Nano

by Sam Fisher

  ‘Thor’s falling fast,’ Chloe said. ‘It’s 1095 metres and dropping.’

  On the holoscreens, they could each see the buildings of Downtown LA directly ahead.

  ‘Altitude: 900 metres,’ Chloe said.

  ‘We can’t bring her down anywhere near here,’ Pete exclaimed. ‘We have to get right under Thor, make contact between the net and the space plane’s fuselage. Ready? Ascend 21 metres.’

  The three pilots each guided the Silverbacks with incredible finesse, raising them each by 21 metres as they continued hurtling towards the CBD at half the speed of sound. There was a sharp jolt as the nanonet that was stretched between the three Silverbacks hit the underside of Thor 1.

  ‘Now Mai,’ Pete said, ‘you need to give a retro blast to starboard. Chloe, you too. I’ll give it some thrust. Between us we should be able to nudge this damn thing away to the north.’ He ran his fingers over the plastic control panel. ‘Just getting figures now,’ he said. ‘Mai, 2 second burn. Chloe 2.4 seconds, 6 seconds after Mai. Got that?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Set timers,’ Pete said. ‘Mai, fire on three. One, two, three . . .’

  There was a slight judder as a retro rocket on the starboard side of Paul fired for precisely 2 seconds. Four seconds after it had finished, Chloe gave a burst of her own from the starboard side of George and the four aircraft began to swing north.

  ‘Height: 815 metres,’ Chloe said.

  Pete glanced at the holoscreen. They had managed to pull the space plane around but they were all still dropping fast.

  ‘Five-hundred-and-ten metres. Four hundred and five. Three hundred . . .’

  ‘Pete!’ It was Mark. ‘The Aon Tower. You’re headed straight for it!’

  Pete looked at the display. All three pilots could see the cluster of skyscrapers of Downtown.

  ‘Altitude: 26 metres,’ Chloe declared. ‘One-point-seven kilometres to impact.’

  ‘Mai, Chloe, we have to engage the main thrusters. Get some height.’

  ‘But the net. It won’t . . .’

  ‘It’ll have to!’ Pete roared back through the headset. ‘Now . . . engage!’

  At precisely the same moment, all three pilots tapped the instruction into the control panel and the Silverbacks pulled up, dragging the nanonet and Thor 1 with it.

  ‘Two-hundred metres to impact. Height . . . 139 metres . . .’

  ‘Again,’ Pete yelled.

  They set and fired the main thrusters. The three Silverbacks pulled up, flying vertically. Pete’s teeth were clamped together, his left hand gripping the plastic control panel. On the holoscreen, he could see the sheer glass and steel wall of the Aon Building that stood 290 metres above the street. On another display he watched a representation of the nanonet with Thor 1 caught in it like a fish. The space plane was swinging from side to side.

  A few metres away from the port wing a small tear had appeared in the net. Pete knew millions of nanobots would already be there repairing the threads but it was almost certainly too late to do anything about it.

  ‘Sixteen-point-one metres . . .’

  The four aircraft were screaming skyward, shooting up the final few floors of the tower. Over the headsets they all heard the rip in the net and the three Silverbacks jolted violently to port. Each pilot compensated in a fraction of a second and the interlinked jets roared over the top of the skyscraper leaving mere centimetres to spare beneath the net where Thor 1 hung.

  ‘Pete? I have a landing site for you,’ Mark said, relief clear in his voice.

  ‘We won’t make it,’ Pete snapped back. ‘The net’s going.’

  ‘Damn it!’

  Pete turned his attention to the nav controls. ‘Chloe? You got net integrity?’

  ‘Forty-one per cent and falling . . . fast!’

  Pete cursed and scanned the three-dimensional map of the ground beneath them as it came up on a display above the control panel.

  A loud snap echoed around the headsets of the E-Force rescuers.

  ‘Get her down!’ Pete screamed into his headset. ‘Reverse thrusters. On my mark.’

  Another jolt. The four aircraft shuddered. On their holoscreens, Pete, Mai and Chloe could all see the net rip open. The space plane was being tossed around like a skewered toreador.

  ‘Down, at 180 metres per second. Ready? NOW!’

  The three Vertical Take Off and Landing jets shot towards the ground gripping the tattered remains of the nanonet, with Thor 1 tangled in the framework. One-point-nine seconds later, they were at 27 metres, hovering over a plaza.

  ‘Please clear the area.’ Pete’s voice boomed over powerful speakers on the outside of the Silverback.

  ‘Pete.’ It was Mai. ‘I’m scanning the plaza with infrared. We’re almost clear. A couple of people are running to the perimeter. No one directly under us.’

  ‘Okay . . . gently.’

  A loud crack resonated around the buildings lining the four sides of the plaza as one of the primary struts of the nanonet snapped. Thor slipped through the rip and its port wing crumpled as the four planes dropped the final few metres to the ground. Sparks flew. The stench of ozone filled the air. A flame shot from under Thor’s tail. In a second, it was quenched by a jet of retardant and coolant spurting from a nozzle under George’s wings. The fuselage of the space plane hit the concrete with a deep thud and rolled onto its side as the three Silverbacks touched down, their engines shutting off.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Pete exclaimed. ‘That was something else!’

  From Base One came only a stunned silence followed by loud applause and the roomful of techs in Cyber Control whooping loudly.

  6

  Dakota Building, New York City, two days later, 8 December, 9 pm

  It was a rare occasion. The four men seated around the mahogany dining table had met in the flesh only a handful of times during the years they had known each other and most of their communicating was done via encrypted video links that spanned the world.

  They referred to themselves as the Four Horsemen and they were each among the Forbes Top 10 billionaires. They had named themselves the Four Horsemen as a little private joke and had individually appropriated the names Death, War, Conquest and Pestilence from the Book of Revelation. Until a year ago, their identities had been completely secret, but then they had plotted the assassination of Senator Kyle Foreman in Los Angeles and, although they had escaped prosecution and public censure, they were known to at least one influential group: the members of E-Force. Because, thanks to the brilliance of Tom Erickson and the unmatchable power of Sybil, the organisation had succeeded in putting faces to names. However, such knowledge had proven to be of little practical value. A year earlier, E-Force had been forbidden by the highest authority from exposing these men.

  Times, though, had changed. The Four Horsemen knew that and so did E-Force. The new man in the White House was an intellectual, a pragmatist, a man of vision who wielded his power wisely. His name was Kyle Foreman.

  ‘So everything is in place, I trust?’ Death asked Pestilence, the man who had been given the task of selecting the frontline operative who would be at the sharp end of their next project. Death peered around at the others. He was an American, mid-forties, buff, arrogant as hell.

  Pestilence gazed at the polished table for a moment and when he raised his head he wore a thin smile. ‘Naturally, Death. All is ready.’

  Then he turned to the other two: Conquest, a tall, well-built British aristo, fiftyish, suave in a Roger Moore sort of way; and at the far end of the table, War, the fourth Horseman, a lump of lard, 170 kilograms of perversity and animal aggression, drenched in almost incalculable wealth. Now 71, War was a genuine Mafioso, a manipulator of governments, a mongrel of German-Brazilian descent who, some claimed, was the son of a Nazi war criminal. A rumour he never denied. He was pouring his sixth snifter of 1833 Henri IV Dudognon Heritage, the most expensive cognac in the world. Between sips, he stuffed chunks of Turkish Delight into his mouth. He was par
ticularly fond of the cherry-flavoured variety.

  ‘When do we strike?’ Conquest asked, his black eyes narrowing to slits.

  ‘What is that fucking noise?’ War exclaimed and heaved himself to his feet. Lumbering two steps to the window, he peered out. ‘Oh yes! Oh, how fucking wonderful!’ And he started to giggle.

  ‘What is it?’ Death asked. It was his apartment and he was irritated by War’s tone. He already loathed the man and was quite aware War hated him. Indeed, one thing that held all Four Horsemen in check within the cabal was their mutual distrust and detestation.

  ‘Oh, come and look.’

  Death pulled himself up from his Charles Rennie Mackintosh chair, brushed some imaginary flecks from his Savile Row suit, his saturnine features expressionless. He walked over slowly to where War was chuckling, his fat wobbling.

  ‘Just look,’ the older man said and pointed towards Central Park. ‘Isn’t that just hysterical?’

  On the corner of the park at 72nd Street, directly across from the Dakota Building, a large crowd had gathered around John Lennon’s memorial. They were singing ‘Imagine’.

  Death shrugged and walked back to the table. War was now doubled up, his face red with mirth.

  ‘Shall we proceed?’ Death said and flicked a look at War, a look that said, ‘Please sit down, or I might just have to kill you . . . now!’

  ‘Everything is ready,’ Pestilence said.

  ‘I would like to do a little more,’ War replied, scanning the room with his dark eyes shrouded under heavy lids as he returned to the table and lowered himself into his seat with a groan. The others stared at him blankly.

  ‘More?’ It was Conquest.

  ‘You may have forgiven our friends in E-Force but I haven’t.’

  There was silence around the table, then Death began to tap his fingertips on his mahogany table. ‘Definitely not. Do you understand?’ He turned on War with a vicious look in his eye.

  War giggled. ‘And what? You’re the boss of me?’ he said in a babyish voice.

  Death shook his head and started to pull himself up.

  ‘Death . . .’ Pestilence and Conquest said in unison.

  War burst into hysterical laughter again and looked from one of his companions to the other. ‘Oh deary me, guys. Deary me. We are a little tetchy, aren’t we?’

  Pestilence glanced at Conquest. Death looked at Pestilence. ‘We are in agreement, War,’ Death said, his voice calm. ‘We conduct this mission as discussed, no embellishments. None at all. Do you understand? With Kyle-fucking-Foreman in the White House, it’s risky enough. Be satisfied with the guaranteed payout.’

  War looked down at his lap. The others could see him grinning. Then his shoulders started to judder. The man was beginning to laugh again. Death made to stand but Pestilence gave him a sharp look and shook his head ever so slightly.

  War lifted his head and was just managing to keep his face straight. He stretched his arms outward in an embracing gesture. ‘Of course,’ he said slowly. ‘Of course, gentlemen. We are agreed.’

  7

  Singha Pitiya, Sri Lanka, 10 December

  And of course he had lied. He had always intended to lie.

  War was now beside his pool, an enormous rip in the earth the shape of a Mickey Mouse head filled with crystal clear water. It was one of War’s little jokes – he liked jokes, the more puerile the better.

  It was hot, very hot. An hour earlier, the mercury had hit 40 degrees and it was humid. War looked like a beached walrus on the lounger; his gut, a dead-ringer for Brunelleschi’s Dome, had been smothered in suntan oil. By his side on a low table stood his favourite drink, a mint julep made from 60-year-old Kentucky bourbon.

  War was the richest of the Four Horsemen. He controlled vast swaths of the global media network and had invested heavily in arms, drugs, pornography and high-tech innovation. He knew the other Horsemen loathed him and he loathed them back, in spades. But he had to admit that together they made a killer team. In the relatively short time they had known each other, the four men had earned in the region of 10 billion dollars and that had required very little effort on their part. It was merely a question of playing the right sector of the market here, manipulating a corrupt African government there. They had each embraced each other’s strengths and although they all hated one another, the numbers spoke for themselves.

  Because of this, none of the Horsemen wanted to destroy the four-way relationship. They understood instinctively that their rapid success was down to the symbiosis between them. For together they controlled all the key areas of human society – finance, politics, the media, communications and energy. It was this, combined with their phenomenal wealth, that made them unassailable, a law unto themselves. Or so they had begun to believe.

  War had rested his iPad on the slope of his hairy, oiled belly. The screen lit up as a call came in. War could see a figure seated at a table. He was wearing a hat, sunglasses and a scarf covering the lower half of his face.

  ‘Good morning,’ War said and then giggled. ‘My, my, we are a proper terrorist, aren’t we?’

  The man said nothing.

  ‘Sorry, yes, of course you are.’ War let out an irritating little burst of laughter. ‘And it is quite proper you should disguise yourself . . . Hah!’ He convulsed again.

  ‘You wished me to call at this time,’ the man said. War could just see a few wisps of curly hair protruding from beneath his woollen hat.

  ‘Yes, indeed I did.’ War finally controlled himself. ‘I assume everything is ready.’

  ‘It is,’ the man said. ‘I informed your colleague of this the day before yesterday. I’ve been working under the assumption that this was discussed at your meeting in New York.’

  War looked genuinely surprised the man knew of such details. He smiled, lifted his cocktail glass and drained it. Clicking his fingers, two young men – super-fit, sporting sixpacks and tight speedos – ran forwards. One took the empty glass, the other placed a fresh cocktail on the table. As one of the young servants bent down with the drink, War made an obscene groaning sound in the back of his throat.

  ‘Apologies,’ he said to the man on the phone. ‘So many distractions.’ Then War seemed to gather his thoughts. ‘I wanted you to call because I have a little extra work for you.’

  ‘Please elaborate.’

  ‘Well,’ War responded, ‘my three friends and I are of one mind. We’re closer than brothers, you understand. But we each cherish efficiency and I have concluded that your brief mission could be, well, let us say . . . extended.’

  ‘Extended?’

  ‘Yes, you see, while you’re there I want you to eliminate E-Force.’

  8

  Rome, one year ago

  War’s Italian home, Il Circo, stood above Rome amid three acres of cypress and olive trees with a panoramic vista of the Eternal City below. It was a house once owned by a minor member of the Borgia family and War liked to think of himself as continuing what he considered to be their estimable tradition.

  Il Circo was one of his follies. He had several dotted around the globe – each themed, each possessing their own charm. His Roman abode was particularly important to him because it was also the home of his half-niece and half-nephew, the twins Lucrezia and Cesare.

  War had given them these names when he had become their guardian. It pleased him – made him giggle. And although he was proud of the fact he possessed no feelings of love or affection for anyone, the twins came closest to people he cared about. This was partly because, although they were only distant relatives, they shared a personality that was not so different from his own. And once given the names of two of the most notorious corrupt individuals in history – Lucrezia and Cesare Borgia, children of one of the worst-ever popes, Alexander VI – the youngsters relished the idea of living up to these eponymous villains.

  He had become their guardian 12 years ago. Just after their tenth birthday, their parents had died in an avalanche on a skiing holiday. War had m
et them before then, of course, and had been struck by their personalities, even when they were very young. After he had been their guardian for a year, Lucrezia had offered herself to him. He had quickly learned what stimulated the children and, to his delight, it was things abhorrent to most ‘normal’ people but close to his own heart. They liked to kill. They liked to make people suffer. They were utterly devoid of any form of accepted morality.

  War exploited these facts, knowing the children would be useful to him one day. He had them trained by the best. They quickly learned how to defend themselves, how to kill in a dozen different, highly imaginative ways and to lust the same things he lusted after – money and power.

  War was in his private office at the top of the vast house when the news reached him. It came in the form of an encrypted phone call from one of the other Four Horsemen, Pestilence.

  ‘It’s over,’ Pestilence said.

  ‘You’re shitting me.’

  ‘No, I’m not, War. It’s over.’

  War glanced at a TV in the corner of the office. It showed huge, blurry outlines of E-Force’s Big Mac perched outside the California Conference Center in Downtown Los Angeles, emergency crews helping the last of the survivors of a terror attack into waiting ambulances.

  A news reporter was standing at a safe distance from the enormous gutted building. ‘Latest reports indicate,’ she began, ‘that this has been a terrorist attack and that all of those responsible have perished in the CCC . . .’

  War closed his eyes. When he opened them again the scene on the TV had changed. It showed the faces of the E-Force members who had been caught on camera during the rescue. Their first rescue as a team.

  Without another word, War hung up the phone.

  Out in the hall, the stone floor rang to the sound of his heels. He could hear animalistic noises coming from along a corridor. On any other day he would have chuckled at the sound. But right now, he was in such a foam he could focus on nothing but his own anger and frustration. He threw himself onto a leather chaise longue and rang for a servant.