I don’t think so,” Buchanan said, as Pope grabbed Rath by the arm and pulled him out of the room. “Now, Doctor Baxter, can you fix things in time for tomorrow’s launch?”
“I believe so, Madam President,” Buzz said, fighting down the urge to grin.
He allowed himself a moment’s triumph when he was alone again. His part was done. The mission now depended on the others.
#
Patrick Reid had taken on many roles in his long career, but this was the toughest ever. He was used to learn
ing lines, but not sequences of actions that he had to memorize before he’d even seen where he’d be carrying them out.
But he was here now. He’d tried to relax as the young National Guardsman checked his ID, but he couldn’t help imagining what would happen to him if he was caught. As it happened, the young man gave his ID card the briefest of looks before waving him inside the perimeter.
The Minotaur stood next to a gantry that reached only to the top of the dark green first stage. That was Patrick’s target. Luckily for him, the tool storage garage was well signposted and sparsely occupied, but it sure would have been quicker if he’d known more than just the name of what he was looking for.
By the time he’d found everything and tossed it in a bag, he was sweating like a pig. He sneaked a look around the garage door and then, seeing no one there, affected a confident stride as he emerged and headed for the foot of the metal stairway leading up the side of the rocket. Good grief, he’d imagined they would have elevators at least, but then this was ancient technology with a new coat of paint for respectability.
He climbed up, occasionally pausing to take in the view and catch his breath in the hot desert sun. He’d read plenty of science fiction growing up in the north of England, but this wasn’t what he’d imagined a spaceport would look like. Most of the vehicles he could see were small commercial and private planes, and the buildings wouldn’t have looked out of place on some backwater industrial park.
But as he climbed he kept his eyes on the green paint and reminded himself that this rocket had been designed to rain a whole different kind of destruction on humanity. Things were simpler then, he reflected. We spent our time threatening to blow each other up, and everyone knew who the enemy was. This time around, they’d done a thoroughly efficient job of it and, so far, the finger had yet to land on someone. Though he was certain enough that SaPIEnT and the mysterious Lundberg were deeply involved.
“Hey!” a voice called from above.
Patrick grabbed on to the handrail as he felt and saw feet coming down the steps.
A short man in oily coveralls flattened himself against the rail to allow Patrick through. “You ain’t got the guidance system chit, have you? I just been up there and done it.”
Patrick had no choice other than to play along. “No. Power check.”
The man raised his bushy eyebrows. “Right. Didn’t see that one. Must’ve been added after I checked in. Anyways. See you later.”
“Sure,” Patrick said, before trying to look confident and competent as he climbed, leaving the man to continue his descent. He was now close to the point where the green of the first stage gave way to the white of the second. It was time to look for…what was it? Right. SRBIII-C. He’d had to make up quite an elaborate mnemonic to do with Scottish kings to be sure to remember it.
He scanned the green paint—surprisingly rough in texture from close up. Why would they mark important components in black? In the bright sun, he was forced to squint while he stood for anyone to see who was looking. There!
It was near his feet, so he got down onto hands and knees, pulled out the socket spanner and began removing the bolts from the panel. While he was doing it, he couldn’t help but wonder why an engineer would be sent to service the guidance system. He’d assumed these solid fuel relics of the 1960s would use a preprogrammed system and that should have been set long before now. The South Pole was, after all, a pretty big target.
But he put it to one side as he found the wire he was looking for and, with a single snip, severed the connection. Professor Lundberg’s backup plan was now disconnected.
He was almost at the foot of the steps when a klaxon sounded and a voice announced that the launch would take place in fifteen minutes.
And he was almost out of the door when a hand landed on his shoulder and he was dragged back inside.
#
Buzz glanced at the rocket as the low gantry was pushed away. This former weapon of mass destruction was ready to play its role in saving lives rather than taking them. Well, the die was cast. There was nothing any of them could do about it anymore.
He felt sorry that Rath couldn’t be here as, more than anyone else, he was responsible for thwarting Lundberg’s plans. And he’d taken the fall. They’d agreed, in whispers, that Lundberg had to believe that Rath had tried to sabotage the delivery capsule, and that this needed to happen in front of the president—both because she needed to witness the unveiling of the phantom subterfuge, but also so that Rath would be taken into custody by her people and not Lundberg’s. Otherwise, he’d likely be dead already.
President Buchanan was sitting in the central seat of flight control. To her left sat a middle-aged man in a blue Oxford shirt, his navy tie tucked inside and his hands on the controls. To his left lurked Lundberg. She was unreadable to someone like Buzz who’d never taken any interest in body language. He didn’t even know what to expect from here on in, just that Rath had done his best to out-think his boss and arrange fail-safes.
“May I begin the countdown, Madam President?” asked the man in the Oxford.
Buchanan smiled. “Please do.”
As the man ran through the launch checklist and then counted down from ten, Buzz found himself holding his breath. Would it even take off? Lundberg was no fool: had she found a way to make it explode on the launchpad?
No. In a blaze of fire, the Minotaur lifted heavily into the air, the ground vibrating and the metal of the building chattering an accompaniment to the roar of the motors.
The flight director checked the ancient-looking consoles on the desk in front of him and then, finally, turned to Buchanan. “All is nominal, Madam President.”
POTUS breathed a sigh of relief and looked first at Lundberg, then at Buzz. “Congratulations.”
Buzz smiled and nodded, then said, “Can you check the payload?”
The flight director called up the display. Buzz couldn’t recognize anything in the acronyms and digits that scrolled over the screen, but they were all in green text, so he wasn’t surprised when the man said, “All nominal.”
Buzz thought he noticed Lundberg turn her head to glance at the readout before looking up at the long-range camera as the rocket receded from view, heading for the upper atmosphere on its suborbital trajectory.
So, he only caught the flight director’s movement once it was already over. His finger flicked a switch just under his chest, out of sight of the audience, preoccupied as they were by watching the rocket rise into the sky.
Buzz was going to cry out a warning, but he then he caught the flight director’s face as he looked across at Lundberg. He gave the tiniest shake of the head. So, she had set something up. Some backup plan in case Rath failed, as he had. And now, so had she. Whatever insurance Rath had arranged had worked.
He said nothing. What was the point? She’d failed and he would report his suspicions once the mission had been completed successfully. For now, he wanted simply to enjoy his triumph. And hope that the xenobots worked.
So, he watched as the rocket receded until all he could see was the faint hint of fire mixed with white tendrils of stratospheric cloud.
He glanced at the telemetry. Just over fifty miles altitude and approaching a thousand downrange, the rocket would be traveling over what had been Florida shortly.
And then his eye was caught by a sudden vision of horror. A flash of white, then orange light, and the telemetry console went dead.
The room erupted in cries of alarm. In a moment, relaxed silence had been replaced by shock, then demands for explanations and expressions of disbelief.
All except for the face of Else Lundberg. She wasn’t nearly a good enough actor to entirely disguise the triumph in her eyes.
Chapter 23
Maria
“West six? Is this it?”
Eve gestured at the handwritten sign nailed onto a scrap of wood. “Yep.”
“Come on then!” He ran up the street, counting each of the side paths that divided one block
from the next horizontally. He was panting by the time he called out, “Ten!”
He almost collided with a woman who climbed out of the tent he was standing by. “Sorry,” she said.
“Where’s tent five?” he asked. “I’m looking for Maria Rodriguez.”
The woman looked blankly at him through watery eyes as she blinked in the daylight.
“He means Ellen Fitzgerald,” Eve said. “She’s with Kathi.”
The woman’s face softened as she turned to Eve. “Oh yes, I know Kathi. Well, I know her to look at. She doesn’t say much.”
“And she has a child with her?”
The woman smiled. “Ellen. Yes. Pretty girl, though I don’t think she’s hers, if you know what I mean. She found her on her way here. Took care of her.”
“Where’s tent five?” Bobby snapped, unable to contain himself any longer.
“Over there,” the woman said, her expression freezing up again. She pointed into the center of the rectangular block of tents. “She might not be there, though. We all got chores to do. Say, why do you want to know, anyway?”
Bobby ignored the woman and headed for the tent she’d indicated. He drew in a deep breath, heart hammering against his chest as, without bothering to ask, he swept the beige canvas flap opening and ducked inside.
“There’s no one here,” he said as Eve followed him. He stood for a moment looking around as he tried to calm himself.
Once his eyes had adjusted to the low light compared to the bright sun outside, he could pick out two sleeping bags set around one corner. A small pack and a couple of Walmart bags sat in a pile in the opposite corner, but there was little else to indicate that the tent was even occupied.
“This is hers,” Bobby said, kneeling beside one of the sleeping bags. He held up a T-shirt with a faded unicorn print on it.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” Bobby snapped. “I’m sorry. Yes, it’s definitely hers. I bought it.”
“What should we do? Wait for her to come back?”
Survivors: Deluge Book 3: (A Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Story) Page 18
