by Mark Lingane
What’s inside…
Prologue
PART 1
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3
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PART 2
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PART 3
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Watchout
About the Author
Other Novels
First published in Australia by Insync Holdings Pty Ltd PO Box 526, The Gap, Queensland, Australia 4061
ABN: 74 087 648 600
Copyright © Mark Lingane 2016
The right of Mark Lingane to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Some paragraphs of this work use information gathered from Wikipedia under the Creative Commons Deed.
Book cover design by by Insync Books Content set in Garamond.
Cataloguing-in-Publication (CiP) entry: A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.
Fault/lines
Lingane, Mark
In Praise of Fault/lines:
What a superb book! The author weaves multiple characters and threads together through a mysterious and compelling plot. Each page draws you deeper until sleep becomes optional. Fantastic reading!
- Jasper T. Scott, USA Today Best-Selling Author of the Deep Space series
Lingane's hard science fiction thriller keeps the readers guessing by staying one step ahead of the expected, and builds an increasingly fast pace driven by likable and tenacious characters who refuse to accept the doom that seems to be descending over the world. Half nail-biter, half classic invasion tale, this series opener promises great things
- the BookLife Prize for Fiction
It may begin as a cop buddy story but don't be fooled. Exciting Linganean sci-fi soon comes to the fore as disasters of an apocalyptic nature hit a terrorist-fearing UK and, indeed, world. 4.5 stars.
- the Book Bag.
The plot is a slow-boil, catchy affair that slowly flips everything on its head in a wonderful way. It's a joy of a read from start to finish.
- Self Publishing Review.
A twisted action-packed sci-fi thriller. Characters are well defined and very likable. This gripping London-based plot includes brief and riveting cliff-hanging chapters that are divided into three parts, a constant shifting of concurrent character scenes, and a flurry of unexpected situations often punctuated with ticking clock scenarios--to name just a few. RECOMMENDED.
- The US Review of Books
mark-mywords.co
To the Future.
Prologue
The sounds of the embassy party floated in through the window. The light lingered a while longer as the breaking spring months toyed with the sunset. Clive Poundriff’s antique fob watch lied about the time, or told it in a way that no longer made any sense. He fanned out the three marks—pictures, he corrected—on the ridiculously oversized executive desk.
He stretched forward to reach the crystal tumbler full of scotch, laced with cocaine. He had to admit they had delivered on all their promises. His life had been rich, rewarded, and recognized. Not really his, per se, but he played the part with every ounce of determination.
The inside of his Italianate grade-II-listed villa in Holland Park retained its traditional trappings, he being a man of tradition who scorned the mobile elite as they flooded into his street from Russia and the Middle East, dropping untold fortunes on houses barely worth more than a bad idea. But London was London, and the world still wanted to live here.
His view from the delicately converted attic swept over Holland Park proper, with a hint of the central London cityscape in the distance. The city was so modern now; it was barely the one he had grown up in, barely the one he had watched burn as the Luftwaffe destroyed it.
He packed the pictures and the device with the dancing numbers into a small postal satchel and labeled it as instructed. The device had amused him endlessly over the decades, but now it was someone else’s responsibility. It had never been his; it belonged to one and one only. Each device owner was nothing more than a custodian until he turned up. Or she. These days it was unseemly to assume.
He dropped the package into the mail chute and listened as it tumbled to the first floor. The young man would collect it in the morning. Did he have any inkling of the turbulence ahead? What was his name? Ah yes, Alan.
Poundriff’s excessive lifestyle had taken its toll, and his memory and organs were failing after decades of decadence. The doctor had given him weeks to live, if that, and any breath could be his last. He lit a cigar and puffed heavily. As an octogenarian, he knew he should be happy with his innings, but the problem was that nothing had ever been enough.
The abrasion in his lungs was reassuring, dangerous, comfortable and familiar, much like his early years. The world had owed him nothing, and given him exactly that as a birthright. Then they had come, and everything had changed.
He had taken notes all through his life because that’s what you did in the East End; you kept records etched into small pages with a bookie’s pencil. If the coppers ever came calling with their heavy-handed knock, you had your insurance policy. But with his failing memory, his notes had become a lifeline back to when he was himself: a young rogue on the streets. The world had owed him nothing, and the stealing of everything had made it so much more divine. A lesson learned as a young boy: stolen scotch tasted the best of all.
Standing presented a challenge, but Poundriff slowly raised himself and creaked over to the open safe of secrets, his own Dorian Grey. He placed his final notes inside, gently closed the door and—this was the important bit—spun the dial. A laugh escaped his lips. There would be a nice little present for the bastards. He patted the top of the safe, feeling the aged and rough metal under his dulled fingertips.
Collapsing back into his chair, he emptied his glass, swirling the liquid before swallowing the cheap brand. Stolen scotch tasted the best.
Finally, the beautifully carved box crafted so many decades ago by unappreciated artisans on the African west coast; artists without conscience or limitations. Men like him.
He lifted the lid for the first and only t
ime. The dim glow of the incandescent bulbs caught the edges of the metal that was cradled by the plush velvet. Would it work? Of course it would. They had always been right.
He placed the gun in his mouth reflecting on a moment of regret; now he would never know what was going to happen on that date etched into the wood and minds of all the custodians. The date. It was so close, only a matter of months away. Toward what were these elaborate plans leading? Shame about the child.
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
His brains exploded out the back of his head and coated Monet’s Waterloo Bridge, London.
PART 1
1
TOMORROW …
THE DIGITAL readout on the black device stopped its wild pendulum-like swings. The dark green dials spun around the central counter, slowing as the numbers approached zero. He wondered what would happen once it got to zero. If it were his design, his invention, it would blow up.
The sniper checked his watch. It was nearly time.
He laid out the three photos—marks, he corrected—and examined their faces. The instructions were clear. Once the device read zero, shoot. The target would be obvious. Pull the trigger and the future would be fair.
The simple message stapled to the paperwork inside the small postal satchel had provided the incentive for the operation. It was as though they knew his rallying cry.
The sun ventured above the horizon, delicately spreading crisp and unpolluted light onto the waking South London streets. He felt exposed as the night peeled away, perched as he was on the highest point of the highest building. Tactically it was a poor choice, and it grated against his experience, but he was a professional and this was a well-planned, well-timed and—significantly—well-paid operation. He certainly wanted to forget the bizarre interior. His fleeting concern slipped away, dissolved by the promise of the reward.
A commercial airliner roared over to his left, descending to Heathrow.
A congregation of birds, the squalid, bloated and diseased creatures of the city, roamed the rooftop. They began to gather near him in expectation of errant crumbs. He grabbed the peak of his cap and swiped at the nearest birds. They took a few steps away, but stayed resolutely focused on him. He jumped up, flapping his arms, and the flock took to the sky.
He looked at the chalk outline behind him, and panicked. In the early light, it was obvious the position was indefensible. He thought again about finding a better location, using his decades of experience, but they had been intimately and intricately clear about the instructions.
Another plane flew overhead, and the whine of its engines momentarily drowned out the city.
They promised his safety, but only if he stayed put. The word “safe” worried him. Safe from what?
He lay down in the marked-out area on his stomach, positioning his elbows to secure the weapon. Fair and safe … the exact opposite of his life to date. The automatic telescopic sight zoomed in and out of the quiet streets below until it registered the signal. There it was: the signal. Then it focused and locked onto the target.
Wait for the zero …
Out of the corner of his eye, the numbers stabilized, their manic flickering gone for the first time in a month. Shame about the child.
Click.
The alarm screamed through the cockpit. The engine whine changed instantly from a low hum to an ear-piercing shriek and the turbines ceased spinning. The security door behind the flight crew locked automatically.
The pilot flicked the microphone toggle. “Mayday, mayday. This is flight ML-10. We’ve lost all power.” He looked over at his tense copilot. “Nothing.” The entire console was dark. “Try the auxiliary override and see if you can maintain the horizon.”
“All controls are locked,” the copilot replied. “The override’s been overridden. We’re locked out of all electrical and electronic controls. We’re tipping.”
The pilot stood up and flicked open the emergency panel, then he slipped a key from his pocket and jammed it into a small lock next to a large red button. “How many people on this flight?” he said.
“Over two hundred and fifty.”
“I’m not having all those people on my conscience.”
“I argued with my wife this morning,” the copilot whispered. “I didn’t say goodbye.”
The pilot smacked the red button and a large panel swung down. An emergency yoke slipped out. He snapped the thin metal pole out of its holder and placed it in a small hole in front of the yoke. He twisted the emergency yoke.
Nothing happened. He kicked the stick until it bent. Nothing. The plane stalled and an eerie silence filled the cockpit.
“Can you feel that rushing sensation?” the pilot said. He turned and stared out the window. His mouth fell open at the extraordinary sight in front of him. “That’s impossible. We’re not moving.”
The copilot had tears in his eyes. “The speakers are dead. We can’t even say sorry to the passengers.” He bent over and put his hands on his head.
The pilot stared out the window and began to pray.
London’s Docklands lay spread out beneath them. The nose rolled down and the plane began to fall.
London crawled to life in the early morning, with the sun punctuating the brittle, cold air. Randeep sat on the top deck of the bus, clutching the coffee poured freshly from his thermos flask, on his way to his job at the Candle Fire research laboratory. He watched as a large flock of rose-necked parakeets took to the air from the top of one of the taller South London buildings. He hadn’t noticed the building before.
A figure was on the rooftop, driving away the birds. Probably a mad feeder who liked to stand among the maelstrom of feathers, he thought. He whipped out his cell phone and pressed record, capturing the spectacle in ultra-HD+. He zoomed in, hoping the man would fall in an amusing way. That would surely be odds-on favorite for Funniest Home Videos. But he did nothing more exciting than lie down.
To his right, he saw light reflecting off something in the sky to the east of the building. He turned the cell phone slowly and blinked into the sun. It looked like a plane was hanging in the sky, motionless. He rubbed his eyes and looked again before zooming in on the impossible.
The plane’s nose dropped and the fuselage tumbled in mid-air. Randeep videoed the plane’s rolling descent until it disappeared behind some buildings. A moment of silence passed, and then he heard the impact.
Cally looked out the passenger window of the family hatchback at the early-morning South London joggers and the occasional nicotine addict shunned from polite society. He’d been a teenager for a month and already he hated it, although the gifts had been great. As they crawled through the eternal roadworks, and men with yellow hats did little else except slow the traffic, he sighed. It wasn’t the worst day ever because these days every day was equally bad.
His mother cried. She was always crying. She cried going to the clinic. She cried coming home from the clinic. She cried at the clinic. She cried over his new YouTube videos. She cried and cried and cried, and he found it interminably embarrassing. He had taken to hiding behind the long fringe of his dark hair. He didn’t know why he had to go to the clinic so often anyway, considering that nothing ever happened there—except that his mother cried.
There was a tiny click beneath the car. He felt the rush of untold power streaming through him. In the following seconds, he saw the vision of something large and metallic kill his parents.
The image was horrific and made him nauseous, but his body wouldn’t react. Everything moved slowly, as if the whole world was on frame-by-frame advance. He blinked and looked up. His head felt too heavy to move. There was a flash of dimmed silver, and the car roof buckled. His parents didn’t seem to notice. Cally tried to cry out, but his mouth failed to react. His body was locked into position. The roof was crushed down further, hitting the heads of his parents. His father’s head turned fractionally, and there was a tremendous look of sadness in his eyes. Something had punctured his head.
The roof caved in, and his parents’ bodies were twisted into horrible shapes. Every molecule in Cally’s body wanted to scream. All he could see in front of him was a great sheet of steel, cold and twisted. He stared at it for what seemed an eternity as shocking images flooded over him: visions of war, death, futility, and defeat.
2
DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR Tracy Hanson checked her watch. Her heartbeat was bouncing along at sixty-eight, and the time was seven thirty-five. She flicked on the television to catch the BBC breakfast news and endure the usual doom and gloom until her interview on the steps of Central HQ aired.
Tracy’s comments had been trimmed by the editor, but she had come across as focused, determined, and fair. Through the magic of production, it had been a good interview. The reporter thanked her for her usual candor and insight, and signed off back to the studio. Suzanna fluently segued into the headlines before starting the morning feature. She’d hardly changed since university. The three troublemakers—Suzanna, Tracy and ‘Snap Happy’ Maud—were captured at one of many parties in the photograph that sat under the television.
Hanson looked at the screen and evaluated her old friend’s outfit. This morning Suzanna had opted for a business suit and had tied her hair back, meaning she was taking no prisoners. Daniel Anderson, the prime minister, was sitting opposite Suzanna, clearly boiling over at her intense questioning about extremists in the Middle East. Hanson smiled at Anderson’s discomfort.
Apart from the muted bickering on the television, the room was quiet, allowing her a moment of relaxed peace. She rested comfortably in her usual fitted black suit that fell around her slim frame. Her blonde hair framed her face in a short bob.
