Roadworks

by Gerard Readett

  That got me thinking. If someone wanted to paralyse the city, this would be the ideal way to do it. Now that I thought about it, the chain of events we had witnessed did seem too much to expect from coincidence. Not that the city hadn't been subject to multiple failures before, but the time frame for today's events was too short. It tended to preclude accidental failure.

  On the other hand, if coincidence was ruled out, that only left sabotage, which was ridiculous. The security systems of the Transport Management network, and the integrity of our computers, ruled that possibility out.

  I sighed. I'd just put that one down to my over-active imagination.

  ***

  The warehouse was just off Place Rogier, a little way down Boulevard Adolphe Max, one of the main arteries of the city centre. A small, three-story building in a road of run-down town houses, it looked rather decrepit from the outside. For this anonymous quality, Wellens had chosen it for his centre of operations. He had bought the building at a ridiculously low price, and then had an architect from his company check out the structural integrity. Surprisingly, there had been little work needed apart from the addition of four supporting buttresses.

  Samuel Van Pool held the door open, and Wellens stepped through. The room they entered was empty, and a dim light came through the shutters on the windows. They both reached the centre of the room and waited patiently, until a camouflaged door in the wall opened, and a man in a dark suit spoke:

  "Good morning, Sir." He shook hands with Wellens, and nodded respectfully at Sam as he ushered them into a brightly-lit room. Splitting the room in two was a long wooden table, where two stern-looking men sat calmly. Wellens signalled Sam over to the right hand of the room, where a dozen men crowded around another, who was closing up his laptop and disconnecting several cables.

  On the left hand side, a small balding man was working simultaneously with two laptop computers set up in front of him. Both screens displayed a map of the city that contained many moving, coloured icons.

  The man in the suit noticed the direction of Wellens' stare. "That is the Mechanic, Sir. He's got all the trucks located, and they are on schedule. In a few minutes, they will have reached their targets." A simple rule that Wellens had enforced for all of his illegal 'jobs' was that no names were to be used; only job descriptions were necessary.

  Wellens nodded silently. Further on, nine men were checking out different pieces of equipment. One was filling a duffle bag with small vials and syringes. "The Doctor," the man said, as he introduced the rest of his group.

  Four others were busy cleaning their uniforms and checking their weapons. "The Policemen and the Guards."

  Three more pored over a blueprint, listening to a fourth giving clipped instructions. "The Team leader and his men."

  Wellens turned to the Manager of the group, who had attacked the road-haulage garage earlier in the day. "And I trust everything is running smoothly, now." He emphasised the last word.

  "Yes, Sir. We suffered two injuries, but the wounded were immediately taken to our clinic in the country. None of the sixteen truck drivers noticed anything untoward, and, as I have already said, they should be in position soon."

  "And the new air conditioners we delivered to all the sites?"

  "The devices are still responding, Sir. We should have no problem activating them when we need to."

  "Should?"

  "We WILL have no problem, Sir."

  "Fine." Wellens glanced over as Sam approached him again. Quietly, Sam informed him that the other group, the one that had attacked the military arsenal, had suffered no casualties and had been completely successful. Once again Wellens nodded, then clapped his hands for attention. Everyone in the room, on both sides of the table, immediately stopped what they were doing and turned to listen.

  "Gentlemen, I'm not really one for speeches, but I would like to make sure we are clear on what we are about to do. Right now, we have the city floundering. We can soon start our party." At the applause he raised his hands. "But before we do, let's go over it once again."

  Looking at the left side of the room, he continued "You, Manager, and you, Doctor, will stay here with Mechanic to co-ordinate. The rest of you are split into two teams of four, each team to retrieve one piece of the laser. Guards and Policemen make up one team. Team leader and his men make the second one."

  Moving around the table, Wellens looked at the men to the right of it before continuing. "Four of you are to take the equipment you stole this morning to the OPA, and set up their defences. The other eight have another two bits of the laser to retrieve."

  All the way through the explanation, the two men at the table looked on impassively. Wellens strode over to them.

  "And finally, Shorty and Sideburns. You have the hardest assignment. It's probably the easiest target, but the most dangerous escape route. As you both have paratrooper experience, I'm sure you'll succeed without any problem."

  "None at all, Sir," they responded in unison.

  "Good." Scratching his chin, Wellens added, "Now, pay attention. I'm only going to go over this once. After each team has completed its mission, you will meet Sam and myself in the parking lot under the company building. We will take the pieces of the laser, and you will be given subcutaneous chips. There are five different kinds of chips, one for each team. Every member of one team gets the same kind of chip implanted. Sam and I will make the transaction, and will place the money in a safe place. That done, I will transmit the location from my PDA. This will activate the chips.

  "Then you head back here, and wait for the other teams. When everyone has arrived, you will put the five different chips together to make a map containing the location where we will place the money. Each kind of chip will decipher one part of the information. Only when one chip of each kind is in close proximity to the four others will they produce the complete picture. The chips have a range of ten centimetres, and you'll need your notebook to decipher the information. A copy of the map the chips will overlay the location on has been uploaded to each team's notebook. The location will be marked with an X. Sam and I will be waiting for you there."

  "What kind of chip, Sir?" one man asked. "I mean, is it likely to go septic? When do we remove them?"

  "They are protein-based, and will dissolve after seventy-two hours. As they are composed solely of organic material, they will not go septic. Now, I know you may think the chips are a childish prank on my part. I know it sounds silly, but it's for your safety as well as my own. You all have to co-operate until you know precisely where the money is. And none of you is going to try to eliminate me until you do."

  "We'd never do that, Sir," said the Manager of the first team. "Don't you trust us anymore?"

  "I trusted you before because there was always going to be another opportunity to earn more money. This, however, is going to be the last job for me. After this, I'm retiring to some island in the Bermuda triangle where I'm going to try to get lost. Also, the amount of money involved is enough to cause a feud between brothers."

  Someone in the second team, a short man with a ponytail, spoke. "What's to stop you and Sam running off with the money?"

  "Unfortunately, you'll have to trust me on that one," Wellens answered quietly.

  "That's a good one, coming from a man who, for twenty years, has been running black operations alongside his legal company."

  "Fine, if that's the way you feel, I think we'll all be happy to split your share. The door's over there," Wellens said vehemently, as he pointed.

  The man with the ponytail stared at Wellens, who held his gaze. Under such pressure, he soon wilted. "Ok, I give in. I've trusted you for the five years I've worked for you. I suppose I can trust you a little longer."

  "Now that we're all agreed, we can set our plans rolling. Mechanic, start your work.

  Return to Contents

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  8.10 a.m.

  Susan normally left her car at the Park and Ride terminal, but th
e transport computer in the dashboard had redirected her away. Instead of following directions to another P&R, on an impulse, she decided to go all the way, and park in a city centre car park.

  "For one day, I can remind myself how dreadful it is joining the rush hour," she thought. "See how the other half lives."

  Minutes later, taking the 'Chaussee de Ninove', one of the arteries from the outer ring-road into the centre, she experienced a momentary twinge of regret at her rash decision. A long queue of cars, taking up both lanes, stopped her. She used the transport computer to determine where she was. It indicated that the road ahead gave onto a major crossroads.

  "I'll just have to sit it out," she whispered to herself, glancing at her reflection in the rear view mirror. The jaw clamped tight, the eyes barely more than slits, the gnarled face stared back at her, as if she could smell the presence of a skunk. She consciously relaxed, intent that nothing should change her mood today. Tomorrow she would use the P&R again, and settle back into her comfortable stress-free routine.

  On another impulse, she switched the player on, chose her favourite dance CD, and turned the volume up. As the first track played, she started swaying rhythmically, quietly mouthing the words to the song. During the second track, she mimed a saxophone player, shaking her head as she had seen it done on MTV.

  The next track came on. She began playing on imaginary drums, getting into the swing of things, yelling out the lyrics, and humming when there were none. She waved her arms about, shaking her head in tune to the music, when she caught a glimpse of the driver next to her staring at her. Incredulity distorted his small, red, face pressed up to the window.

  Self-conscious as the next, Susan immediately turned the player off, and looked ahead. The queue had moved on, but the car in front still had not advanced. The driver, leaning between the front seats, had witnessed her antics, too. She smiled nervously at him, and pointed. Reluctantly he drove forward, keeping an eye on his rear view mirror.

  Judging by the reactions of other drivers, Susan observed silently to herself, clearly you're not supposed to enjoy being caught up in a traffic jam.

  Sitting still all the way to the crossroads, she pulled up at the light just as it changed to red. Cars on side roads accelerated, crossing in front of her. A truck stopped in the middle, indicating its intention to turn. She was unable to make out the marking on the tanker it was hauling, but she did notice the Dangerous Cargo sign above the number-plate.

  The side traffic stopped when the lights changed. A dark cloud of diesel fumes spewed forth from the truck's exhaust as it started to turn. Susan put her car into first, then looked again at the truck as it lurched alarmingly to one side. She realised she was probably worrying about nothing. The Transport Authority would not give access to unsafe vehicles inside the city. The tilt of the tanker must be part of the truck's design to smooth out long turns.

  She followed it with her gaze. It slowly picked up speed, the tanker moving at last. Suddenly, it tilted even more, and she noticed a flame followed by a small puff of smoke rise from the rear axle, like a match being lit. One of the wheels buckled, jarring the whole tanker violently. It teetered drunkenly on the axle, then as the truck rolled forward, the axle twisted itself, dragging the damaged wheel along behind it.

  Another minute explosion on the axle finished the tanker off. The axle dislocated itself, and the wheels rolled backwards, slipping out. Susan froze and stared in horror as, in agonising slow motion, the tanker toppled towards the road's surface.

  A wrenching scream echoed around the square as it crashed down. Susan gasped. She opened her door, and, as her foot came off the clutch, the car jerked forward and stalled. Oblivious, she continued her earlier movement. She got out of her car awkwardly, numb from shock, and gaped across at the tanker.

  Dark liquid trickled downhill, towards her. The tanker had cracked, and its contents were leaking out onto the road. The dazed truck driver clambered out of the cabin, checked the damage, then panicked. He waved his arms wildly above his head, and yelled something.

  Several other drivers milled angrily about Susan, eager to see what was holding them up. They fell silent at the sight of what used to be a tanker lying across the road leaking its contents.

  Bemused, she muttered to them, "Can any of you hear what he's saying?"

  One, a young man in a harsh business suit spluttered with a strong Flemish accent. "No, but look at the inscription on the tanker."

  Written, in large red letters, on the tanker was the word "AVGAS."

  "Et, alors?" someone shouted in French.

  "That means aviation fuel."

  They hastily backed away. Susan moved towards her car, but felt restraining hands pull at her. A blinding flash of light made her start, and she felt herself being dragged down to the ground. She cast one last look at the tanker. The fuel had caught fire. She frantically covered her head when she heard a gigantic roar erupt from the crossroads.

  ***

  "What the blazes was a tanker of aviation fuel doing in town?" Nys yelled at me, as if I were to blame. He had wanted to know what all the commotion was about. At my request, Martin had joined us to help with the sudden spurt of phone calls.

  "Hugh, you should know that tankers don't have access to the city. It's too dangerous." Nys tends to ignore facts, even when they are staring him in the face. Excepting a few special cases, tankers were restricted from using inner city roads. However, the rules in no way altered the facts. Somehow, the trucks had gotten through the checkpoints, and were now in the city proper.

  I spat my response to Nys's outburst, "Aviation fuel is on the restricted list, just like nitro-glycerine, chemical waste, seven kinds of noxious gases, petroleum, margarine and hair-gel. That doesn't mean they're not there."

  Balancing the phone in one hand, Patrick signalled that there were another two trucks involved in accidents.

  I glared at Nys. "Look, Jacques, we'll investigate the whys and wherefores later. Right now, we have to clear fifteen major crossroads of traffic and people."

  Nys shook his head violently, dislodging a glob of hair gel that plastered itself on a screen. "Stuff that. Get the trucks out of there first, then---"

  "In case you don't realise, Jacques," I said loudly, "burning fuel is detrimental to most people's health. You'd probably be all right, but humans tend to die. Get it?"

  Although taken aback, Nys insisted on giving his useless advice, "Get onto the emergency services---"

  I closed my eyes. Rubbing my temples with my palms, I tried to control myself. Putting as much venom into my voice as possible, I quietly whispered, "What do you think I got Patrick to do when we received the first call?" I felt the flash of rage throb inside my head, eagerly awaiting release. I needed to channel it somehow. "Make marshmallows and Irish coffee, maybe?" That was it; I could sense the anger ebbing away. I had all but forgotten that trick, one Martin and I had perfected when we worked together.

  Opening my eyes, I sneered at Nys. "Any more stupid comments to make?"

  Martin cupped the receiver of the phone he was holding, his mouth curled into a wicked grin. Naked antagonism of this kind was the perfect food for gossip.

  "If not," I continued, "be my guest, and shove off."

  Nys did not know what to say. I heard his teeth grinding together, and noticed his flaring nostrils. He lifted his leg to stamp his foot like a spoilt child, but thought better of it, whirled and rushed out of the TMC.

  The next twenty minutes were hectic. Martin had been liaising with the fire brigade, but I relieved him of the phone. Meanwhile, Patrick had the police and ambulance services dispatcher on the line.

  Usually, the mainframe directs the ambulances, fire engines and police cars through traffic, ensuring they get full right-of-way at all crossroads. Unfortunately, with the car park problem we had, the computer was running out of pre-programmed options. It was incapable of redirecting traffic to blocked P&Rs or broken down car parks.

  It was having difficu
lties clearing a path for the ambulances. A crisis as serious as the one we were in the middle of had, obviously, not been anticipated by any of the programmers. The traffic handling application on the mainframe was not sufficiently powerful to deal with the many problems we had, and it was in danger of using up the processor resources.

  Good, old-fashioned, human ingenuity was called for. Patrick and I had to monitor the positions of the emergency vehicles, while Martin manually cleared a path for them, overriding the mainframe. In some cases, he redirected traffic into roads where jams were already burgeoning. Getting the emergency vehicles on site was our most urgent priority.

  Eight tankers had been loaded with gases. Three of these were herbicides. The cause for worry was the one report we had, as yet unconfirmed, that one of them contained chlorine gas. What a chemical warfare gas, not used since World War I, was doing in our city, we would certainly find out when this was over.

  Informing the ambulance service, I ensured that they would take every precaution necessary with each gas-filled tanker. They started with the one reportedly containing chlorine, dispatching one doctor to pick up any gas masks he could lay his hands on, mainly oxygen masks stored near hospital fire exits.

  We worked flat out, until we had at least one ambulance on each accident site. Exhausted, Martin and I stared at each other, bewildered that we had succeeded in doing the work the mainframe should have done. For once, technology had failed to fully replace man. We may have been tired, but we were proud. Patrick pushed himself away from the desk, stood shakily, and tripped over Pierre.

  Pierre is Martin's boss. Behind him stood Martin's three colleagues, looking as surprised as if they had just seen a ghost. The three of us had been so caught up in getting the ambulances on the crash sites that we had failed to hear them enter. Once Pierre, the first to react, began clapping, the others joined in enthusiastically. Martin and I only had the energy left to grin weakly, but Patrick bowed smartly.