Code Name Firestorm

by Simon Cheshire

  The man was approaching the hole, his footsteps grating against the scattered fragments of stone and plaster on the floor. Within moments, he would be out in the open, across the road and down the steps.

  “Should I tail him?” transmitted Sirena from outside. “If we let him think he’s escaped, we might be able to capture him later.”

  “If he can detect and disable the five of us in here,” said Nero, “he can do the same to you. We have to stop him immediately.”

  “My wings and legs are stuck,” said Sabre, “but I can move my head. I could fire a sting at him?”

  “Your mechanism isn’t meant to function at a distance,” said Chopper. “It’s designed for injecting.”

  “I’ll divert all power into it,” said Sabre.

  “Which might blow your head apart,” said Hercules.

  The man was less than five metres from the ragged hole.

  “No time. Must take action!” In an instant, Sabre rerouted his energy cells. A buzz of power suddenly pulsed through his needle-like mouthparts. He took aim, his targeting systems struggling to cope with the massive energy surge. His sensors blinked and began to overload.

  Two metres.

  With a high-pitched hiss, a microscopic pellet shot from Sabre’s proboscis.

  It hit the man on the back of the neck. He jerked to a stop. For a moment, he tottered unsteadily, then tumbled backwards to the floor with a loud thud.

  “Stinger delivered,” said Sabre, his voice becoming a low slur from the strain on his systems.

  “Good shot,” said Nero.

  Chopper signalled Agent K and seconds later she appeared at the hole in the wall. “I’ve told the police to keep back until I give them the all-clear. Quite a mess in here!”

  Working fast, she began to free the SWARM robots, using a high-intensity laser beam hidden inside what looked like a pen to cut them free. All five were still encrusted with solidified glue. She placed them into a metal case, and put the case in her pocket.

  “We’d better get you back to the lab as soon as possible,” she said. She hurried over to the other end of the hall, where the bank employees were hiding under a couple of desks. She radioed the police outside. “OK, you’ve got a green light. Get the medics in here to check everyone. The attacker is mine.”

  The man Sabre had stung was beginning to regain his senses. Agent K took charge of his deadly briefcase weapon.

  He rubbed his head, blinking sleepily. “Wh-where am I? Wh-what happened?”

  “You’re under arrest,” said Agent K, crouching down beside him.

  “What?” cried the man in alarm. “Why? What have I done?”

  Agent K frowned at him. “Don’t try the memory-loss trick, I’ve seen it before.”

  Sirena had fluttered into the bank through the hole in the wall. She was now close to Agent K. Her electronic voice came over the SWARM network. “Voice stress levels indicate he’s not lying,” she said.

  Agent K’s eyes widened in surprise. “Who are you?” she asked the man.

  “My name’s Tim,” he said nervously. “Tim Jones. I’m a primary school teacher. What am I doing here? The last thing I remember is leaving home this morning.”

  “Readings confirmed,” said Sirena. “He really doesn’t know what he’s just done.”

  Agent K helped Mr Jones to his feet. He looked around the wrecked bank, scared and startled. A police officer trudged over to Agent K. He took no notice of the butterfly that was circling high above their heads.

  “Have you seen what’s in the vault?” he said.

  “No,” said Agent K. “You take Mr Jones here down to the station. He’s all yours.”

  Picking up the briefcase, she crossed to the vault. Stepping carefully over the shards of metal, she went inside. Written in marker pen across the marble floor, in large capital letters, was a message:

  2:51 p.m.

  “Ready?”

  “Activate the control sphere, please, Alfred.”

  SWARM’s resident Programmer, Alfred Berners, was older than the other members of the organization, with a shock of white hair and a heavily lined face. He was also one of the world’s most brilliant computer scientists, and had designed the brains built into the SWARM micro-robots.

  In the SWARM laboratory, deep beneath the busy streets of central London, machines hummed and screens streamed data. Above one of the lab’s long workbenches, a shiny transparent force field suddenly flickered into life.

  “Thank you, Alfred,” said Professor Miller. He was SWARM’s senior technician, a stern-looking, bald-headed man in a white lab coat and glasses. He placed his hands above a bank of sensors built into the workbench, and inside the force field a set of mechanical hands flexed. They mirrored his movements exactly.

  At the centre of the force field was the briefcase weapon Tim Jones has used during the bank raid. The professor was examining it under carefully controlled conditions.

  “How are you getting on, Simon?” said Alfred Berners, turning to the third and final person present in the lab. This was Simon Turing, SWARM’s brilliant Data Analyst.

  Simon brushed back his brown hair and rubbed his chin. “I’m running through Chopper’s recordings of the entire incident. Whoever made those gadgets and weapons is a genius. Even I’m jealous of technology like that!”

  At that moment, their boss swept into the room. Beatrice Maynard, known by the micro-robotic team as Queen Bee, was in charge of all SWARM operations. Simon, Alfred and the professor all sat up straight as she approached the workbench.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m in time to see the briefcase being opened.”

  “I’ve got it inside a micro-sonic shield, Ms Maynard,” said Professor Miller. “Just in case there are any nasty surprises. We’ve scanned it, but some of the electronics inside are designed to block signals, so better safe than sorry. This force field can contain anything short of a major explosion.”

  Queen Bee stood at the professor’s shoulder. “Go ahead,” she nodded.

  As the professor manipulated the mechanical hands inside the force field, Queen Bee asked Simon for an update.

  “Those gadgets must have been made by an independent manufacturer, something way off the market,” he said. “There’s nothing like them in any database, anywhere in the world.”

  Inside the force field, the mechanical hands gently took hold of the briefcase.

  “And we’re certain this Tim Jones knows nothing?” asked Queen Bee.

  “Certain,” said Simon Turing. “I’ve got Sirena monitoring him at the police station. They’re holding him for questioning, but the police are baffled. So am I, to be honest! He must have been under some form of hypnotic control, but exactly how it was done is currently a mystery.”

  “Have you checked his background?” said Queen Bee.

  “Everything from the moment of his birth to the moment of his arrest. He’s exactly what he claims to be. He’s a teacher, has been for fifteen years. He’s never been in trouble with the police, he’s never even had so much as a parking ticket. He lives with his wife and their pet dog in a two-bedroom house in London. He doesn’t even owe anyone any money. Ordinary, through and through.”

  “So why was he used to raid the bank?” muttered Queen Bee.

  “And who or what is Firestorm?” said Alfred Berners.

  “I’ve cross-checked databases worldwide,” said Simon. “There are no known criminals or terrorist groups using that name. Why Jones wrote it on the floor is another unknown at this stage.”

  “Keep digging,” said Queen Bee.

  The mechanical hands carefully unhooked the clasp that held the briefcase shut. The professor’s face was a mask of concentration.

  “Are the SWARM repaired?” said Queen Bee, watching the hands at work. Slowly, they opened the top of the case by a few centimetres.

  “Almost,” said Simon. He indicated a nearby tank. Inside, a thick, glowing purple liquid swirled around Chopper, Hercules, Sabre, Widow and Nero
. The robots were held in a metal web. “We’re dissolving the last of that glue. Luckily it didn’t cause much mechanical damage – tougher exoskeleton coatings were one of the professor’s latest upgrades. They’ll withstand even bomb blasts now. He’s also installed those faster data analysis programs Alfred designed, and he’s given them a basic way to get around signal jammers, like the one they encountered during the Operation Sting incident. Only a fibre-optic network, I’m afraid, but anything more would require too much power.”

  “What’s the assessment of that glue, then?” said Queen Bee, still watching the mechanical hands. Delicately, they took hold of the sides of the briefcase, and turned it over.

  “Our theory is that it’s preprogrammed to solidify when it hits something, but we’ve no idea how that’s possible. Those blobs even melted the tiny control circuits that the robots detected inside them, once they’d done their job. So they couldn’t be traced, we assume. I’ve taken the bugs offline for the time being. Morph is recharging.”

  Professor Miller sent one of the mechanical hands into the briefcase. The hand moved very slowly and carefully.

  Suddenly, the briefcase emitted a high-pitched tone. From inside came a flash of light and a sharp crackle of electricity. Everyone stood back a little in alarm, even though the force field was keeping them perfectly safe.

  The briefcase burst into flames. White smoke filled the force field and within seconds, all that remained were the stolen bars of gold, sitting in the middle of a heap of ashes.

  “Hmm, well,” muttered the professor, slightly embarrassed, “at least we can give the bank its gold back.”

  “Everything was booby trapped to self-destruct if anyone messed with it,” said Simon. “You’ve almost got to admire this Firestorm lot; they’re very, very clever.”

  “Thank goodness Agent K was sensible enough not to open it at the scene!” said Alfred Berners.

  Queen Bee looked thoughtful. “Well, whoever Firestorm are, they don’t need to be clever to realize that their plan failed.”

  “Surely,” said the professor, “they’d have had more chance of success if they’d used their technology to steal the gold quietly. At night, perhaps, or by tunnelling into the vault. They must have known that a dramatic assault like that would bring the police to the scene immediately.”

  “My guess is that they were totally confident of getting away with it,” said Queen Bee. “It was only SWARM that stopped them. Just.”

  “They must have wanted to create panic and get maximum attention,” said Simon. “They’re not simply high-tech bank robbers.”

  “No, there’s more to it that that,” agreed Queen Bee. “But at least we can deduce one thing: if they’re stealing gold, they must be in need of more funds.”

  Simon nodded. “Gear like that doesn’t come cheap.”

  “Anyway,” said Queen Bee, “let’s hope they’ve retreated to lick their wounds for the time being. I’ve got our human agents keeping an eye on police activity. The police are watching other banks closely, in case there’s a second attack. This Firestorm won’t catch them napping a second time.”

  3:10 p.m.

  The immense stone structure of the MI6 building loomed up above the banks of the Thames. Traffic and pedestrians hurried along at ground level and nobody took any notice of a young woman, wearing glasses and a pink coat, who was heading south across Vauxhall Bridge. She was simply part of the crowd.

  She walked quickly and steadily, but her eyes were glazed and unfocused.

  Suddenly, a tiny light blinked on the arm of her glasses. The lenses darkened and began to scroll information. One switched to heat-sensitive vision, the other to infra-red.

  The young woman reached into the pocket of her coat and pressed a switch. With a low hiss, jets built into the hem of the coat fired up. A second later, the jets roared to full power. The woman flew vertically into the air. Several people near her shrieked in fright.

  A circular control pad lit up at the front of her coat. Using one hand, she guided her flight, aiming directly at the MI6 building. Behind her, cries of astonishment drifted up from the pavements.

  Her speed through the air suddenly increased. She shot forward, her flight path taking her towards a large window on the building’s ninth floor.

  She reached out with her free hand. A large nozzle whirred from her sleeve and in a burst of smoke, it fired a series of rockets. Her arm moved in a circular motion, guiding the rockets into a perfect ring.

  They hit the building. A deafening explosion sent glass and stone bursting out across the Thames. The debris cascaded down the front of the building. Alarms and sirens sounded.

  The woman shot towards the enormous gap that had been made in the ninth floor. She flew inside, the lenses of her glasses adjusting to allow her to see amidst the dust and smoke.

  As the jets in her coat powered down with a whine, she raised her arm again and an ultrasonic pulse fired from a disc in the palm of her hand. The interior wall ahead of her shattered. Shouts and screams could be heard coming from nearby.

  She stepped across the mounds of broken rubble, which now littered the floor. On the other side of the broken wall was a room packed with touchscreen PCs and wardrobe-sized computer servers.

  An MI6 agent, coughing and covered in dust, managed to stagger into her line of sight. He pulled a revolver from the holster inside his jacket and aimed it at her. “Halt! Drop your weapons!”

  A crackling blue arc of electricity flashed from the woman’s palm. The MI6 agent was blown backwards from the force of it. He fell, knocked unconscious, his gun clattering and spinning across the floor.

  The woman took a small cube, about the size of her palm, out of her coat pocket. She placed it beside one of the computer servers.

  A thin metal probe snaked out of the cube and burrowed into the server, its end rotating like a drill bit. A second later, lights began to glow on the side of the cube, turning from red to orange to green, moving further up the cube as it sucked in data from the computer, filling itself with information.

  After a few moments it bleeped and the woman returned the cube to her pocket. Taking out a marker pen, she wrote in large, neat letters across the screen of the nearest PC:

  She turned to leave. Behind her, urgent voices could be heard coming from an adjoining room.

  Without so much as a backwards glance, she powered up the jets inside her coat. They quickly hissed into life, their droning sound rapidly getting louder and more high-pitched.

  Half a dozen agents burst into the server room. The woman shot away through the gap she’d blown in the side of the building. The agents fired at her, again and again, but already she was gone. She flew north at high speed, across the river and away.

  “We’re tracking,” said Simon Turing.

  “Has anyone else got her? Police? MI5?” said Queen Bee.

  “No, we’re using the GPS systems Alfred reprogrammed himself. We’re the only ones who can follow such a small target at low altitude.”

  In the SWARM laboratory, Simon was staring at a 3D display that floated above the workbench. A tiny dot was racing across a map of London, while detailed information ticked along below.

  “Once again, Firestorm is confident of success,” said Queen Bee. “They don’t realize that an organization like SWARM even exists, let alone that we can follow their movements. They’ll have assumed they could lose this woman somewhere in the city.”

  “Two attacks in less than two hours,” said Alfred Berners, tapping at his laptop. “They’re certainly confident.”

  “Any update on what was taken?” said Queen Bee.

  “Working on it,” said Simon. “Obviously, MI6 don’t want to let on. Every last byte of it will be top secret. Many of their own staff don’t even have access to those computers. Alfred’s hacking into their network now. They’ve got a whole series of firewalls, but we should be able to find out what was taken before long.”

  “Can we launch the SWARM?” said
Queen Bee.

  Professor Miller checked the tank containing the robots. The purple liquid was draining away. “Three minutes,” he said. “The repair systems will return them to launch positions automatically.”

  The synthesized voices of the robots all chimed from the speaker built into the workbench. “Rebooting. Full program and subroutine check underway.”

  “We may not have three minutes,” muttered Queen Bee. “Where’s the woman now?”

  Simon’s gaze was firmly on the 3D display. “She’s weaving around just above roof level, keeping out of sight as far as possible… Still travelling at speed… Wait, she’s slowing down… Altitude decreasing… She’s entered the top floor of a multi-storey car park, bearing 314.5.”

  “Have we got anyone in that area?” said Queen Bee.

  “Checking… Agent K isn’t close, but I can divert Agent J. He’s on his way to collect Sirena.”

  “Do it!”

  3:21 p.m.

  The young woman fired down her jetpack and landed in a dark corner on the empty upper level of a multi-storey car park. A cold breeze whipped round the stairwells and, beside her, water dripped through a crack in the low ceiling.

  Suddenly, a large white hatchback sped into view. Its engine growled as it drove up a nearby ramp and approached the woman. The brakes of the car squealed as it came to a halt less than a metre in front of her. Leaving the engine running, a man in a tatty denim jacket and a black woollen beanie got out of the rusting vehicle. He had piercing pale blue eyes, and his mouth was set into a permanent line of disapproval.

  He held out his hand. “Code Name Firestorm, Part Two,” he said.

  The woman reached into her pocket, took out the cube she’d used in the MI6 building and handed it over. Then she took off her gadget-filled coat and glasses, and handed them over too.

  “Confirm timed memory wipe,” he said.

  “Confirmed,” she said flatly.

  He looked at his watch. “Less than a minute until it wears off,” he muttered. “Perfect.”